Walk Trump's Path, Leave Trump With No Path to Walk

The crowd screamed his name.

"Ian! Ian!" Someone tried to squeeze through the human wall of security and rush to his side, but was stopped. The person refused to give up, stretching out an arm and holding up a cross, shouting that God bless him. Ian smiled back, then was carried by the security guards into the building.

His figure disappeared behind the revolving doors.

The doors shut. The crowd still stood outside, still shouting, still crying, still raising their fists. No one left. They stood there, looking at the tightly shut glass doors, at the empty lobby behind them, at the red-and-white Umbrella logo on the wall.

They did not know what they were waiting for.

Maybe they were waiting for him to come out and say something. Maybe they were waiting for him to prove he was still alive. Maybe they simply did not want to turn and leave after he said, "I will not yield."

The office on the top floor of Umbrella Corporation.

Ian sat in a chair, holding a cup of hot tea. He had changed his shirt—not into the new one, but into a spare kept in the office.

It was still black, still the same style. Little Xenomorph lay sprawled across his knees, tail hanging down, utterly still. Little Dragon stood on the corner of the desk, wings half-spread, its golden eyes fixed on the skin of Ian's shoulder, where no trace could be seen anymore. It leaned in and sniffed, then backed away again.

"See? It's healed already," Ian said to Little Dragon. Little Dragon mewled, flapped its wings, and seemed deeply unsatisfied with that answer.

Black Box's voice rang out.

"The media's exploded. Turn on the TV and see."

Ian picked up the remote and pressed it toward the large screen