Resident Evil Oneshots

Thief

The village was a place of constant shadow, both from the looming mountains that blocked the sun for most of the day and from the fear that had settled like a fog over its narrow, cobbled streets. This fear was palpable, alive in the hurried steps of villagers as they scurried to their homes before nightfall. For when the sun dipped behind the jagged peaks, the Lycans came. For as long as I could remember, I had lived on those streets, without the safety of walls or the comfort of a hearth. The villagers called me "the ghost," not out of malice, but because I moved like one—silent, unseen, a fleeting presence that was here one moment and gone the next. Survival had become my sole purpose, and the hunger gnawing at my insides was a constant reminder that I was alive, though some days, I wished I weren't. Stealing was not something I had chosen, but something I had to do. The first time I swiped a loaf of bread, my hands shook so badly that I nearly dropped it. I remember the baker's eyes—a mix of pity and anger—as he caught me in the act. I was no more than ten years old, and I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, the sound of his shouts fading behind me as I disappeared into the maze of alleys. But it wasn't just the villagers I had to worry about. The Lycans, those cursed creatures, were the true terror of the night. They were swift, with razor-sharp claws and eyes that glowed like embers in the dark. Their howls echoed through the village, sending shivers down the spine of even the bravest men. To me, they were more than monsters; they were death incarnate. Every night was a game of survival. As dusk fell, I would find the most hidden spot I could—a crumbling ruin, a shadowed alcove, sometimes even the hollow of a tree—hoping that I would be invisible to the Lycans' sharp senses. But hope was a fragile thing in those days, easily shattered by the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves. There was one night, though, that I would never forget—a night that changed me forever. I had found a small stash of apples at a fruit vendor's stall earlier in the day and was planning to feast once night had fully fallen, when the streets were quieter and I could let my guard down, if only a little. I retreated to my usual hiding place, a collapsed section of the old village wall, where the stones formed a small, hidden hollow just big enough for me. As the moon rose, full and bright, I heard the first howl. The sound was closer than I had ever heard before, and my heart leapt into my throat. I froze, hoping against hope that the Lycans would pass by, unaware of my presence. But as the howls grew nearer, the fear in my gut twisted into something sharper panic. Then I saw them. Three of them, their hulking forms silhouetted against the moonlight, moving with the grace of predators born to hunt. Their noses sniffed the air, and their eyes scanned the shadows. I pressed myself deeper into the hollow, barely daring to breathe. But one of them paused, its head turning slowly towards me. Time seemed to stop as its gaze locked onto mine. In that moment, I was sure it had found me. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I knew better. Running would make me prey. So, I stayed still, every muscle taut, waiting for the inevitable. The Lycan took a step forward, its nostrils flaring as it caught my scent. My mind raced, desperately trying to think of an escape, but there was none. I was trapped, and it was only a matter of time before it would be upon me. And then, something unexpected happened. A noise—a clatter of falling pots from the opposite side of the village—drew its attention away. With a final, lingering glance in my direction, the Lycan turned and loped off towards the source of the sound, followed by the others. For a long time after they were gone, I remained curled in that hollow, trembling, cold sweat soaking my clothes. I had never been so close to death. The realization that it could have ended differently—that it *should* have ended differently—hit me like a physical blow. I was alive, but only by a stroke of luck. The cold, hard truth of my existence settled over me like a shroud: I was alone, vulnerable, and surviving on borrowed time. That night marked a turning point in my life. I realized that if I wanted to keep living, I couldn't just hide and hope to be overlooked. I had to become smarter, faster, and stronger. The village was my home, but it was also a battleground, and I was its unwilling soldier. I would no longer be the ghost, slipping through the cracks of a dying village. I would become something else—something that could survive, no matter the cost. From that night on, I began to change. I learned to move without a sound, to disappear into the smallest shadow. I honed my instincts until I could sense the Lycans before they even arrived. And when I stole, I did so with precision, taking only what I needed, and leaving no trace behind. But with each day that passed, the weight of my existence grew heavier. The loneliness, the fear, the constant hunger—they were chains that bound me, and though I fought against them, they never truly loosened their grip. I had become a creature of the night, much like the Lycans I feared, driven by the same primal need to survive. And yet, somewhere deep inside, there was still a flicker of hope—a stubborn ember that refused to be snuffed out. It whispered to me in the darkest moments, reminding me that I was more than the life I was living, more than the sum of my fears. It was this hope, fragile as it was, that kept me going, pushing me to survive one more day, and then another, and another. It was an unseasonably cold day, the kind that seeped into your bones and made the air thick with an unsettling chill. The sun, hidden behind an ominous blanket of clouds, cast the village in a dull, grey light. I was huddled near the tavern, seeking a momentary respite from the biting wind. My ears perked up when I overheard two villagers, their voices low and tinged with excitement, talking about something that piqued my interest.