HE'S FINALLY HERE!! After putting this off for like a month i finished up Donovan's character page, which is kinda ironic consdiering he's the reason the au got it's name. To put it simply, this spawned from me asking myself the question I'm certain most furnace fans have at some point: What if Donovan survived? Then I asked myself how that would work, and one obvious solution came to mind: What if he was immune to the nectar? if he never went through a blacksuit transformation, what was stopping the others from yoinking him out of the infirmary while the wheezers weren't looking? Then I started messing with the nectar & fleshing out how the furnace organization/prison works and it got out of hand (I'll get to that at some point in the next 50 years) but yeah!
Tldr: Its a Donovan lives AU!! (and also a whole bunch of other stuff but shhh we dont need to talk about that yet)
Coincidence, My Ass: Sequel – Unclassified (Jake X F!Reader) [Ending 1 of 1]
[Resident Evil | Jake Muller | Reader Insert]
✨ A/N: Massive thanks to @snakevyro for the killer plot bunny in the comments of Part 1! Your “secret immunity” twist was too good to pass up, so here’s a sequel inspired by your idea. As always, feel free to request your own endings or twists in the comments section of Part 1 of the story—I love seeing everyone’s headcanons and wild theories!
Read Part 1 >>> HERE <<<
The last thing you remember is Jake cracking a joke about "coincidences" as he dropped you off at your apartment. That night, the city pressed in heavy and strange, washed in neon and the pulse of distant sirens. The streetlights cast fractured shadows across cracked pavement, and every sound felt sharper than it should—car doors slamming, footsteps echoing, the nervous hush of neighbors behind closed blinds. A chill crawled down your spine as you spotted a nondescript black van idling under the flickering streetlamp, its windows dark, engine rumbling like a restless animal. You couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on you, the sense that someone was cataloguing your every move, just out of sight—waiting. Even inside, the unease lingered. Your phone buzzed with cryptic emergency alerts, and your mind raced as you drew the curtains tight at 2 a.m., trying to believe Jake’s promise that things would finally calm down. They didn’t.
By morning, your world explodes into a mess of sirens, hazmat suits, and questions you’re not allowed to answer. It all happens so quickly: a pounding on your door, voices muffled behind respirators, neighbors gathered in the hallway, someone shouting about a containment breach. You barely have time to grab your cat and a pair of shoes before you’re hustled downstairs and loaded into the back of an ambulance. No one tells you what’s going on—just a barrage of questions about your recent contact, what you remember from the outbreak, if you feel any “symptoms.”
A paramedic leans close, voice clipped: “Anyone visit you last night? Coughing, fever, nosebleeds? Did you touch any strange animals?”
Your neighbor—Mrs. Lee from 3B—cries out, “Why are they taking her? She’s not sick!”
Someone in a hazmat suit jots notes furiously, ignoring your confusion. “Stay calm, miss. You need to answer everything. When was your last contact with the individual named Jake Muller?”
You try to keep up, but your words tumble out half-formed. You’re overwhelmed, frustrated, and getting more frightened by the minute as the questions keep coming, sharp and relentless.
Faces blur past, hands press you down onto a stretcher, and someone jams a needle into your arm. You lose consciousness before you can protest, your last thought a fleeting worry for your cat, cradled in your arms.
You wake up hours later in a hospital bed—needle still in your arm, sunlight slicing across white sheets, the air heavy with antiseptic and secrets. There’s a low beep from the heart monitor, the distant echo of hospital announcements, and the faint purr of your cat, curled up at your feet. For a moment, you think you’re dreaming—until you spot the armed guards at the end of the corridor. Not exactly subtle. Not even for the government.
Your first instinct is to panic, but before you can do much more than sit up, you notice Jake Muller lounging at your bedside—hair a little mussed, jacket slung carelessly over the back of the chair, dark circles under his eyes betraying sleepless nights. There’s a hint of dried blood at his temple—maybe not his—and a tension in his posture that says he’s been on guard for hours, even if he pretends otherwise. Boot propped on the windowsill, he flips through your latest chart like it’s the morning paper. The cocky, infuriating calm in his eyes is the only familiar thing in the whole sterile room. You glare at him. He grins, entirely too unbothered.
“You know it’s illegal to read those, right?” you snap, irritation bubbling up before you can stop yourself.
He shrugs, not even bothering to look up from the chart. “Rules don’t apply to people with mysterious blood types. Or their security detail.”
You huff, feeling helpless and oddly exposed. “Are you actually going to explain, or just keep making cryptic comments and drinking my Jell-O?”
He finally meets your gaze, the edge of his grin softening a little. “Fine. Short version? Someone ran your bloodwork after the outbreak. Turns out you’ve got some weird immunity to the virus. Didn’t you ever wonder why you didn’t mutate after that J’avo bit you?”
You stare at him, heart thumping. “I thought I was just lucky.”
Jake’s smirk fades for the first time all day. “You’re not lucky. You’re unique. The kind of unique that gets flagged in a thousand secret databases and has half of Umbrella’s leftovers drooling for a sample. They want to keep you safe. Or… locked up. Maybe both.”
Your mind races, memories of every strange encounter since the outbreak—the time you caught a stranger in a suit watching your building from a parked car for hours, the cryptic phone call where a voice simply said, “Be careful who you trust,” before hanging up—clicking together like puzzle pieces. The hospital visits, the weird men in suits, the random break-ins—nothing was a coincidence. “So now you’re my bodyguard? Is this, like, a government witness protection thing or…?”
He tosses your chart onto the side table, leans back, and folds his arms. “More like ‘keep her breathing and unkidnapped,’” Jake says. “And yeah, I’m supposed to be discreet. Which, apparently, means moving in next door and rescuing cats from burning buildings.”
You groan and rub your face. “No wonder you keep showing up everywhere. You really are stalking me.”
He flashes that cocky half-smile you’re beginning to hate less and less. “If I were stalking you, you wouldn’t know.”
A moment of silence stretches between you. The sounds of the hospital fade into the background, replaced by the low rumble of your own nerves. Despite everything, you find yourself almost comforted by his presence—by the way he pretends not to worry, by the way he keeps your cat close, by the way he acts like this is all just another day at the office.
You roll your eyes, but the weight of everything settles between you. “What now?”
Jake leans forward, dropping the bravado for the first time. “Now we keep living. I watch your back. You try not to die. We both pretend things are normal until they aren’t. And if someone shows up looking for a miracle cure?” He rests a hand over yours, serious for once. “We run. Together.”
There’s a moment where neither of you speaks. Even your cat, perched at the foot of the bed, seems to sense the shift—tail flicking, eyes narrowed at Jake like he’s the only thing standing between you and the next disaster. Outside, the sunlight shifts across the floor tiles, dust motes swirling in the stillness. The world feels strangely small, just the three of you in that sterile room.
You squeeze his hand, just once. “You’re still buying dinner.”
He laughs, relief flickering in his eyes. “Deal. But I’m picking the place. And you’re not allowed to order salad.”
Your lips twitch, a real smile breaking through for the first time since you woke up. It’s not much, but it’s enough.
A distant siren wails and fades in the streets below as your cat circles twice and settles between you and Jake, rumbling with a contented purr. Jake squeezes your hand again, grounding you. The world outside your hospital window is a mess—a tangle of government secrets, viral conspiracies, and threats you’re only beginning to understand—but with Jake beside you, maybe—just maybe—you’re ready for whatever comes next.
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More below the cut
Sasha took a drag of his cigarette
“So Thats all? For all the passwords?” the shadowy figure sighed
“Ever since that idiot blew up my Psylirium Deposit, Ive been unable to gather enough. you should be glad for the amount you have.” he reluctantly took the small jar and went back to the Motherlobe.
His young co-worker gave him an odd look.
“Sasha are you okay?” Razputin pushed his goggles up.
“Young razputin, I am doing some new research and well... Its not going the best.” He put the small jar in his pocket. Razputin put a hand to his head.
“Ow my head.” He felt as if he couldn't hold it in anymore.
“Razputin” He brought out the small jar.”
“Is this Psylierium?” He shushed him.
“Yes but this cannot be revealed.”
He took another breath.
The poison that had haunted her with visions of her children.
