Leon shivered. He looked at his own front door. He had double-bolted it, not because of thieves, but because of the "T-Syndrome"—a term coined by psychologists for the mass paranoia currently sweeping the city. People were seeing shadows in the peripheral of their vision, convinced that their neighbors were turning, rotting from the inside out.
The power flickered. The monitor hummed, the screen distorting for a fraction of a second. Leon saw his reflection in the black glass. He looked pale. His eyes were sunken. He realized he hadn't left this room in four days. He was hoarding canned goods, checking the locks, and reading about a fictional virus while a very real isolation was eating him alive. Leon shivered
Leon wasn't a survivor of Raccoon City, nor had he ever held a Beretta against a mutated nightmare. He was an archivist. His job was to catalog the "remnants"—the digital footprints of a world that had obsessed over a fictional apocalypse until the line between the game and reality began to blur. People were seeing shadows in the peripheral of
The monitor’s glow was the only light in the cramped apartment. Outside, the rain lashed against the glass, a rhythmic tapping that sounded too much like fingernails scratching at a door. Leon saw his reflection in the black glass