Max gradually exited the mansion, panting heavily—not from exertion, but from the sheer tension that had gripped him throughout. The suffocating eeriness and ever-present danger inside had weighed heavily on his nerves.
He had encountered a few more zombies along the way, but the initial fear faded. His body and mind slowly adapted to the horrific sights, and his years of playing Resident Evil games, surprisingly, proved helpful.
The bloody scenes, though far more realistic now, weren't entirely unfamiliar.
Coupled with his knowledge of the mansion's layout, Max had managed to avoid any significant risks.
He knew full well that even the slightest injury from a zombie could cost him everything.
As he stepped outside and saw the dense, dark forest ahead, his nerves frayed again.
The sight was chilling. The oppressive stillness of the woods carried the same haunting weight as the mansion. His breathing quickened.
Uneven, heavy breaths escaped his lips as cold sweat trickled down his back. Strength seemed to drain from his limbs.
He clenched his fists and forced himself to breathe deeply. Gradually, his heart rate slowed. Composure returned.
'Inhale…Exhale…let's do this.'
With renewed focus, Max stepped into the forest, pistol raised and ready.
Unlike the enclosed corridors of the mansion, the forest was open and unpredictable. Danger could come from any direction. He moved cautiously, using trees for cover.
The threat of zombie dogs—fast, agile, and vicious—kept his nerves on edge. He knew his marksmanship wasn't good enough to take them down reliably.
His survival depended on his cautious nature and timing.
But for some reason today seemed to be his best day!
"Maybe I'm blessed by Lady Luck," he muttered nervously, chuckling when he reached the training institute without any major encounters.
Still, Max didn't step inside. He knew the plot of Resident Evil 0, and it didn't begin here. His gaze turned toward the horizon—toward the train.
His legs followed his gaze.
Before long, the train came into view.
"There it is," he whispered cautiously.
From a distance, its exact color was hard to discern, but its luxurious vintage design stood out. The polished exterior reflected Umbrella Corporation's high standards.
Max raised his pistol and scanned the area, eyes sharp for any movement. Step by step, he approached.
Through the windows, he could see the lavish interior—rich wood panelling, velvet seats, and golden fixtures. But the eerie silence, scattered luggage, and bloodstains painted a very different picture.
"This is the starting point," he said to himself.
He pulled out his phone. 10:30 p.m.
"The plot's already begun…"
Instead of entering the train, he turned his attention to finding the protagonists. Rebecca Chambers came to mind first.
She was approachable, compassionate, and medically trained—exactly the kind of ally Max needed.
Billy Coen, on the other hand, posed a dilemma. A convict in the eyes of the law, he'd be wary and guarded. Approaching him recklessly could go very wrong.
Max decided to seek Rebecca first. She was easier to trust, and in the game, Billy had naturally grown protective of her over time. Their bond had been forged through survival.
But he also knew he couldn't ignore Billy. Both protagonists were crucial if he wanted to follow the story and complete his mission smoothly.
As he passed through several train carriages, alert to every creak and shadow, Max's hand never strayed far from his weapon. The silence was heavy—too heavy.
He approached a partitioned door and stepped through.
A cold sensation hit the back of his skull. The click of metal. The unmistakable chill of a gun's muzzle.
Max froze.
Panic surged through him, but he didn't move. One wrong twitch and his life would end early.
"Don't shoot! I'm human! Not a zombie!" he blurted out, hands slowly rising in surrender.
"Who are you?" came a deep, gravelly voice. Tense. Controlled.
"I'm—John. A researcher from the nearby lab," Max responded quickly. "There was a comms alert… I came to check out the situation. My ID's in my pocket."
The lie was smooth, just plausible enough to buy him time. He stayed perfectly still as the man behind him reached forward.
Max's heart pounded as he felt the ID being pulled from his pocket. The grip on the back of his head remained steady.
No shaking. No hesitation. Whoever this was—he knew how to handle a weapon.
Then the pressure eased.
Max dared a breath of relief as the man stepped around him.
The figure that emerged confirmed his suspicion—and sent another chill through him.
Broad-shouldered, rugged, and military through and through. A square jaw, close-cropped hair, piercing eyes.
A sleeveless grey tank top revealed muscular arms and a snake tattoo running down the right one. Combat pants and worn boots completed the look.
Billy Coen.
Even in this grim setting, he radiated lethal calm.
Max swallowed hard, trying to shake the lingering panic. He faced death just now, the moment had been too real—too close.
He felt a flicker of anger at being held at gunpoint but pushed it down. Billy had done what any soldier would. Max couldn't afford to take it personally.
Survival came first. Trust needed to be built and given the situation, he needs to be fast.
Still, the incident planted a seed of clarity deep within him.
He was vulnerable. Powerless. In this world, being clever or lucky wasn't enough. He needed strength. Skill. Presence.
If someone like Billy Coen was going to trust him—or at least tolerate him—he had to be more than dead weight.
Max looked at him again, this time with new intent.
This man had survived war, betrayal, and even bioweapons in the game. Max would learn from him. Observe every movement. Study every decision.
This world didn't allow for second chances.
It was time to grow stronger.
….
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