I didn’t expect a three minute short film to hit me the way this one did.
Waiting for the upcoming release of Resident Evil Requiem has been tougher than I thought. When you grow up with a franchise like this, the anticipation feels personal. It’s not just another game. It’s part of your history.
I’ve been playing Resident Evil since the early 2000s. I’ve run through dark hallways with barely any ammo, counting bullets like they were gold. I’ve solved puzzles with that quiet panic sitting in my chest, hoping nothing was waiting around the corner. I thought I understood what this world was about. Infection. Survival. Corporate greed. Bio-weapons.
But Resident Evil: Requiem didn’t start with horror.
It started with a house.
“It wasn’t always like this.”
That line stayed with me.
Before the sirens. Before the emergency broadcasts. Before the screams. There was a simple life. Sunday mornings. Dance offs in the living room. Afternoons at the park. Story time before bed.
That’s what makes it hurt.
If you’ve played the Resident Evil games, you already know what happens to Raccoon City. You know it falls. You know it gets consumed by infection and eventually wiped off the map. But this short film does something different. It makes you feel what existed before the fall.
It makes you remember that Raccoon City was home to people who thought they had time.
And that’s what really got me.
You Always Think You Have More Time
When the emergency broadcast tells people to take shelter at the Raccoon City Police Station, there’s this quiet hope in it.
Food will be provided.
Medical supplies will be available.
Everything will be handled.
If you’ve played Resident Evil 2 or the 2019 remake, that location carries weight. You know what it turns into. You know how desperate and terrifying it becomes.
But in this short film, it still sounds like safety.
And I realized something while watching it. In real life, when things start to go wrong, we tell ourselves it’s temporary. We assume it will stabilize. We believe someone is in control.
“We just needed more time.”
That line is not just about zombies. It’s about denial. It’s about hope. It’s about the way you and I convince ourselves that tomorrow will fix what today broke.
The truth is, we all live like we have more time than we do.
Until we don’t.
The Fastest Way to Break a World
“And I learned something I never wanted to know. How fast everything you love can go away.”
That might be the most honest line in the entire film.
In the games, you lose health and ammo. In this short, you lose something deeper. You lose normal life. You lose the small things you never thought to appreciate.
Sunday mornings.
Dance offs.
A child saying, “Just one more, Mama.”
That line stayed with me. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was ordinary. That’s what makes it real.
When I think about Resident Evil 3, I remember the chaos. Streets on fire. Creatures everywhere. The feeling that the city is collapsing around you.
But this short film made me think about what those streets looked like before the outbreak. People walking home from work. Kids playing. Couples arguing about dinner plans.
Horror only works because something beautiful existed first.
And I think that’s why this hit so hard.
We Ran. We Fought. We Hid.
Those lines feel like they could describe any Resident Evil campaign.
You run when you don’t have enough ammo.
You fight when you have no choice.
You hide when you’re overwhelmed.
That’s the rhythm of the series, from the original Resident Evil to everything that followed.
But in this short film, those words feel more personal.
“And still they came.”
That line isn’t just about infected bodies at the door. It’s about pressure. It’s about problems that don’t stop. It’s about that feeling when you solve one crisis and another one shows up immediately after.
I think that’s why Resident Evil has always felt bigger than just a horror franchise. The virus is fictional. The exhaustion is not.
The Real Fear Is Losing Yourself
The moment that stayed with me most was this:
“Tell them I was still me right up until the end.”
That’s not a line about survival. That’s a line about identity.
In the world of Resident Evil, infection means transformation. You don’t just die. You become something else. Something unrecognizable.
And that’s terrifying in a way that goes beyond monsters.
When you think about characters like Leon S. Kennedy or Jill Valentine, you see people who survive, but they’re changed. Trauma reshapes them. Loss hardens them.
The short film asks a quieter question. When everything falls apart, can you still say you were yourself at the end?
That question isn’t about zombies. It’s about life.
When you go through hardship, when you lose things, when the world feels unstable, do you hold onto who you are? Or do you let it change you into something bitter and unrecognizable?
That line felt like a plea for dignity.
And I felt it.
“Raccoon City Is Ours”
The final lines are cold.
“Facility secured.”
“Copy that. Raccoon City is ours.”
If you know the lore, you know how dark that is. The outbreak in Raccoon City is tied to the experiments and corruption of the Umbrella Corporation. Corporate greed creates chaos. And ordinary people pay the price.
The city doesn’t get saved.
It gets contained.
It gets erased.
Those final words don’t feel like victory. They feel like takeover. Like something inhuman claiming ownership over what used to be home.
And that’s what makes the ending feel so empty.
Not loud. Not explosive.
Just final.
Why This Short Film Works
What surprised me most is how restrained it is.
It doesn’t show much. It doesn’t rely on gore or shock. It leans into memory.
A house.
A park.
A bedtime story.
It reminds you that before every disaster, there was normal life.
When I replay Resident Evil 2, I’ll see the police station differently now. I’ll think about the people who once sat at those desks. The conversations that happened before the outbreak. The lives that existed before the infection turned everything into a survival puzzle.
That’s what this short film gave me.
Context.
Emotion.
Nostalgia.
What It Made Me Realize
I didn’t expect a Resident Evil short film to make me reflect on my own life, but it did.
“You always think that you have more time.”
That line is bigger than the franchise.
You think you have more time to call someone back.
More time to fix a relationship.
More time to enjoy a quiet Sunday morning.
Until you don’t.
Resident Evil has always been about survival. But Requiem feels like it’s about appreciation. About noticing the small moments before they disappear.
It reminded me that the real horror isn’t just infection.
It’s not realizing you were living in your “before” until it’s already gone.
Tell Them I Tried
“If anyone finds this, tell them I tried.”
There’s something honest about that.
Not “tell them I won.”
Not “tell them I survived.”
Just “tell them I tried.”
That feels human.
We don’t control outcomes. In the game and in life, sometimes the city falls anyway. Sometimes the outbreak spreads. Sometimes the ending isn’t what you wanted.
But trying matters.
Holding onto yourself matters.
Staying you right up until the end matters.
That’s what I took from Resident Evil: Requiem.
It’s not just a short film about the fall of Raccoon City.
It’s a reminder to appreciate your quiet mornings. To stay for one more story. To hold onto who you are when everything feels unstable.
Because it wasn’t always like this.
And one day, you might look back and realize that right now is your Sunday morning.
