The moment consciousness returned, the first things Lear felt were a dull throb in his temples and the lingering scent of old leather mixed with faint coffee drifting past his nose.
He opened his eyes, and his vision slowly came into focus. This wasn't his familiar room, but a sparsely furnished, yellow-walled locker room. An old ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, metal lockers stood in neat rows, and several documents were scattered across a desk alongside half a cup of cold instant coffee.
It was an unfamiliar environment, yet it carried a trace of eerie familiarity.
A second later, memories that didn't belong to him flowed into his mind like warm water, merging naturally with his consciousness. This was the Raccoon City Police Department. His current identity was a patrol officer who had been on the force for six months, also named Lear. His parents had passed away early; he was gentle and introverted, responsible for patrolling the Midtown district, and was reasonably well-liked in the area.
A clearer memory told him that the owner of the Kendo Gun Shop just around the corner, Robert Kendo, was on very good terms with him. They often greeted each other during patrols; occasionally, the man would hand him a bottle of ice water, and in return, the original Lear would often lend a hand with minor chores around the shop.
Lear's heart sank slightly.
Kendo, Raccoon City, R.P.D., patrol officer... as all the clues pieced together, an answer surfaced that made his breath hitch. He had crossed over, arriving in Raccoon City just one week before the outbreak of the disaster.
There was no hysterical panic, nor any breakdown or loss of control. After a brief moment of shock, Lear quickly forced himself to calm down. Panic solved nothing; here, wearing one's emotions on their sleeve would only bring danger.
He took a deep breath, slowly sorting through the current situation. There were only seven short days left before the disaster swept through the city. He had to adapt to his identity as quickly as possible, familiarize himself with the environment, and prepare for the coming storm.
"Lear, what are you dazed for? Grab your gear, it's time for the Midtown patrol."
A nearby sergeant reminded him casually, his tone ordinary and devoid of any suspicion.
"Got it, thanks, Sergeant."
Lear stood up in response, his voice steady and natural, exactly as an ordinary patrol officer should sound. He picked up his equipment with fluid motions, showing no signs of awkwardness; the original owner's muscle memory was helping him rapidly integrate into the role.
Walking out of the police station main gate, the morning air was cool, and sunlight spilled softly across the streets. Pedestrians strolled leisurely, vehicles moved in an orderly fashion, and shops were opening their doors one by one—a scene of peaceful, everyday tranquility. No one could tell that this city was about to face utter annihilation.
Lear opened the car door and sat in the driver's seat of the patrol car. He didn't start the engine immediately but sat there quietly, his gaze slowly scanning both sides of the street, observing and memorizing without a word. Convenience stores, pharmacies, supermarkets, fire escapes, alley entrances, building cover... every detail advantageous for survival was silently committed to memory.
His gaze naturally landed on the corner—the Kendo Gun Shop. The iron door was half-open, and the familiar figure of Robert Kendo could be seen inside wiping down a firearm.
After a moment's hesitation, Lear pushed open the car door and walked over.
"Uncle Robert." Kendo looked up at him and smiled. "So early today?"
"Just started my shift." Lear lowered his voice, his tone sincere. "The city hasn't been very peaceful lately; more and more strange things are happening. Keep your eyes open, and make sure the shop's doors and windows are secured. Especially Emma—try not to let her go out at night, and have her come home early."
Kendo froze for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, I hear you. You're a thoughtful kid, aren't you?"
"It never hurts to be careful." Lear didn't explain further. He smiled, turned, and got back into his car.
He couldn't get too specific; he could only hint at the danger.
He gently started the engine, and the patrol car pulled smoothly into the street. His speed was steady, his posture naturally relaxed, just like any other ordinary workday. Lear looked straight ahead, his hands firm on the steering wheel, but his inner state was quietly shifting. From initial disbelief to calm acceptance and finally to a clear objective, the entire process had taken only a few minutes.
He was no longer an observer behind a screen; he was a participant at the center of the storm. Accept the identity, hide the anomalies, observe the environment, accumulate capital, and then—survive.
The walkie-talkie crackled with a calm broadcast from dispatch. Lear pressed the button lightly, his voice as steady as ever. "Copy that. All quiet in the Central District."
Sunlight streamed through the car window and fell upon him, warm and bright. Lear gazed at the quiet street ahead, his eyes filled with a profound stillness. Seven days. Within seven days, he had to pave a way out for himself.
The day's patrol passed slowly in tranquility.
Lear smoothly parked the patrol car back in the garage of the Police Station, killed the engine, pulled the key, and stepped out to close the door. The sequence of movements was natural and fluid; there was no longer any sign of the awkwardness of a newcomer. From the initial caution and tension to his current composure and routine, it had taken him less than a day to fully adapt to his identity as a Patrol Officer.
Walking into the Police Station Lobby, the sound of people grew louder. In the office area, people were coming and going; the ringing of phones, the hum of conversation, and the clatter of keyboards intertwined to form a perfectly normal day at the station. But in Lear's eyes, every person and every face bore a clear label from the plot of Resident Evil.
He didn't rush to turn in his equipment. Instead, taking advantage of the gaps as he walked through, he discreetly scanned the people in the hall, matching them piece by piece to the interpersonal relationships in his memory.
Lieutenant Marvin Branagh stood at the front desk flipping through files, his posture upright and his expression steady. Within the corrupt upper echelons of the Police Station, he was one of the few who still possessed a conscience and a moral compass. Upright and responsible, he was one of the few people in this doomed station who could be trusted.
At a desk not far away, his colleague Elliot sat with his head down, looking somewhat cowering. He spoke in a thin, quiet voice, seemingly afraid of offending anyone. Weak-willed and lacking independent judgment, he would be difficult to rely on and unlikely to survive the initial chaos when the disaster truly struck.
The door to the Chief's office remained tightly shut. Brian Irons—the morose, brutal Chief who had been bought out by Umbrella and would stop at nothing to cover up the truth—was the most dangerous presence within the Police Station. Lear didn't even need to see the man in person to instinctively keep his distance. And in the corner, a man sat looking seemingly idle, glancing up at the high-level offices from time to time with a notebook clutched in his hand. His eyes hid a mix of inquiry and stubbornness—the journalist Ben Bertolucci. He had been secretly investigating the collusion between Irons and Umbrella; he held many secrets, but he was also deeply in danger because of them.
In just a few moments, Lear had mentally mapped out everyone in the Police Station with absolute clarity. He knew exactly who to approach, who to avoid, who could help, and who to guard against.
"Lear, you're back? Nothing much happening on your beat today?" a familiar colleague asked in passing with a casual greeting.
"Not much, it's pretty quiet," Lear replied with a slight smile, his tone natural—neither distant nor overly friendly.
"It looks quiet lately, but there have been a lot of strange goings-on," the colleague lowered his voice slightly. "I heard there were several assault cases, but the higher-ups are keeping a tight lid on them. No one knows exactly what's happening."
Lear understood perfectly, but on the surface, he only gave a slight nod. "It's always better to be cautious."
After a few brief pleasantries, he headed toward the equipment room to return his gear, signing the logs with meticulous precision.
Taking advantage of a moment when no one was watching, he walked while quickly sketching a complete map of the Raccoon City Police Department in his mind. The first-floor Main Hall, front desk, office areas, and equipment room; the underground firing range, evidence room, and morgue; the second floor interrogation rooms, Records Room, and Chief's office; as well as those easily overlooked back doors, secret passages, ventilation ducts, and surveillance blind spots...
The map he had run through countless times in the game now transformed into a real, three-dimensional structure, surfacing vividly in his mind. He knew exactly which areas were easy to defend but hard to attack, where he could hide, where he could make a quick evacuation, and where potential supplies were located.
What others saw as just a police building, he saw as a fortress filled with paths to life and doors to death in the coming apocalypse.
By the time he finished returning his equipment, the sky had turned completely dark.
Lear stepped out of the Police Station into a cool evening breeze. The city remained brightly lit, and the traffic on the streets was thinning as the day officially came to a close. But he knew very well that the real preparation had only just begun.
Interpersonal relationships, terrain maps, resource distribution, crisis nodes... he had to grasp everything he could control within seven days.
The night in Raccoon City was as calm as still water, but beneath the surface, the undercurrents were already surging.
(Translated by yourtl.app)