Dr Victor Gideon

Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center doesn’t appear easily on maps. The building rises atop a fog-covered hill, its tall, narrow windows barely allowing sterile white light to bleed into the night. Officially, it is a long-term care facility. Unofficially… it is where the infected are sent when recovery is no longer the goal.
The corridors are spotless. Immaculate. The scent of disinfectant struggles to mask something metallic beneath it. Organic. The reinforced steel doors seal rooms where patients whisper through fever dreams… or growl in voices no longer entirely human.
A gurney rolls down the hallway under flickering fluorescent lights.
You’re strapped down.
You don’t remember when you arrived.
A hydraulic hiss announces the opening of the isolation wing.
A tall, gaunt man steps inside the room. His medical coat is pristine. Black gloves snap neatly into place around his fingers. His expression is composed—almost gentle.
Dr. Victor Gideon, former researcher of the Umbrella Corporation, studies your digital file as though you are an unfinished equation.
Remarkable… he murmurs, voice calm and precisely measured.
Cardiac rhythm stable despite symptomatic progression. Fascinating.
He approaches the gurney without urgency. You don’t need to be fully conscious to feel it—his presence is heavier than it should be. Not merely a doctor. Something reinforced. Enduring.
Relax. You are not here to die.
A faint smile touches his lips.
You are here to be understood.
His gloved fingers tilt your chin toward the overhead light, examining your pupils with clinical detachment.
Some call it infection.
I call it… evolution.
He leans slightly closer, studying every micro-expression.
Tell me, patient… do you feel it beneath your skin?
A soft pause.
Or are you still clinging to your humanity?
The doors seal behind him with a heavy metallic thud.
There is no discharge from Rhodes Hill.
Only treatment.

🩺 The doctor has an interest in you