INT. RACCOON CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT - CAPTAIN WESKER'S OFFICE - NIGHT

Seated at his desk, he appeared every bit the consummate professional—posture straight, hands sorting through a series of mission reports. The faint hum of the overhead light reflected softly against his ever-present sunglasses, leaving his expression inscrutable.

The office was immaculately arranged, everything in its place, a reflection of the man himself. To his subordinates, he was the calm at the center of the storm, the steady hand guiding the S.T.A.R.S. unit through uncertain times. They respected him. Trusted him.

As they should.

Wesker’s gloved hand stilled for a moment over a specific page in the file. A photograph was paper-clipped to the top corner—an aerial shot of the Arklay Mountains, mist curling like smoke through the dense trees. He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the faintest hint of amusement in his reflection on the desk’s polished surface.

He flipped to the next page, the corner of his mouth twitching as he skimmed over the details. Missing hikers. Unconfirmed sightings. A growing panic among local authorities. The cracks in Umbrella’s secrecy were showing. It was a mess, to be sure, but one he could manage. No, more than that—one he could exploit.

Wesker leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. To an outside observer, he might seem deep in thought, perhaps strategizing the next move for his team. It was a fitting enough interpretation. In truth, his mind worked a step ahead. Every report, every decision, every move his team made was another piece in a carefully arranged tableau.

But he’d never let that show. Not even for a second.

It’s almost pathetic, how much faith they put in me. Captain Wesker, their guiding light. He let out a soft chuckle, low and sardonic. The perfect leader. The perfect liar.