ETHAN DRAKE: WORLD HORIZON GAMES

The mansion's corridors stretched on like veins in some decaying beast, the wooden floorboards groaning underfoot as if protesting our intrusion. Bastard led the way, his hulking frame cutting an imposing silhouette in the dim, flickering light. Behind him, Rio's flashlight darted into the corners, every movement precise, calculated—a predator in his element.

"What are we doing here again?" I murmured, my voice low, curiosity tinged with irritation. My hand hovered near my pistol, the weight of it a constant reminder that danger was never more than a heartbeat away.

Bastard's head snapped around, his glare sharp enough to draw blood. "Ask one more dumb question, and I'll show you exactly why they call me Bastard." His voice was gravel and steel, each word landing like a hammer.

"Relax," Do You Love Me interjected, her lips quirking into a faint smirk. "He's new. Let him soak it all in."

"Stay in character, Ethan," Rio's voice cut through, as sharp and commanding as a whip crack. "The mission's simple: locate the T-virus, extract it, and leave. Anything else?" His tone dared me to challenge him.

I glanced at Do You Love Me, arching a brow. "And the real mission?"

She shrugged, brushing her fingers along the grip of her pistol. "KP will spell it out when he's ready. We're just playing our parts until then."

"KP?" I repeated, the name hanging in the air like a bad omen.

"You'll know him when you meet him," Bastard grunted, his voice carrying the weight of disdain and resignation. "For now, just focus on keeping up."

The group stopped at a crossroads, the corridor branching into two equally foreboding paths. The air was colder here, the faint sound of dripping water echoing faintly in the distance. Rio turned, his flashlight beam slicing through the darkness to illuminate each of us in turn.

"We split here," he announced, his tone brooking no argument. "Bastard, Do You Love Me, you're together. Ethan, you're with me. Any complaints?"

Silence. None of us dared to push back, not against Rio when he was like this. Without another word, we paired off, the heavy weight of anticipation settling over us as we disappeared into opposite directions. The mansion swallowed the others whole, their flashlight beams vanishing into the darkness.

Rio and I walked in silence, the oppressive quiet broken only by the creak of the floorboards beneath our boots. I kept my eyes moving, cataloging every detail: the peeling wallpaper, the faint smudges on the glass panes of a distant window, the faint scent of mildew that clung to the air.

And then it came—the voice.

Smooth, sardonic, and so close it felt like a whisper in my ear. "My, my, newcomer. And a professional player too? Quite the combination. Let's talk, shall we?"

I froze mid-step, my hand tightening on my pistol as I scanned the corridor. The voice wasn't audible. It was inside my head.

"Go on," I thought, forcing my tone to remain steady.

"Calm, are we? Good," the voice—KP—purred, amusement lacing every syllable. "I am KP, your liaison in this delightful little nightmare. Listen carefully; we don't have much time."

Rio glanced at me, his brow furrowing, but he said nothing. If he could hear KP too, he didn't show it.

"Mission one," KP continued, his tone shifting to matter-of-fact. "Retrieve the T-virus and deliver it to Umbrella's operations head in Raccoon City. Your reward: 1,000 Horizon Points."

"And mission two?" I pressed, keeping my voice internal, my thoughts sharp.

KP chuckled, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "Optional: ensure the survival of the plot characters until the end. Performance-based reward, of course."

"And the catch?"

"Ah, you're quick," he said, almost gleefully. "The catch is… everything. Trust no one, especially not your teammates. They'll all have their reasons to bury you, metaphorically or otherwise."

"Noted," I thought, my grip on the pistol tightening.

"Good. Enjoy your stay," KP said, his tone dripping with mockery. And then he was gone, leaving an empty, disorienting silence in his wake.

Rio's voice snapped me back to reality. "Focus. We're here."

Ahead of us stood a door, heavy and warped with age. Rio's flashlight illuminated the tarnished brass handle, the wood scarred with deep gouges that looked suspiciously like claw marks.

"From here, we split," Rio said, his voice low but firm. "Your objective is Alice, head of security. Find her. She's pivotal."

"And then?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Rio's gaze was cold, calculating. "You'll know soon enough."

He didn't wait for a response, slipping into the shadows with the quiet efficiency of a ghost. I stood there for a moment, listening to the oppressive silence, the faint creak of the mansion settling. Then I turned, my flashlight cutting a swath through the darkness as I moved forward, alone.

The air felt heavier now, every sound amplified in the stillness. The beam of my flashlight caught a painting on the wall: an old photograph of a family, their faces eerily serene. Beneath it, the inscription read: "Arklay Mountains, July 7, 1991."

"The Bakers," I murmured, my voice barely audible. "What were you doing here?"

A faint creak echoed from down the hall, and my blood turned cold. I raised my pistol, pivoting toward the noise. The door at the end of the corridor stood ajar, a faint sliver of light spilling through.

"Alice?" I called out, my voice steady despite the chill crawling up my spine.

The lights flickered, momentarily plunging the corridor into darkness before stuttering back to life. I edged closer to the door, each step deliberate, my pulse hammering in my ears.

Footsteps echoed from the shadows beyond the door, measured and deliberate, growing louder with each passing second.

And then the lights went out.