Chapter 2: The Meat Grinder and the Redfield
The hallway beyond the shutter was wrong in a way my brain recognized immediately but refused to accept.
Dark. Flooded. The water reached my ankles and rippled with every step I took. My flashlight cut a narrow path through it, but the beam felt weak, like the darkness was absorbing it.
The smell hit next.
Rot. Old blood. Something chemical underneath it that made my throat tighten.
I moved forward anyway.
Careful steps. Controlled breathing. Trying not to think about how familiar this place was, or how badly familiarity could betray you here.
Then I heard it.
A voice. Distorted by distance and echo.
"Over here! Hurry!"
I stopped.
Listened.
"Please! Someone!"
I moved faster.
The corridor opened slightly ahead where a security shutter separated sections of the wing. It was partially raised, not fully sealed to the floor. Enough space to crawl under.
I approached it slowly.
And that's when I saw him.
Elliot.
On the far side of the shutter.
A police officer in full gear, slamming his fists against another jammed door deeper in the corridor. His movements were frantic, uncoordinated, driven entirely by panic and exhaustion.
"Hey!" I shouted. "I'm here!"
He spun around immediately.
Relief hit his face for a half second.
Then it collapsed back into fear.
"Help me! It won't open!"
I dropped to my knees and grabbed the bottom edge of the shutter. Metal was cold and heavy. It resisted as I forced it upward.
The mechanism groaned.
Just enough space opened beneath it.
"Go!" I shouted.
Elliot didn't hesitate. He dropped flat and crawled under the gap, dragging himself forward with desperate urgency.
Halfway through, the sound changed.
Wet movement behind him.
Too close.
Too fast.
Something grabbed his legs from the darkness behind the shutter line.
Elliot screamed.
Not a controlled scream. Not something cinematic. It was pure panic breaking out of a human being who just realized he was not going to win.
I reached forward instantly and grabbed his arms, pulling hard.
His body jerked forward as the grip tightened from the other side. Something unseen was holding him with brutal force.
He twisted violently, reaching into his vest with shaking hands.
He shoved something into my chest.
A notebook. Bound in leather. Sticky with blood.
"Take it!"
Then the force pulled back.
Hard.
Elliot vanished into the dark on the other side.
The sound that followed was brief. Wet. Final.
Then nothing.
The shutter slammed down fully.
Silence returned instantly.
I stayed frozen for a moment, still kneeling, still holding the notebook.
Then I looked up.
The corridor behind the shutter was still.
Too still.
And then I heard it.
Movement.
Not one source.
Multiple.
Slow. Uneven. Getting up.
I backed away slowly at first.
Then turned and ran.
The water splashed loudly as I sprinted back down the corridor, flashlight bouncing wildly across the walls. I didn't stop. Didn't think. Just moved.
I reached the main hall shutter and threw myself under it, scraping my shoulder on the metal edge. I rolled onto the marble floor and kept moving until I hit open space.
Only then did I stop.
I lay there breathing hard, staring up at the ceiling.
Still alive.
For now.
My hands were shaking.
The notebook in my grip felt heavier than it should have. Real weight. Real consequence.
Elliot had been real. Not a scripted event. Not a system trigger. A person who had looked at me and decided I was his last chance.
And I had not been enough.
A rational part of my brain spoke first.
You knew this would happen.
That didn't make it easier.
I sat up slowly.
There was no time to process it. Not here.
A metallic click cut through the hall.
I froze instantly.
A flashlight beam hit my face.
"Don't move."
My hands went up immediately.
The light steadied. A figure stood at the edge of the beam, weapon raised in a precise grip with both hands. Controlled stance. No hesitation in the aim.
My brain processed it in a single sharp step.
Claire Redfield.
The main route. The survival anchor. The one person in this timeline who statistically meant I was far less likely to die in the next hour.
A strange, immediate wave of relief hit me before I could stop it.
Not joy. Not excitement.
Just a brutal, rational recalculation: survival probability had just increased.
For the first time since I arrived here, I actually exhaled properly.
"Hands where I can see them," she said.
"I'm not bitten," I said quickly, hands already up. "Completely human. Please don't shoot me."
Her eyes shifted slightly. Blood on my shirt. Knife at my side. The notebook in my hand.
"Explain the blood."
"Not mine," I said. "East Wing. I tried to help... It went badly."
That made her pause slightly.
Not sympathy. Recognition.
She had seen enough tonight to understand what that meant.
She lowered the gun by a few degrees.
"Name."
"I'm...." I paused, because apparently this was the moment my life choices caught up to me. "Lysander Aurelius Maximus."
She stared at me.
"…Right," she said.
"Maximus is the real part," I added, because for some reason that felt important.
That did not help.