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Hunk always had luck on his side.
Son of a Marine, he enlisted in the Navy at seventeen, following in his father's footsteps. His rise was swift—by the age of twenty, he had already earned a place among the Navy SEALs. A soldier forged by training, hardened by the field.
But one mission changed everything.
An incident involving an innocent village led to his discharge. No questions asked, no trial—just a dishonorable cut. A week later, he received a call from an untraceable number. A voice on the other end offered him a job.
No names, no uniforms. Just a mission.
The pay was excellent. The rules were simple: complete the job and remain silent.
He accepted without hesitation.
Nearly four years had passed since then. Now Hunk was part of the Umbrella Corporation's elite unit—Alpha Team. The missions were brutal. Top-priority black operations where failure meant death, or worse.
Most of his original team had died. Over and over again, he was transferred to new squads, only to bury them after the next operation. But him?
He always came back.
No matter how grotesque the enemy, how impossible the odds—Hunk survived.
His instincts were razor-sharp. His luck? Unreal.
That luck was being tested now.
He moved silently through the narrow ventilation shafts of the Umbrella facility. The metal walls were slick with condensation, and the only light came from his visor's dull red display. The air was tight and stank of old chemicals, blood, and rot.
He was heading for the third floor. Fast.
Something was loose in the facility. Something that wasn't supposed to be. He remembered the demon-like child, her macabre smile still gave him chills.
His mission was simple on paper: extract valuable research data from Dr. Ironwall's terminal on the third floor and come back. No backup. No margin for error.
He has twenty minutes.
But there were problems.
The hounds were out there.
These creatures moved with uncanny speed, almost as if they anticipated the prey's path. Shadows with jaws like bear traps and eyes like dying embers.
Fortunately, the biggest threat - the girl - didn't seem to be very interested in them. Or at least, that's what he thinks.
What terrified him the most was not the girl's powers or bizarre looks.
All the mutants he's ever faced that were created by the T-virus were mindless creatures. Easy to eliminate with the right tools. But that girl? She's fully aware of what she's doing, and she's intelligent. He and his team realized this the moment she smiled for the camera.
That was what really terrified him.
Now, Hunk crawled through the ducts like a rat, trying not to make a sound. Every thump of metal beneath his knees sounded like thunder to him. He paused at every junction. Listened. Calculated.
After some time crawling, he stopped.
His senses, honed through years of experience, alerted him.
A presence.
He was moving well—no sign of being spotted. But a tension gnawed at him, a gut-deep warning. The kind he'd learned never to ignore. It was like a blade pressed to his throat—cold and sharp.
It felt like someone was there, watching him, but at the same time, there was no one there besides him.
He gripped his sidearm tightly. He wouldn't use it unless he had to — gunfire echoed in vents. But if something came crawling in behind him, he wouldn't hesitate.
He waited. After some time, nothing.
Hunk shook his head — he needed to move. He started to crawling again.
Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes, like hours.
The access to Sector Three he found was hidden behind one of the maintenance stations, a narrow vent tucked into darkness. Hunk slid through it with the precision and silence of a feline, his body trained for claustrophobia, darkness, and discomfort. With each motion, his senses sharpened, as though the very air around him whispered threats.
He breathed slowly, mastering the sound of his own existence.
The map he had seen in the security room indicated that the Head Researcher's office was close—three corridors and two stairwells down. But what maps never show are the horrors that wait in between. Hunk already knew this well. No plan survives contact with the enemy.
He dropped silently from the vent onto the cold concrete floor, landing like a shadow. The corridor was drowned in semi-darkness, illuminated only by pulsing red emergency lights that made the air itself seem to breathe. A low siren moaned in the distance, as if mourning the dead still sprawled somewhere unseen. Bloodstains smeared the walls and floor, claw marks gouged deep into the steel.
A silent massacre.
Then he heard them.
Claws scraping against metal. Beastly snorts. A muffled, guttural growl.
The Black Hounds.
They were close.
Hunk melted into the shadows behind a structural column and waited. Two of the hounds trotted past, monstrous silhouettes barely distinguishable in the red haze. Their bodies were slick with a black, tar-like substance that pulsed faintly, as if they were more than flesh—corrupt amalgamations of rage and disease. Their jaws hung open, thick saliva dripping, and their eyes—pale and sickly—gleamed with a dull intelligence that chilled the blood.
A third one slowed its pace. It halted in the middle of the corridor, sniffing the air.
Hunk felt a knot tighten in his throat.
This wasn't just some twisted dog. It was... different. That thing seemed to sense not just scent, but emotion. Fear. Intent.
If he inhaled too sharply... if he moved even a finger out of rhythm... he would be dead.
The hound crept a few steps toward his direction. Sniffed again. A low growl bubbled in its throat.
Hunk stood frozen, every muscle locked, finger resting lightly on the silenced trigger of his sidearm. His lungs burned.
Then—mercifully—the creature turned, its paws padding into another corridor.
His luck had struck again.
When silence returned, Hunk moved.
He flowed through the shadows, a ghost among the ruins of a once-sterile facility. He dodged malfunctioning sensors, sidestepped puddles of blood, slipped past cameras hanging like corpses from torn wiring. His boots made no sound. His uniform clung to his body like a second skin, wicking away the cold sweat forming on his back.
Finally, he arrived.
The reinforced door to the Head Researcher's office stood slightly ajar.
"That's never good," he muttered under his breath.
Drawing his combat knife with one hand and keeping his pistol in the other, he nudged the door open slowly.
The air inside was thick. Warm. Tainted with the iron stink of blood and despair.
The office was a mess. Papers scattered. A monitor blinked with an error code. Blood splattered the walls and pooled across the floor—but no bodies. That detail put Hunk on edge.
He scanned the room carefully.
And then... movement.
In the far corner, something squirmed.
Hunk froze.
Raising the flashlight mounted on his pistol, he aimed at the source of the movement.
The beam revealed a grotesque creature, no larger than a house cat. But its form was nauseating—like a failed fusion between a blobfish and a human fetus. Just looking at it made Hunk's stomach churn.
The thing recoiled from the light, wriggling into the shadows, as if ashamed of its own existence.
Not one of the hounds. But still—an abomination.
Hunk exhaled, just a little, keeping his guard up. He moved toward the desk, glancing at the still-blinking terminal. The keyboard was partially bloodied. He tapped a few keys—nothing. The screen remained frozen.
"Tsk. This one's dead," he muttered.
Then his eyes found the secondary terminal on the side wall. Still powered.
Without hesitation, he plugged in his Umbrella-issued flash drive. A small green light blinked to life.
Jackpot.
The file transfer was fast, needed only one minute at most.
He looked at his timer. He has nine minutes left.
Far too long to remain still in this hellhole.
He reached into his gear and pulled a second flash drive—this one without any Umbrella markings. Instead, it bore a circular emblem: a red human skull, with six cephalopod-like tentacles curling outward from the cranium.
He inserted it into the secondary port.
One minute later, data flowed to both devices simultaneously.
And then—
Claws.
The scraping echoed again through the corridor beyond.
They were coming.
And he still had to get out alive. It's time to go.
Hunk yanked both flash drives the moment the last file transferred. No confirmation message, no success chime—just instinct. The lights on the terminal dimmed as if the room itself were exhaling its final breath. He pocketed the drives swiftly and turned toward the same path he arrived.
Then the lights flickered.
A low snarl rippled through the corridor just beyond the threshold. It was too close.
He pressed his back against the wall beside the door, every sense alert. Another snarl. Louder. He knew that sound— A Hound, alone.
No backup.
But still deadly.
The metal door creaked softly—opening wider.
And there it was.
The beast stepped in.
Its silhouette, framed by the pulsating red lights, was larger than the others he'd seen. Taller, bulkier. Its black flesh was torn in places, revealing twitching muscle and bone. Its face, if it could be called that, was a mess of torn lips, broken teeth, and twitching tendrils around the jaw.
And it was looking right at him.
For a heartbeat, time froze.
Then it lunged.
Hunk rolled sideways just as the creature's claws slashed through the air, gouging deep into the reinforced wall. Sparks burst from the damaged panel as Hunk came up in a crouch, pistol raised.
BANG!
BANG!
Two shots—dead center.
The beast flinched, but didn't fall. Blood—thick and dark like crude oil—splattered across the floor.
It snarled again and charged.
Hunk didn't flinch. Instead, he waited... and at the last second, sidestepped with inhuman precision, jamming the blade of his combat knife into the creature's side as it passed.
It howled in pain, skidding across the blood-slick floor, crashing into a desk which exploded into splinters.
Hunk kept moving. He knew better than to wait for a kill shot that might never come. Some of these things didn't die like normal creatures. You either outran them or outlasted them.
The corridor outside the office was now flooded with the sound of claws on concrete. More were coming.
The fight had drawn them.
He sprinted.
Behind him, the Hound slammed through the doorway, chunks of wall crumbling in its wake. Its growls reverberated through the hallway like a curse. Hunk ducked into a maintenance hatch, twisting his body through the narrow space, just as the beast snapped its jaws inches from his foot.
It was too big to follow.
But it didn't stop.
It clawed at the metal edges, shrieking in frustration, the sound echoing behind Hunk as he slid deeper into the shaft. Every breath he took felt like inhaling ash. Every heartbeat like thunder.
This wasn't over.
The shaft led him through narrow passages, his hands scraping against rust and grime. Somewhere above, he could still hear the hounds—sniffing, tracking, barking.
But he didn't stop.
He wouldn't.
After all, Hunk always survived.
No matter what.