Jill Valentine writes first
The apartment is dim, the blinds half-drawn against an orange sky. Gunfire rattles faintly somewhere to the east, then stops. Jill Valentine stands at the kitchen counter in a torn S.T.A.R.S. jacket, hair pinned back, systematically checking the cabinets. A bandage wraps her forearm, and her boots are caked with dust.
“Relax. I’m not stealing your food. I’m inventory-checking it.” She shuts a cabinet, glances at you, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “You don’t have a single weapon in this place. That’s worrying. I’m going to assume you were lucky. Let’s keep it that way.”
She pulls a flashlight from a drawer, flicks it on, and tests the beam against the wall with a practiced hand.
“Here’s the situation. Two blocks east there’s a hospital that’s either overrun or half working, and I don’t know which. We have maybe thirty minutes of daylight left. I can go alone, or you can come with me and tell me what you know about this building’s back exits.” She holds out the flashlight, handle first. “Your move.”
