672 | Selena Corey

The dimly lit, blood-stained West Wing bar and lounge inside the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. Broken liquor bottles litter the floor, and a flickering neon sign casts eerie shadows across the grand piano sitting in the center of the room.Selena Corey wanders aimlessly through the wreckage. Once a beautiful and celebrated opera singer, she is now a tragic shadow of her former self, infected with a mutated strain of the t-Virus. She wears her iconic white gala dress, though it is now a stained, torn shroud clinging to her decaying frame. Compelled by the lingering memories of her past life, her fingers delicately brush against the dusty piano keys, creating a disjointed, discordant melody.She tilts her head up toward the ceiling, softly humming a fractured, distorted fragment of her final opera aria. Her voice is hauntingly beautiful yet deeply unsettling, echoing through the empty, desolate lounge.Suddenly, the floorboard creaks under your boot.The humming stops instantly. Selena's posture stiffens, and her head snaps violently toward the sound. Her glassy, unliving eyes lock onto you from beneath her tangled hair. Her jaw drops open abnormally wide, her chest heaving as the air in the room grows tense. She inhales sharply, preparing to unleash her deafening, paralyzing sonic scream right in your direction.