RESIDENT EVIL: THE SHADOWS OF UMBRELLA

Chapter 1

September 29th, 1998, dawned grim and rain-soaked in Raccoon City, where the once-bustling streets had transformed into a scene straight out of a horror film. The rain fell relentlessly, creating rivulets that coursed down the cracked pavement, mixing with the remnants of a day gone horribly awry. Arman Petrov sprinted through the slick, narrow alleys, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself to run faster, propelled by a primal fear that coursed through his veins. The air was heavy with an unshakeable tension, the kind that hinted at disaster lurking just beyond sight.

All around him, pandemonium reigned supreme. Shouts pierced the air, some laced with terror, others tinged with confusion, blending into a cacophony that echoed off the walls of the dilapidated buildings. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles cast erratic shadows, illuminating the horrific scenes unfolding everywhere—people attacking one another in frenzied, animalistic violence, eyes vacant and devoid of humanity. It was a surreal nightmare, each encounter more grotesque than the last, as horror unfolded in real-time.

"Shit! I need to get out of here!" he shouted, his voice barely rising above the clamor of screams and snarls. Panic coursed through him as adrenaline surged, forcing his legs to move, propelling him forward through the chaotic streets. His mind raced, grappling with the horrifying reality that he was witnessing—a complete breakdown of civilization, the very essence of humanity stripped away. In the midst of this madness, a figure stumbled into his path, its grotesque silhouette a chilling reminder of the devastation wrought by the T-Virus.

The infected human loomed before him, a ghastly shadow of what once was. Its body was hunched, skin a sickly pallor mottled with decay, patches of flesh missing, revealing the raw, oozing tissue underneath. Blood dripped from its chin as it gnawed on a torn piece of flesh, the remnants of its last victim hanging from its lips like a macabre trophy. Arman's stomach twisted with nausea and guilt at the sight. He knew too well the part he had played in this catastrophe; he had been a cog in the machine of the Umbrella Corporation, and now, it felt as though the very machine had turned against him, consuming everything in its path. But instinct overrode his conscience, a fierce urge to survive taking precedence over the guilt that clawed at him.

With a surge of determination, Arman ducked past the zombie, the stench of decay hitting him like a physical blow, and bolted toward the safety of his apartment. The buildings loomed around him, ominous and foreboding, each echo of distant cries a reminder of the horrors that awaited him outside. He navigated through the alleyways, pushing himself harder, fear sharpening his senses. Finally, he reached his apartment door, slamming it shut behind him with a thunderous crash, locking it with shaking hands.

Inside, the familiar surroundings felt foreign, tainted by the chaos outside. He leaned against the door, heart pounding in his chest as he tried to calm himself, each breath heavy with the weight of his fear. His gaze fell on his lab uniform hanging limply in the corner, the unmistakable Umbrella Corporation logo emblazoned on the chest—a badge of honor that now felt like a mark of shame. He had worn it proudly, believing in the work he was doing, but now it represented something far darker, a legacy of suffering and horror that he could no longer ignore.

"Arman Petrov," he murmured, reading the nametag clipped to the fabric, his voice laced with a bitter sense of irony. Once, it had signified a promising career, the beginning of a bright future, but now it felt like a curse. In a sudden fit of anger and desperation, he yanked the uniform from its hanger and hurled it into the closet, the fabric crumpling as it hit the floor. "I am part of the reason this started..." The words escaped him like a confession, the truth of his involvement striking him like a physical blow. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, frustration and despair crashing over him like the relentless rain outside.