# Act 4 – The Raccoon City Nightmare - Chapter 1: Prologue

The morning light filtered through the blinds of Claire's DC apartment, casting stripes across the hardwood floor where Chris—still Claire, always Claire now—stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He'd been at it for three months since the mansion, and his body had transformed into something lean and precise, every muscle defined but not bulky, shaped to match the proportions his sister had carried so naturally.

His hair had grown. That was the thing that struck him every morning. What had started as a short, military-style cut was now a dark-auburn fall that brushed his jaw, layered and soft from weeks of careful trimming and conditioning. He ran his fingers through it, watching the way it moved, the way it framed his face.

No more wigs.

That had been the first lesson from the mansion. When the Tyrant had slammed him against a wall, the wig had shifted—just a centimeter, but enough that he'd felt it go loose. If the creature had grabbed his hair, he'd have been exposed. If a human had noticed the seam in better light, the entire operation would have collapsed. So he'd made a decision: grow it out. Let nature do what a wig could fake.

It wasn't easy. There were weeks of awkward lengths, of using clips and product to style the transition. But now, in the mirror, he saw a woman's hair—his hair—falling naturally around a face that was almost Claire's.

He finished his cooldown from a hundred crunches, toweled off, and stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom. The waist slimmer cinched his midsection, giving him that curved silhouette that filled out Claire's clothes perfectly. He practiced the toss of his head, the way the auburn locks swung and settled back into place. No wig. No glue line. Just him.

The doorbell rang.

Chris's heart jumped, but he'd trained for this. He checked his appearance—hair, makeup, the careful contours of his face—and padded to the door in bare feet.

Jill Valentine stood on the other side, holding a cardboard box and wearing a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Hey, Claire," she said, and the name still stung, still felt like a blade sliding between his ribs. "Can I come in?"

"Of course." Chris stepped aside, and Jill brushed past him, her leather jacket creaking. She …