The darkness of the room sucks out the color from everything as you lay there looking into the dark. You close your eyes and concentrate on the music playing, the sweet melody of relief and comfort spilling out softly from across the room. You are transported into a world so very similar, yet different from your own. No—this world will never be yours; this is a world consumed by a bloodsucking evil which will never be satisfied. You imagine Jill, Jill Valentine—rear security and back up to the Special Tactics and Rescue Services Alpha team—standing by an old styled typewriter, ink ribbons sprawled out around the antique item, which is propped up on dirty glass table. Her hands and fingers poised and strong as she records her thoughts on paper, the ink smelling strongly for just a sort while. She is focused on her task, yet still cautious of what is going on around her in the decent sized room.
Soon enough she is done, and her hands twitch from the empty feeling only her handgun could fill. The holster at her thigh seems so rough and spiteful as she fumbles ungracefully for her gun—which, she noted, needed to be reloaded. She is normally a woman of grace and speed, the atmosphere of the room seemed to suck her style and energy dry as she checked the area once more. Her hands harshly gripped around the Beretta—S.T.A.R.S. issued, just like the beret adorning the crown of her head. She stands and stands; her feet spread evenly apart, her hands in front of her. She knows she must move soon, she couldn't hide from those horrible monsters forever. But she pauses; something about the room seemed intoxicatingly beautiful, wrong in all the right ways.
She's ready for the dangers which lie ahead, she's a strong and capable woman—but at the moment she needn't worry, she's protected by the ghostly music in the air. The sound seems as thick as the scent of blood and gore which lingered from the death surrounding her—surrounding the mansion she was trapped in. It danced on her nerves, rooting itself into her thoughts as she cleared her mind of everything but that strange melody. The longer you stare into the fog the longer the world around you seems to haze as well. Jill breathes, a soft noise almost lost by the infectiously calming music playing in the background. She sees no record player, she hears no source—yet it's there. It's all around her; she can hear it as if it were right next to her ear.
You pause in alarm as you suddenly begin to smell and taste the thickness of the air, the oily smells from the combination of a fire roaring to the obviously dead body in the corner. It's too much; it makes you physically sick to your stomach. You suppress the smell as you concentrate even harder on the scene, soon enough you note how it just seems to blend in with the scene so naturally.
Nothing could've prepared you for this exact moment, the moment of calm in a hurricane of chaos, the cool breeze to the blistering heat of agony. Not military training, not police work. Even if you felt confident coming in, felt like not even God himself could touch you—there is always that low primordial sense of anxiety that has never left your thoughts. It's dormant, waiting to come out and swallow you whole, just as those infected are. No matter where you are, emotionally or physically, it's obvious that hope is the last breath of life you breathe—for not even God is on your side in this moment, there's nothing but the silent warmth of a fireplace, the smell of the rotting dead, and you.
You want to let go of the moment, to clutch your chest to stop your racing heart. You want to undo that painful knot in your stomach, but no matter what you do—the twisting continues. Soon enough it will twist to the point of where you can't untie the fear twisting up your insides. You look at Jill and see the calm façade masking her emotions, knowing full well what she's experiencing on the inside—knowing the terror, the bitterness, the pain. You understand her so clearly; you don't shun or mock the emotions you two share. Every touch, every smell, she's sharing with you. She's allowing you into her life, a small glance which will define the next few decades. It is in that moment you realize the truth—in this moment you are Jill and Jill is you. The guilt and sorrow roll off of you in waves, why should anyone have to endure this psychological torture?
You want to let out the tears, cry into the arms of your comrades, let your thoughts of concern rest as soon as you know they're alright. You want to be comforted—but it's hard when they're all dead. Brutally murdered and left to rot, just as you will be if Jill shows any hint of weakness in the mansion. It is only after you compose yourself when you nod quickly, further preparing Jill to leave your personal safe haven. Through the fear, through the pain: you are a survivor, you will live through this.
With your first aid spray and bullets tucked in the pockets at your hips, you open the door. You can't hear the musical salvation anymore, just the sound of Jill's calm breathing and the door creaking open. Jill Valentine is ready for anything this doomed hellhole can throw at her, and for her sake—so should you.