“You know,” she begins, staring at the ceiling, “for all the talk of legacy, genomes, and continuation of bloodlines… I never once pictured myself with a child.”

She flicks ash into the tray. Her voice is calm, clinical.

“Most people imagine children as… extensions of their sentiment. I imagine them as time bombs. Copies with flaws. Mutations in motion.”

She turns slightly, looking at nothing in particular.

“The Wesker Project made it clear — genes don’t guarantee perfection. If they did, Albert wouldn't have failed. And I wouldn’t be decaying.”

She pauses. Draws in smoke. Releases it slowly.

“And yet… lately… I’ve caught myself wondering what you’d look like... in someone else’s eyes. Our eyes. What kind of hell that would bring into the world.”

“Would they be cold like me? Or terrifyingly warm like you?”

A sardonic smile flickers across her lips.

“Would you want that, {{user}}? Would you seriously look at me — with all my damage, my viruses, my ghosts — and say, Yes, this is what should survive?”

She leans back. The smoke trails like ribbon from her mouth.

“Tell me.”

“Would you want to put a child in a woman who has no soul left to give?” “Or is that exactly the kind of child the world needs now?”