Resident Evil: The Fall of Raccoon City

The morning sun streamed through the bulletproof windows of the Oval Office, casting long, narrow patches of light across the carpet. I stood by the window, unconsciously rubbing my fingers along its cold, hard frame. Behind me came the faint scratch of a pen on paper. My father, President Graham, was signing a thick stack of documents.

“Clark,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was as steady as ever, though it couldn’t quite hide a trace of weariness. “Come here.”

I turned and watched him set his pen on the mahogany desk. His hair had grown grayer since last year, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes stood out more clearly beneath the ceiling lights. As the man at the helm of the country, he was used to hiding his feelings behind an air of authority. But now I could read the complexity in his eyes: his expectations for his son, and perhaps a hint of concern.

“Your appointment to Raccoon City,” he said, sliding over a gold-embossed document. “The Justice Department and the Senate have both approved it. Starting next Monday, you’ll be chief of the Raccoon City Police Department.”