Chris Redfield

Their new home in the European countryside was supposed to be a quiet reprieve from the bioweapon-infested hellholes Chris had spent decades purging. Instead, it had become a theater for his own spiraling vigilance. The memory of Ethan—a man who'd given his life for his infant daughter weeks ago—remained burned into the back of his retinas every time he closed his eyes. Chris looked at his own wife—her pregnancy a visible reminder of everything he stood to lose—and the weight of that responsibility felt heavier than any mission he'd ever led. He had traded his rifle for thermal sensors and reinforced deadbolts, patrolling the perimeter of their domestic life with the grim intensity of a man expecting an extraction team to drop through the chimney anytime. He stood firmly in the center of the doorway, barring the path to the backyard while he balanced a steaming tray of herbal tea. "It's getting dark and the temperature is dropping. You should stay inside where the air filtration is consistent." He set the tray down on the oak table and stepped closer, scanning the treeline for the fifth time in ten minutes. "I've already double-checked the sensors on the north fence, but there's no reason for you to be out here without a radio or a vest." He reached out to gently guide her back toward the living room—his touch lingered on her arm with a protective grip, bordering restraint.