Welcome home

The long, relentless journey had dulled Atticus Slade's sense of time and reality, as he found himself completely detached from the outside world, losing track of the days and years in what felt like an endless loop. It was September 19th, or so he thought, as he made a mental note to keep tabs on the passing days, a habit that had become increasingly difficult under the circumstances. Whenever he had the chance—a fleeting glance at the passenger guard's wristwatch—he would check to confirm that it was roughly 1800 hours. One of the small distractions in his dreary situation was the sound of his dog tags swinging gently against each other, creating a soft jingle that accompanied the rhythmic bumps and jolts of the road. The coyote T-shirt he was stuck wearing hung loosely, an unfortunate fit that only added to his discomfort.

His wrists were secured by long metal chains, which were unyielding in their grip as they shackled him to the floor in front of him. The cuffs dug painfully into his skin, a discomfort that seemed deliberate, especially at the hands of the guard he recognized as Stanson. Atticus didn't hold any real animosity toward him; he could understand the guard's paranoia—after all, he was chained up alongside a man considered potentially dangerous. The driver of their vehicle, meanwhile, looked as if he was fighting a losing battle against fatigue. His eyes were weighed down, sunken into his face as if each mile they traveled drained him further. Yet, he soldiered on, pushing through the weariness.

As fate would have it, their journey took an unexpected detour, which only seemed to deepen Stanson's irritation. With every twist and turn, he found reasons to throw taunts in Slade's direction, desperate to exert some semblance of authority over him, as if somehow that would ease his own discomfort with the entire situation.

As they drew nearer to their dreaded destination, the weather took on an even gloomier demeanor; dark, heavy clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the sun and casting a pall over everything. The relentless rattling of the vehicle mixed with the howl of the wind whooshing through any minuscule gaps in the Humvee's doors, creating a cacophony that gnawed at Slade's nerves. He sat in the backseat, gazing out at the dim outline of Raccoon City slowly materializing in the distance, a sight that filled him with a visceral sense of dread. Just the thought of being near that place made his stomach twist in knots, although he knew deep down that this horrifying chapter in his life wouldn't last forever. The military had decreed his execution, aligning it with his inevitable and disgraceful discharge from service. To him, the trial felt like nothing more than a tragic farce, a public spectacle designed to appease unnamed powers. If they thought sending him back home was an act of compassion, they were sorely mistaken—their twisted sense of justice was followed only by a mocking chuckle at his expense.

As Slade's eyes flicked to the guardsman in the front seat, he noticed the driver nodding off, his head bobbing precariously. Meanwhile, Stanson had succumbed to a comfortable doze, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of their situation. Slade was lost in a spiral of thoughts, contemplating how he had landed in this untenable position. It struck him as some sort of cosmic prank or perhaps a reflection of the deep-seated corruption that seemed to run unchecked all around him. Just as he lost himself in dark musings, however, his train of thought was violently interrupted. Through the thick veil of fog enveloping the road, he spotted something—something out of the ordinary.

"Hey, watch out!" he shouted, his voice raw with urgency. The sudden outcry startled the driver, yanking him back from the brink of sleep, while Stanson jerked the steering wheel instinctively. Atticus's heart raced as he braced himself, feeling the vehicle begin to hydroplane dangerously off the road and tumble down an embankment. With a bone-jarring crash, they collided violently with a tree, the impact reverberating through the metal frame. Slade found himself flung against the driver's side, the horrendous sounds of shattering glass and crumpling metal piercing through the chaos around him. The force of the crash slammed his head against the rear metal pillar, causing his vision to blur and darken, snatching away the light of reality as pain exploded through his skull. Almost immediately, a rush of damp, cold air poured into the cabin, wrapping around him like a creeping tendril, further grounding him in the harsh reality of his desperate situation.

After what felt like an eternity, the guardsman finally pulled himself back from the haze of confusion that had clouded his mind. However, it didn't take long for the reality of their situation to sink in, plunging him into a state of sheer alarm. "Damn it, Mitch! This is the absolute last time I let you take the wheel!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and fear.

Instinctively, he turned to check on his partner, only to find Mitch's eyes wide open, yet completely vacant, staring blankly ahead as if he were lost in some unsettling trance. It was a chilling sight. Mitch's chest was eerily still, devoid of the rise and fall that signified life. "Mitch, are you alright—" the guardsman stammered, his voice catching in his throat as the cold weight of dread washed over him. He quickly shook his partner's shoulder, desperate to elicit a response. But the lifeless body simply slumped against the steering wheel, and the grim reality hit him like a sledgehammer when he noticed the left side of Mitch's head, visibly crushed and mangled.

Panic surged within him, but he quickly masked his shock. Slade leaned forward, adopting an expression of feigned horror that he hoped would distract Stanson from his quieter, clandestine movements. His fingers discreetly slid into the driver's jacket pocket, fingers trembling ever so slightly as he fished around, his mind racing with the desperate hope of finding the cuff keys. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't afford any mistakes now.

Breaking the heavy, tense silence that seemed to hang in the air like a thick fog, the only sounds coming from the surrounding wreckage of their Humvee, which had been mangled and twisted around a nearby tree, and the shuffling movements of the two men inside, Slade decided it was time to speak. His voice emerged in a sly tone, laced with a sense of irony. "As you're likely aware, Private," he began, "you should probably make an effort to radio in about this situation and report this unfortunate incident to your superiors before—"

His words were abruptly cut off as the young guardsman, panic written all over his youthful face, spun around to confront him. Without warning, he pressed a palm forcefully against Slade's chest, pushing him back with unexpected intensity. The sudden movement caused Slade's hand to slide out from the pocket of the deceased driver, an action that felt strangely jarring in the midst of the chaos.

The guardsman, Stanson, was visibly shaken, his finger wagging angrily in Slade's direction, trembling as his emotions fluctuated between a simmering rage and palpable fear. "Be quiet, scum!" he shouted, his voice a guttural growl filled with raw emotion.

In the background, the persistent clicking of the seatbelt buckle echoed as it disengaged repeatedly, reflecting the man's rising agitation. Finally breaking free from its grip, Stanson sprang into action, his movements frantic as he fiddled ineffectively with the Humvee's 422 Radio, desperately trying to make a connection amidst the chaos. Slade observed the Private closely, taking his time, patiently waiting for the perfect moment to act—not just for his own sake, but for whatever chance of escape lay before him in the wake of this grim opportunity.

It seemed that something had gone awry with the power to the Humvee. There was a noticeable stillness in the air, a low tension that hinted at something impending. Atticus turned his gaze toward the path they had just traversed, his heart quickening as he awaited the arrival of a familiar figure. Yet, despite his anticipation, no one emerged from the shadows of the trees lining their route. Instead, the only thing that met his eyes was the last flickers of daylight struggling to break through the thick blanket of clouds, casting an eerie, dim light that seemed to magnify the unease of the moment. Who was that solitary figure standing in the road, motionless and enigmatic, and what could possibly be keeping them so still?

Meanwhile, Stanson, clearly frustrated and beside himself with anger, muttered a series of curses under his breath as he attempted to force the Humvee door open, each kick met with objection from the stubborn metal. After two failed attempts, he put all his energy into a final, powerful shove that sent the door swinging wide. He stumbled out, his momentum betraying him as he crashed onto the ground. As he regained his footing, Stanton pivoted to face Slade, a young Private with a fresh shave and an expression set in hard determination, trying to maintain his tough demeanor despite the chaos unfolding around them. "Hold your position, Butcher," Stanson ordered firmly, his voice steady but laced with an underlying tension. "If necessary, I won't hesitate to take you down."

With that, the Private leaned over the lifeless body of the Corporal, who was slumped lifelessly in the driver's seat, and reached into a cargo pocket on the man's pants. He rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a small set of keys, a glint of metal that seemed to carry the weight of possibility. "Just in case you were thinking about making a run for it," he added, his expression unwavering. Then, without a backward glance, Stanson turned on his heel, heading back in the direction from which the Humvee had careened off course. His M16 rifle hung securely from the strap across his back, and he gripped his sidearm tightly, ready for anything that might lie ahead in the growing twilight.

Slade kept a watchful eye as the Private made his way up the overgrown path, his sharp, ice-blue gaze tracking every movement through the jagged remnants of the window nearby. The shards of glass glinted menacingly in the dim light, but Slade ignored the risk, focused solely on ensuring that the guardsman had put enough distance between them before he set to work. Once he was certain the coast was clear, he began sifting through the debris on the floor, his fingers deftly navigating the sharp edges of the broken glass.

Earlier, during the bumpy ride to this perilous location, he had caught sight of a small cotter pin wedged against the floor near the passenger seat bracket. The little metal piece seemed insignificant at first, but Slade recognized its potential importance. As he rummaged through the glass strewn across the floor, his fingers encountered a few jagged edges, bringing with them small, stinging cuts, but he pushed through the discomfort, determined to locate the cotter pin. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of searching, he found it. With a bit of effort, he bent it open, starting to pick at the lock on his right cuff.

"C'mon, fucker, get it together," Slade muttered to himself, irritation lacing his voice. The words slipped out as a mantra of encouragement, a way to silence the nagging voice in his head that reminded him of his lack of dexterity at the worst possible times. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow as he struggled, his frustration mounting. Just when he thought he was making progress, a satisfying click echoed in the cramped space, and the right cuff fell to the ground with a dull thud. Heart racing, he swiftly turned his attention to the left cuff.

A cacophony of muffled shouting reached his ears, drawing his focus momentarily away from his task. He glanced toward the direction Stanson had vanished, just in time to witness three quick flashes — bursts of light that momentarily illuminated the surrounding trees, accompanied by the sharp cracks of gunfire that punctuated the air. Slade's heart sank, anxiety gnawing at him as he returned to his precarious work on the left cuff. His brow furrowed deeper in frustration, and the internal dialogue grew harsher as he berated himself for his slow progress.

Then, as if to mock his struggles, the cotter pin snapped inside the cuff with a harsh, metallic noise. "You've got to be shitting me," he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and cool resignation. Tugging at the chain with renewed vigor, he felt the right cuff clatter to the floor, a fleeting moment of victory that quickly faded as he resumed yanking at the stubborn left cuff, desperate to break free from his restraints. Time was running out, and he could already sense that trouble was brewing just beyond the trees, the echo of gunfire reminding him that every second counted.

The faint sound of shuffling feet drifted through the air from the direction where Stanson had vanished moments earlier. Slade glanced up from his labor, trying to focus on the shape emerging from the shadows. It seemed to be a disheveled man, but the heavy darkness made it nearly impossible to get a clear view. He was too preoccupied with the stubborn chain he was struggling against to think much about it. The sharp clinking of metal ringing out with each pull, accompanied by the sounds of Slade's strained grunts and the crunching of glass beneath his feet, filled the night air.

As the shuffling grew louder, a low, unsettling moan reached his ears, sending a shiver down his spine. It was far too close for comfort, and a creeping unease settled in his gut. What kind of person lets out a moan like that? Just as he considered the bizarre nature of the sound, the moonlight broke through the gnarled branches of the trees above, illuminating the newcomer in a ghastly glow. Slade's breath caught in his throat as panic surged through him. The man's eyes were a milky white, devoid of life, and he noticed with horror that one of the eyeballs hung grotesquely at the side of his face, a ripped cheek exposing jagged teeth. There seemed to be remnants of flesh caught between them, glistening ominously in the dim light. It was an image that sent a jolt of terror through Slade, making his heart race wildly in his chest like a drum pounding an urgent beat.

Instinctively, he redoubled his efforts to break free from the cuffs, the rough metal biting into his skin, and the frustration pulled at him as the moaning grew more distinct. The cadaverous figure lurched closer, toward the open passenger door of the vehicle, and with it came an overwhelming stench of rot and decay that hit him like a tidal wave. Slade scrunched his nose at the foul odor, one he unfortunately recognized all too well. Yet, despite the smell, the sight of the mangled man was what truly sent his heart into overdrive. Slade could count three bullet holes marring the creature's body—one in the torso, another in the neck, and the last in the left cheek. "No possible way," he muttered under his breath, but instinct took over, and he channeled all his strength into the chains binding him. He swung his boot with ferocity, connecting with the abomination's face, causing it to stumble backward, and crashing against the crumpled rear door of the driver's side.

The chain finally snapped free from his right cuff as he dove for the body of the dead corporal slumped in the front seat, reaching for the pistol holstered at the man's side. But before he could grab it, he noticed the grotesque figure attempting to crawl back through the passenger door. Ignoring his instincts to panic, Slade instead swung his legs over the seat and into the hatch, his long chain dragging behind him like a forgotten anchor. His fingers fumbled around in the darkness until they found the latch mechanism. As he turned to check his surroundings, his heart sank at the sight of the horrible face peering at him from behind the rear passenger seat. The milky eyes seemed to bore through him just as he kicked again, desperation fueling his actions.

With a wince of pain, he felt a sharp metal component slice into his finger, causing him to hiss, "Fuck," through clenched teeth. Ignoring the sting, he climbed out through the hatch in a frantic escape, slamming the hood down hard just in time to keep the grotesque creature from reaching him. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he bolted down through the woods, each step quickening with each heartbeat echoing in his ears. He knew he had to find a way out—some kind of vehicle to make his escape before the military arrived to hunt him down. This was his only chance at freedom, and he wouldn't let it slip away.

Slade pushed back his unruly, bronze hair from his eyes with a frustrated sigh as he trudged deeper into the frigid embrace of the forest. The biting cold nipped at his skin, reminding him just how unprepared he was for a trek like this. He kept moving forward, driven by a flicker of hope that he had spotted the distant lights of Raccoon City earlier - a beacon in what felt like an endless wilderness. However, as he continued his journey, the sound of rushing water began to reach his ears, pulling him from his thoughts.

It was only in this moment of unexpected pause that he became aware of the nagging soreness in his shoulders. The ache was a lasting reminder of the brutal strain he had put on his body while desperately yanking at the chains that had once restrained him. The rough cuff link had left an angry red impression on his wrist, a small but persistent pain that accompanied the mental exhaustion he felt.

As he finally entered a clearing, Slade's eyes landed on a river sprawling before him. He instinctively knew this had to be the Mendez River docks, an all too familiar sight that didn't bring him the comfort he might have hoped for. He allowed his thoughts to wander for a moment before muttering under his breath, "Well, I suppose a bit of water never killed anyone... I hope." His voice echoed back to him, slight and unsure, as he gathered his resolve to plunge into the cool depths.

The water was brisk, invigorating even, yet it sent shivers coursing through his body as he waded across. Each step felt like a battle against the current, and when he finally emerged on the other side, his clothes clung to him like a second skin, heavy and sodden. The chill was uncomfortable, but nothing could defeat his determination right now.

As he navigated his way along the bank, he soon passed the docks fluttering with old signs branding the place as the "Mendez River Tributary Boat Station." Catching sight of the letters made him chuckle despite his dire situation. "Still haven't changed that stupid name?" he grumbled to himself, a feeble attempt at humor that momentarily distracted him from the unpleasant reality of his drenched attire. The laughter, though slight, reminded him of his own humanity, a fleeting comfort amidst the chaos of everything else. He continued on, feeling the weight of his circumstances but also the flicker of resilience that refuses to be extinguished, even in the cold, dark world surrounding him. It's always surrounded him.

Lost in a haze of thoughts and distractions, Slade completely overlooked the fisherman perched on the dock, who was casting him a curious glance. The old man squinted, momentarily intrigued, but before he could register what he was observing, Slade slipped away into the lush shrubbery lining the far side of the dock. With purposeful strides, he began his journey toward the mouth of the circular river that ultimately flowed alongside Lynn Valley Road—an escape route he had meticulously plotted in his mind.

After carefully crossing a narrow stretch of the path, Slade halted, the strain of his thoughts manifesting in a heavy sigh that echoed the weight of his predicament. He found himself brimming with anxiety as he wrestled with the question that gnawed at him: How could he slip out of the city undetected by the watchful eyes of law enforcement? Mr. Sakamoto, the local figure who had often helped those in need, flickered into his mind as a potential ally. Still, the proximity of Sakamoto's location to city hall and the Raccoon Police Department made that route perilous; it was far too close to the buzzing hive of authority. Engaging Mr. Sakamoto might inadvertently entangle him in Slade's messy situation, and the very thought gave him pause.

Another fleeting but desperate idea crossed his mind—perhaps he could ransack his family estate for some hidden treasures or cash that might help him vanish—but that option was far too conspicuous. Surely, the authorities would head straight for his family's lavish home, and the last place he wanted to venture back into was the suffocating familiarity of his childhood abode. Besides, memories of that estate were tangled in both privilege and pressure, and he had no intention of revisiting that suffocating environment.

Resolute, Slade turned his sights southward along the riverbank, the crunch of pebbles and soft earth beneath his feet echoed with each step, a stark reminder of his current reality. The cool bite of the evening air began to seep into his skin, sending unwelcome shivers rippling through his body, but he pressed on. Soon, he found himself nearing Raccoon Park, the familiar sights and sounds slightly comforting yet still unsettling in their mundane normalcy. To his left, the waste disposal factory loomed in the distance, its harsh lights flickering and illuminating the periphery of the park, a stark juxtaposition to the surrounding natural beauty.

As Slade navigated deeper into the park, he began hearing the unmistakable wail of sirens, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles cutting through the darkness on his right, likely near the Raccoon General Hospital. He paused for a moment, curiosity piqued as he observed the bustle unfolding—a flurry of activity that suggested a hectic night for first responders. "Must be a busy season," he said quietly to himself, the words escaping into the cool evening air.

Drawing closer to the public bathrooms nestled within the park, Slade relished the relative absence of any late-night traffic. It was late enough that the odds of remaining undetected were stacked in his favor, a comforting thought he clung to like a lifeline. Yet, the flickering lights and blaring sirens hinted at the heightened activity of law enforcement, and that gave him pause. With renewed urgency, he approached the men's bathroom, his heart racing as he slipped inside, hoping for a moment's reprieve from the tension that had been building steadily like a pressure cooker.

As he stepped into the bathroom, a wave of discomfort washed over him as he caught sight of his reflection in the grimy, uneven surface of the mirror. His once-pristine appearance was now a disheveled mess; his usually well-kept bronze hair had grown unusually long, curling wildly around his face in a tousled heap. A dusting of stubble adorned his jaw, hinting at several days without a proper shave, while his striking ice-blue eyes—so vibrant yet clouded with confusion—revealed the toll of recent events. The minor abrasions and scratches peppered across his skin served as painful reminders of the rough incident that had changed everything.

His clothes felt heavy and damp, clinging uncomfortably to his skin, an uncomfortable reminder of circumstances he couldn't escape. The faint sheen of moisture on his face and forearms reflected the bathroom light as the perspiration slowly evaporated, leaving him feeling both sticky and exposed. As he stood there, he couldn't shake the unsettling thought that he might be spiraling into the very depths of madness. Months of near starvation and relentless abuse during his confinement played tricks on his mind, mingling terrifying flashbacks with the unbearable present. He had vividly remembered the haunting image of a lifeless corpse shuffling towards him, a grim sight that felt all too familiar and deeply unsettling, reminiscent of those classic zombie movies he'd once enjoyed during carefree evenings spent with his younger sister. But this was no film; the grotesque odor of decaying bodies wafted through his memory, a putrid reminder of what real death smelled like—an overwhelming mix of the sickly sweetness of rotting fruit interlaced with the stench of spoiled meat and waste, a far cry from the drama of the screen.

His thoughts drifted to the fate of the guardsman, Stanson. What had happened to him? Slade's eyes were drawn to the cuff fastened around his wrist, the extended chain link that hung limply beside him; a necessary tether, he thought, to keep it from dragging on the ground. If he was to break free from this prison, he needed to clean himself up. He began to wash away the dirt and dried blood; his soapy hands glided over his squared jaw, feeling the grit of his unkempt beard. The cuff still weighed heavily on his mind—removing it was crucial, as it was far too visible and would undoubtedly raise a lot of questions if anyone saw it.

After taking a moment to collect himself and gather his thoughts, he appreciated the brief reprieve from the relentless wind that whisked through the bathroom, feeling a hint of warmth on his chilled skin before he knew he had to venture back out into the world—a world that felt particularly unforgiving. His immediate goal was finding a phone booth, maybe even a jacket to help shield himself from the cool night air that would greet him outside. Before leaving, he paused for a moment to relieve himself, before washing his hands and leaning against the sink as he braced for the next steps. The last thing he wanted was to continue scrutinizing the reflection staring back at him, so he turned away and pushed through the door into the warm, humid embrace of the night.

Slade set off on his journey down Wallace Street, memories flickering to life in his mind of a time when he had known the area like the back of his hand. A telephone booth near the St. Michael Clock Tower sprang to mind, a remnant of his youth that he could still picture vividly. He ruminated about the potential consequences of seeking help from another person; the thought of involving someone else was fraught with danger, especially when the stakes were this high. The idea of leaving the city loomed over him like a dark cloud, but he knew that doing so without any essential supplies was simply out of the question. Raccoon City was far too isolated to navigate in the bleakness of night without food or water, and without a weapon, he was quite literally placing himself at the mercy of the wild predators lurking in the surrounding Arklay and Stone-Ville forests.

The jagged sounds of muted traffic blended with the haunting wails of sirens from nearby emergency vehicles, casting a chilly, unsettling ambiance along Victoria Street. It was one of those nights where the city felt alive, but not in a comforting way. The air was thick with an almost palpable tension, a mix of desperation and the undercurrents of nightlife gone awry. Slade found himself lurking in the shadows, using the darkness as a shield, his heart pounding in his chest. The rush of adrenaline surged through him, heightening his senses as he prepared himself mentally for the risky venture he was about to undertake.

Suddenly, a raucous voice pierced the night air, slurring words that cut through the tension like a knife. "Berry, Berry, wake up you drunken bastard!" The sound was abrasive and filled with a venomous edge, forcing Slade to instinctively duck behind a nearby bush, his instincts sharper than ever. Peering out cautiously, he focused on the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Before him, a disheveled man was bent over, desperately trying to rouse a figure lying crumpled on the pavement. The sight was both pitiful and unsettling, the city streets often serving as a makeshift bed for those lost in the clutches of addiction or misfortune. The man, wearing a tattered hoodie that barely fit his gaunt frame, struggled for what felt like an eternity. Every movement was awkward; every gesture desperate, as he attempted to bring the seemingly unresponsive Berry back to consciousness.

With narrowed eyes, Slade observed the two, his breath held tight in his chest. Just when he thought the scene might spiral further into chaos, the ragged man managed to pry a crumpled bottle from Berry's limp fingers. A shiver of relief washed over Slade, mixed with a sense of morbid curiosity, as the man straightened up, an unhinged grin spreading across his face. He staggered away, swigging triumphantly from the bottle, his laughter echoing in the stillness of the night, the sound both unsettling and oddly triumphant. Slade couldn't help but think how the night had a way of revealing the darkest corners of humanity, but he couldn't judge given what he was thinking currently.

Hesitating for only a heartbeat, Slade approached the slumped form of the supposed Berry and gently nudged him with the toe of his boot, but received no response. Crouching down with measured caution, he placed two fingers against the side of the man's neck, searching for signs of life. It was a bitter disappointment as he felt nothing—no pulse, no warmth, just the chilling reminder of mortality that weighed heavy in the air.

Standing again, his gaze swept down the figure of Berry, who lay clad in a worn leather jacket—an item that could provide warmth and perhaps a sense of protection. Despite the grave circumstances and the unpleasant thoughts swirling in his mind, Slade made the decision to strip the jacket from the body. He reasoned that he could endure the smell if it meant finding a semblance of comfort in this dire situation. As he pulled it free, he caught sight of the cuff on his own left wrist, now surprisingly soiled, including the cuff link he had previously secured around his forearm.

"I apologize, Berry. Regrettably, I find myself in greater need of this than you do," Slade murmured softly, almost as if asking for forgiveness from the lifeless man before him, his voice tinged with an unsettling mix of guilt and determination. He rifled through the pockets of the leather jacket, hoping for something—anything—that might be of use. To his surprise, he found a small boxed item nestled between layers of fabric, alongside something that seemed to be smaller, metallic.

Extracting a pack of Dingo Red cigarettes and a Zippo lighter from the interior pocket, a wry smile crossed his lips despite the grim nature of his surroundings. "I only wish your choice in cigarettes was more refined; nonetheless, beggars cannot be choosers," he chuckled softly to himself. As he slid one of the cigarettes from the pack and flicked the lighter to life, the flickering flame offered a momentary comfort. He took a deep drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs, and released a heavy sigh as reality settled in around him once more.

"I haven't had one of these in quite a while," he murmured to himself, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There's really no point in fretting over early graves when I've practically been dancing around them for ages." His gaze drifted downward to the lifeless form sprawled nearby, and he took a long drag from the cigarette that hung lazily from his lips. After a moment of contemplation, he spoke again, the words spilling out like a reluctant confession: "Pull yourself together, Atticus; you're talking to a dead man here."

With that, he pushed himself off the spot where he stood, turning away from the river that rippled softly in the moonlight, carrying him further down the sidewalk, away from the grim reminder of Berry's corpse. His feet carried him towards the nearby hospital, and as he approached, he couldn't help but notice an unusual hustle and bustle of pedestrians navigating the evening streets. Yet from a distance, he struggled to pick out any particular faces or details in the throng of hurried people.

Taking a sharp left onto a quieter side street, he soon neared the corner by Wallace Street. The clock tower loomed above him, its hands ticking rhythmically as he stepped into the small, glass phone booth that flickered under the glow of a weak bulb overhead. He paused for a moment, allowing his mind to settle as he crushed out his cigarette beneath his boot and reached for the receiver. He hesitated briefly, a faint memory of Koi's Restaurant's phone number flitting just out of reach before he finally punched in the digits.

The phone rang just once before it was met with a bright, cheerful voice from the other end. "Koi's Japanese Restaurant, how may we assist you this evening?" The cheery tone surprised him, and for a fleeting moment, he found himself caught off guard, the words feeling lodged in his throat like a stubborn pebble. After a quick cough to clear his chest, he managed to say, "I would like to speak with Mr. Sakamoto."

There was a slight pause on the line before the young woman responded, her tone shifting to that of a dutiful employee, "Ah, Mr. Sakamoto is currently quite busy due to the rush hour. Unless this is an emergency, I'm afraid I must—" At that very moment, Slade felt a sudden wave of urgency wash over him, prompting him to interject, "It is, indeed… a family emergency."

The line fell silent momentarily, and he could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she processed his words. "Mr. Sakamoto has only one family member, his daughter, who is me. May I ask who is calling?" Slade glanced around the dim interior of the booth, the glass slightly fogged with his breath. The girl on the other end was familiar to him, although it had been ages since he had last seen her—her image frozen in his mind from years ago when she was just a carefree twelve-year-old.

"I'm an old family friend in need of assistance. I'm certain he will understand," he explained, hoping to reassure her. In the background, he heard a muffled sound, likely her letting out a little groan, before a man's voice broke through in broken English, carrying the thick cadence of his native Japanese. "Ah, this Yori. Do you wish to speak?"

A small smile crept across Atticus's lips upon hearing Sakamoto's voice, the familiarity of it wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket. "I apologize for not reaching out sooner; things have been... well, let's say, difficult for me lately," he confessed, a touch of sheepishness creeping into his tone.

"Oh, Atticus, my boy! It's been too long since I heard from you. When will you visit again?" Yori's warmth radiated through the phone, filling the small booth with an odd sense of home.

"I, um... I'm currently facing some troubles. I'm in Raccoon, and it's quite bad," Slade replied, his voice dropping into a more serious tone as he cast a wary glance around the dimly lit street, trying to keep his situational awareness in check. Yori's excitement burst through the tension, "Oh! Welcome home! Where are you, my boy? I will come and retrieve you! Himari will be thrilled to see you again; I can hardly believe she could be any happier."

Slade chuckled softly at that, picturing her reaction in his mind. "I'll be at the spot where you first picked me up before you took me in," he stated, his heart fluttering with both anticipation and anxiety.

"Very well, my boy! I will see you soon. I am delighted that you have returned," Yori replied, his voice filled with genuine joy before he ended the call. Atticus held the receiver for a moment longer, staring at it as if it could somehow give him the answers he sought, before murmuring softly as he placed it back in its cradle, "Indeed, home sweet home."

Letting out a heavy sigh, he stepped back into the refreshing embrace of the night air, making his way to the small, familiar corner of Yaya Street where he planned to wait for Yori to arrive. As he walked, his thoughts raced like wild horses in his mind, all concentrating on the impending reunion. He couldn't shake the feeling of anticipation mixed with apprehension, particularly knowing that Yori would undoubtedly have a laundry list of questions for him. While he acknowledged the necessity of addressing those questions eventually, he found himself more preoccupied with how Himari would perceive him after all this time. Their connection had evolved over the years, transcending the bond he had with his biological sister, and he couldn't shake the gnawing apprehension that her gaze might hold a different weight now, a new understanding colored by the years that had passed since they last saw each other.

As he navigated the dimly lit sidewalk, he appreciated the way the broken streetlamps cast sporadic pools of golden light, creating stark contrasts of shadow that enveloped him, almost as if they were providing him a cloak of anonymity while he waited in the darkness at the corner of Yaya. Standing there, it struck him just how unsettling the eerie stillness of the street felt, an unusual quietness where, save for the sporadic flash of emergency lights in the distance, there were no signs of life—no pedestrians bustling about and no vehicles cruising past. Leaning against the cold, rough texture of the nearby brick building, he felt the night wrap around him tightly, akin to a thick fog caught between the folds of both cherished memories and lingering uncertainties. His gaze swept across the empty street, a hint of nostalgia creeping into his chest. Raccoon wasn't a large city by any means, but it used to buzz with life, and he couldn't help but notice how the familiar hum of activity from his youth had faded into a mere whisper.

His eyes wandered to a nearby light pole, where missing persons' flyers flapped gently in the night breeze, their stark white paper contrasting sharply with the darkness around them. Each face printed on the flyers looked hauntingly recent—most had been reported missing just within the past month, while some older ones were weathered and yellowing with age. As he continued to linger in the shadows, a singular, troubling thought occupied his mind: why were there so many individuals reported missing in a place that had once felt relatively safe?

Slade sunk deeper into the darker corners of the street, keeping his presence as inconspicuous as possible. The faint sounds of a police cruiser passing by occasionally broke the silence, its lights flashing in the distance on a standard patrol. He hoped Yori wouldn't take too long to arrive; honesty compelled him to admit that he didn't consider the man a particularly speedy driver, yet time was definitely of the essence tonight. He noticed the homeless individuals and drunken vagrants stumbling about the street; they seemed blissfully unaware of him, as if he were a shadow haunting the edges of their reality. Slade's situational awareness kicked into overdrive, his ice-blue eyes keenly scanning the environment around him, taking in the disrepair that had overtaken the city since his last visit.

As he lingered in an alley, shrouded in darkness, his thoughts inevitably drifted to the subject of food. It had been months since he had enjoyed a proper meal worthy of being called fulfilling, and the tantalizing aromas wafting through the open windows of buildings around him only exacerbated his hunger. The delicious scents from various floors stirred memories of hearty meals and good company, making his stomach grumble in annoyance. In the meantime, he remained cautious, tucking himself further into the shadows of the alley in an attempt to remain hidden from both the occasional passerby and the stray officers patrolling the streets in their cruisers.

What he didn't realize, however, was the matte black state-of-the-art camera silently observing him from its perch high up on the apartment building he was leaning against in the alley. Unbeknownst to him, it was recording every subtle movement, every furrowed brow, while the night continued to envelop him in its mysteries.