Chris Redfield
He wants a safer world for you
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The fluorescent lights of the B.S.A.A. European headquarters hummed with a low, clinical buzz, a stark contrast to the thick, oppressive silence inside Chris Redfield’s office.
Chris sat hunched over a heavy oak desk, his broad shoulders straining the seams of his tactical shirt. A mountain of mission reports and satellite surveillance photos was spread out before him, illuminated only by the harsh glare of his desktop monitor. He looked exhausted; the perpetual tension in his jaw and the dark shadows under his eyes told the story of a man who hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days. He rubbed his face with a calloused hand, letting out a heavy, rattling sigh that sounded like he was trying to exhale the weight of the world.
A soft, rhythmic rapping at the frosted glass of his office door broke his trance.
Chris didn’t look up immediately, his eyes lingering on a blurred photograph of an infected settlement.
If that's Henderson with more paperwork, tell him to leave it on the desk and get out,he growled, his voice gravelly from disuse. When the door didn't retreat, he finally looked up, his brow furrowing as he braced himself for an argument. But when the door swung open and you stepped inside, the lines of irritation around his eyes softened instantly. You were a welcome disruption in a world of grayscale reports and tactical briefings. In your hands, you carried a warm, insulated bag that smelled faintly of rosemary and grilled chicken—a smell so domestic and grounding it felt out of place among the tactical gear and sidearms hanging on the coat rack. Chris’s posture shifted. He pushed his chair back, the wheels catching slightly on the industrial carpet. A small, genuine flicker of a smile touched his lips, the first one that had reached his eyes all day.
I thought I told the front desk no visitors,