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Marvin's sacrifice hung over them like a shroud, but the R.P.D. wasn't done with them yet.
The trio emerged from the West Office back into the cavernous silence of the main hall. Leon walked point, his posture transformed. The VP70 was a part of his arm now, the custom stock pulled tight against his shoulder, while the heavy shotgun remained slung across his back like a promise of violence.
They had to cross the marble expanse to reach the East Wing's administrative floor—home to the Chief's Office and, hopefully, the girl.
The hall was a cathedral of shadows, their footsteps the only rhythm.
Thump... thump... thump...
The sound didn't belong to them. It was heavy, rhythmic, and carried a weight that made the floorboards on the second-floor gallery groan in protest.
Leon skidded to a halt, his weapon snapping up. Claire dropped into a low crouch, her eyes wide as she scanned the upper level. Noah held his rebar horizontally, shifting his weight. He knew that cadence. He knew the heavy, mechanical certainty of those steps.
A massive silhouette rounded the corner of the second-floor balcony. It was humanoid, but it stood over seven feet tall, its presence so dense it seemed to pull the light from the room.
"What is that?" Claire whispered, her voice cracking.
The shadow didn't answer. It didn't take the stairs. It simply stepped off the gallery edge.
BANG—!!!
The giant plummeted five meters, hitting the marble floor like a falling safe. The impact sent a spiderweb of cracks through the stone, kicking up a cloud of grit and dust that momentarily obscured the beast.
As the haze cleared, the monster was revealed. It was a mountain of a man—bald, grey-skinned, and utterly devoid of expression. It wore a heavy, dark green trench coat that looked like it was made of reinforced canvas. Its face was a mask of cold, surgical indifference, and its eyes were pale, milky pits with pinprick pupils that locked onto them with the focus of a computer.
It took a step. Then another. It didn't run; it didn't need to. It was the personification of inevitable death.
Leon's arms trembled as the sheer pressure of the thing's presence hit him. "What the hell is this..."
"Leon," Noah said, his voice a jagged edge of urgency. "Remember that box from the helicopter? This is the T-103. Umbrella's ultimate clean-up crew."
"FUCK YOU!"
Leon roared, the sound echoing through the dome as he tore the shotgun from his back. He racked the slide—clack—and unleashed a blast of buckshot directly into the giant's face.
BOOM.
The monster didn't flinch. In a movement too fast for its size, it raised a massive, metal-plated glove, catching the pellets in a spray of sparks. The giant's head merely snapped back an inch before it leveled its gaze again, continuing its relentless march.
"My turn!" Claire yelled. She leveled the GM-79 and fired.
KABOOM.
The grenade struck the giant square in the chest, erupting in a ball of fire and shrapnel. The shockwave knocked the monster off its feet, sending it crashing backward into the marble floor with a sound like a collapsing building.
"Is it down?" Leon panted, smoke curling from his shotgun barrel.
"I doubt it," Noah said, his eyes fixed on the heap of green canvas. "Run. Now!"
As if on cue, a gloved hand twitched in the smoke. Then the giant began to haul itself up, its trench coat charred but intact. Its expression hadn't changed. It didn't feel pain; it only felt the mission.
"Run!" Noah roared, grabbing Claire's hand and shoving Leon toward the East Wing stairs.
They scrambled up the steps, the heavy thump-thump-thump of the Tyrant's boots beginning again behind them—faster now, more rhythmic. They burst through the double doors marked CHIEF'S OFFICE, Noah slamming the bolt home just as a massive fist dented the wood from the other side.
The pounding stopped. The footsteps receded.
Inside, the office was a shrine to vanity and madness. Mahogany desks, leather sofas, and the glassy eyes of stuffed trophies—elk, wolves, bears—staring down from the walls. The air was a cloying mix of expensive cigars and formaldehyde.
"There's no way out," Leon muttered, his face pale as he searched the room. "Just a desk and a bunch of dead animals."
"Wait," Claire said. She stood behind the mahogany desk, her eyes fixed on a massive oil painting of a goddess being strangled by a serpent. "The frame... it's on tracks."
She shoved the painting aside. It slid with a metallic screech, revealing a hollowed-out compartment containing a complex gear mechanism with three square slots.
"Another lock," Claire sighed. "We're in a giant puzzle box."
Leon stepped forward, his jaw set. "I'll find the keys. The secretary mentioned the Chief's 'private collection' in his notes. I'll sweep the lower floors and find whatever fits in those slots."
He looked at Noah and Claire. "You two find that girl. She's alone in this wing somewhere. That thing is still out there, and I'm not letting a kid face it alone."
The rookie was gone. Standing before them was a man who had seen the end of the world and decided to fight back.
Noah and Claire nodded. "Be careful, Leon," Noah said. "If you see that thing again... don't fight it. Just run."
"I've got the message," Leon said, checking his magazine one last time. He slipped out the door, disappearing into the dark corridor.
Noah gripped his rebar, his eyes scanning the plush, eerie office. "Let's find the girl, Claire. Before the Tyrant finds her first."
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