No strings attached / Leon s. Kennedy

Chapter 32

Play it smart, I tell myself again, my hand brushing against the glass as I pass. I can feel the cold radiating off it, a stark reminder of how close I am—and how far. 

I take a step toward the glass door, my breath hitching as I move closer. It feels like the air shifts, everything narrowing to this one moment. Just step inside, I tell myself, even as my legs threaten to buckle under the weight of what I'm about to do.

But before I can move another inch, a firm hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. My heart lurches in my chest, panic racing through me as I turn to face the guard. His expression is neutral, but there's a sharpness in his gaze, a hint of suspicion.

"Proof of allowance," he says, his tone steady but unyielding.

My pulse races, my mind scrambling for a response. Proof? Of course, I don't have it. I wasn't even supposed to be here tonight. My thoughts stumble over each other as I clutch my bag tighter, forcing my expression to stay calm. "Oh, right," I say quickly, feigning nonchalance. "Just give me a second."

I start cramming into my bag, my hands shaking as I pretend to search for something—anything—that would get me out of this. Papers, pens, a tablet... I shuffle them around, knowing full well there's nothing in there that will help me. But I have to keep going, have to sell the lie.

After a few moments, I let out an exaggerated sigh, straightening up and looking at him like I'm annoyed, not terrified. "Must've forgotten it," I say, forcing a small, almost sheepish smile. "Typical, right? Long day. I swear I had it when I came in."

The guard raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, his hand still resting on my shoulder. "Forgotten it, huh?"

"Look," I say, crossing my arms, leaning into the role I'm trying to play. Confidence—that's what I need right now. "You can call Hughes if you want, but you know how he gets during night shifts. He's busy, stressed, and frankly, he didn't seem too happy when he sent me here. Told me to get this done and report back, no interruptions."

The guard hesitates, his hand falling away as he considers my words. I can see the gears turning in his head, weighing the risk of interrupting someone like Hughes against the likelihood that I'm telling the truth. I press on, keeping my tone steady but firm.

"Honestly," I add, shrugging like this whole thing is just an inconvenience, "if I have to go back up there and tell him you held me up, it's not going to go well for anyone. You know how he is."

For a moment, I think he's going to call my bluff, but then he steps back, giving me a reluctant nod. "Fine. Just... get what you need and get out. Quickly."

Relief crashes over me, but I don't let it show. I give him a curt nod, murmuring a quick, "Will do," before turning back to the door. My hand trembles as I press the access panel, the glass sliding open with a soft hiss. As I step inside, I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't look back.

 I move toward the first row of files, the sharp scent of sterile air filling my lungs. My eyes scan the labels on the shelves, flicking past names and numbers, looking for one thing: A.

It has to be at the front. My mind races, a mantra repeating over and over: Albert Wesker, Andrew Torres, Amber Torres. A. It has to be here. My fingers brush against the cool, metal edges of the file dividers as I flick through them, my breath quick and shallow.

And then I see it.

The file is thick, a dull manila folder with Wesker/Torres Joint Project stamped across the top in bold, dark letters. My name is right there, printed smaller at the bottom of the page—Amber Torres. My heart skips, a wave of both dread and determination washing over me. This is it. This is what they've been hiding.