I can't just walk out, not without trying to help him –

– screw that! Go, go now! He might die… You might die! Run for it! The internal dispute was brief, but her conscience triumphed over reason, as usual. He obviously hadn't set her loose because of some personal affinity, but whatever the reason, she was grateful. He didn't have to let her go, and he'd done it anyway. "What about you?" She asked, wondering if there was anything she could do for him. She certainly couldn't carry him out, and she was no medic. "Don't worry about me," he said, raising his head to glare at her for a second, sounding irritated that she'd even brought it up. Before she could ask him what had happened outside, he lost consciousness, his shoulders slumping, his body growing still. He was breathing, but without a doctor, she wouldn't want to bet on how long. The lighter was getting hot, but she endured the heat long enough to search the small room, starting with the desk. There was a combat knife thrown casually on the blotter, a number of loose papers… She saw her own name on one of them and scanned the document while fixing the knife sheath to her waistband. Claire Redfield, prisoner number WKD4496, date of transfer, blah blah blah … escorted by Rodrigo Juan

Raval, 3rd Security Unit CO, Umbrella Medical, Paris.

Rodrigo. The man who'd caught her and set her free, and now appeared to be dying right in front of her. She couldn't do anything about it, either, not unless she could find help. Which I can't do down here, she thought, snapping the overheated lighter closed after she finished the rest of her search. Nothing but junk, mostly, a trunk of musty prisoner uniforms, endless stacks of paperwork stuffed into the desk. She'd found the pair of fingerless gloves they'd taken from her, her old riding gloves, and put them on, grateful for the minor warmth they provided. All she had to defend herself with was the combat knife, a deadly weapon in the right hands … which, unfortunately, hers weren't.