Chapter 1: The Arrival
Hi. My name is Lysander Aurelius Maximus. Cool name, right? It's not entirely my real name, by the way. My actual last name is Maximus, but I gave myself the 'Lysander Aurelius' part to sound like a badass after I suddenly got dragged into this lovely world of flesh eaters.
In reality, I was a guy of thirty six whose main survival skills include swallowing magnesium supplements for stress, complaining about the Malaysian weather, and troubleshooting PC crashes after soul crushing desk shifts that lasted 12 hours.
And right now, I am standing in the freezing rain, staring at the towering, Gothic iron gates of the Raccoon City Police Department, frantically trying to convince myself that the rotting, groaning man dragging his shattered leg toward me is just a very dedicated, albeit unhygienic, cosplayer.
How did this happen? That is a truly fantastic question.
It started as a completely normal Tuesday filled with exhaustion. I had just dragged myself away from the keyboard after a brutal shift, my brain feeling like mashed potatoes and my lower back loudly reminding me that I was closer to forty than thirty. I didn't want to think. I just wanted to survive a zombie apocalypse from the comfort of my own ergonomic chair.
I booted up my PC. The heavy, ominous menu theme of Resident Evil 2 Remake rumbled through my speakers, and I loaded up my save file, ready to shepherd my character through the police station.
Then my PC crashed.
Not the normal kind. Not the harmless kind.
The screen froze first. Audio distorted into a harsh mechanical stutter. Then everything went black.
I groaned and leaned forward to check the cables. "Not again," I muttered.
The moment I touched the power button, the monitor erupted in blue light. Not brightness. Not glare. Something heavier. Something that felt like it had pressure.
It filled the room instantly.
I remember falling backward. I remember the sensation of something breaking without sound. And then I remember nothing in between.
Then I was lying flat on my back on wet, freezing asphalt.
I sat up slowly. The air hit me first copper, wet ash, and rotting meat, all at once. Rain was coming down hard, soaking straight through my shirt. I looked around, blinking.
"Okay," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Very funny. I definitely fell asleep at the desk."
I patted my pockets out of pure instinct and found my phone. Zero bars. No signal whatsoever. But the flashlight worked. I clicked it on and swept the beam through the curtain of rain.
I turned the beam outward, cutting through the heavy rain. The light hit a massive, ornate iron gate. And right behind it loomed a colossal, Gothic building that I had spent the last two hours staring at on a screen.
Raccoon City Police Department. I let out a breathy, nervous laugh.
Then, a low, wet, gurgling sound echoed from an alleyway to my left.
I swung the flashlight over. A man stumbled out of the shadows. His jaw was hanging on by a literal thread of muscle, and he was dragging a leg that bent at a sickening, unnatural angle. He turned his head toward the light, his eyes completely clouded over with a milky white film.
He let out a guttural hiss and lunged toward me.
That was the exact moment the shock hit me like a physical blow to the chest. The smell was too bad, the rain was too cold, and the sheer, primal terror freezing my blood was way too intense for a dream.
Sheer, unadulterated panic completely overrode my brain. My legs, which usually only sprinted to the kitchen to grab a snack, kicked into a gear I didn't know they had. I bolted past the shambling zombie, dodging a grabbing hand by mere inches, and threw myself toward the heavy front doors of the RPD.
I slammed my shoulder against the wood, bursting into the main hall and shoving the doors shut behind me. I leaned back against them, sliding down to the cold marble floor, gasping for air.
I was trapped in the Raccoon City Police Department.
"Okay, Lysander, think," I whispered to myself, the sound of my own voice echoing way too loudly. "You know this place. You just need to find the main characters."
That was the entire survival plan. Find Claire Redfield or Leon Kennedy and stick to them like absolute glue. I forced my stiff knees to cooperate and pushed myself off the floor. I made my way to the front reception desk. Behind the counter, a solitary laptop sat open, its screen casting a pale, flickering glow over the scattered paperwork.
My heart did a painful flip. Where is Lieutenant Marvin Branagh? The couch was empty. Instead, a dark, wet smear of red led away from it, disappearing into the absolute dark beneath the West Wing security shutter.
Suddenly, the laptop screen crackled with harsh static. The grainy security feed cleared up, showing the East Wing hallway. A lone police officer was sprinting down the narrow corridor filled with debris, desperately firing his handgun over his shoulder.
"Help! Is anyone out there?! Get this shutter open!" his voice crackled through the speakers.
Elliot.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I knew exactly what was about to happen to him.
My first instinct was to stay exactly where I was. Do not go over there, Lysander. This isn't your problem. But my meta knowledge kicked in.
I didn't actually need Elliot's notebook. As a hardcore fan, I had the Lion, Unicorn, and Maiden statue puzzle solutions permanently burned into my brain from countless playthroughs.
But I did need Elliot's service weapon. And maybe, if I was fast enough, I could actually save the guy before he became zombie chow. Plus, a phone flashlight wasn't going to stop a Licker.
I looked over at the empty couch where Lieutenant Marvin Branagh was supposed to be sitting. He wasn't there, but sitting right on the reception desk next to a plastic nameplate was a heavy, beautifully crafted combat knife.
Marvin's knife. The iconic survival tool of a doomed legend. I picked it up, admiring the sleek, cold steel and the perfect weight of the grip. It was an absolute masterpiece of weaponry.
And honestly? Huge shoutout to the RPD's completely terrible workplace safety standards for just leaving deadly weapons out in the open lobby for any random civilian to grab. Five star customer service right there.
Then I jogged toward the East Wing, dropped to my stomach, and squeezed under the security shutter.