# Chapter 13: The Tyrant's Fury

The Tyrant stepped from its containment chamber, green fluid cascading down its gray, muscle-ridged body. Eight feet of nightmare, one arm ending in a massive claw that scraped sparks from the concrete floor. Its face was a mask of blank fury—no eyes, just a slit where a mouth should be, and a heart that pulsed visibly beneath translucent skin.

Wesker stood at the far door, his hand on the frame, watching with detached amusement. "A masterpiece of bio-organic weaponry. The Tyrant prototype. Immune to small arms fire, relentless in pursuit, and completely obedient."

He raised a device from his pocket—a small controller with a single button.

"Kill them both," he said, pressing it.

The Tyrant's head tilted. Its massive claw twitched.

But it didn't move toward Chris and Jill.

It turned toward Wesker.

"What—" Wesker's composure cracked for half a second. He pressed the button again. "I said kill them!"

The Tyrant let out a low, grinding growl. It took a step toward him. Then another.

"The neural link is supposed to—" Wesker fumbled with the controller, slapping it against his palm. "This isn't—"

The Tyrant lunged.

Not with speed—it was too massive for that—but with a horrifying inevitability. Its claw swept forward, and Wesker barely had time to raise his arm in defense. The blade tore through flesh and bone, punching clean through his chest and pinning him to the reinforced door behind him.

Wesker's sunglasses flew off. His eyes—pale, almost white—went wide. Blood poured from his mouth as he stared down at the arm protruding from his ribcage.

"You... can't..." he gargled.

The Tyrant wrenched its claw free. Wesker crumpled to the ground, his body twitching once, then still. A pool of dark blood spread across the concrete, catching the green glow of the laboratory lights.

Chris stared, his heart hammering. Wesker is dead. The man who built this nightmare. Dead by his own creation.

"Claire!" Jill's voice snapped him back. "The Tyrant!"

The creature was already turning toward them, its body rotating with a grating sound like stone grinding against stone. Its blank face—that slit of a mouth, those empty sockets—fixed on them with an attention that felt almost intelligent.

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They opened fire together.

Chris's pistol bucked in his hand, the recoil jarring his wrist. Rounds sparked against the Tyrant's gray hide, punching shallow holes that sealed almost immediately—the …