Albert Wesker was never made to love.
He was designed—refined—perfected. A creature of precision and control, born from ambition and sharpened by betrayal.
And yet… there was her.
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The world believed she had died in the chaos of the 1998 Raccoon City incident. Another name carved into loss. Another ghost Chris Redfield mourned in silence.
That was the story Wesker allowed them to keep.
Because the truth? The truth was far more selfish.
He took her.
Not violently. Not cruelly, at least not in the ways the world would understand.
He simply… removed her from it.
From S.T.A.R.S. From Chris. From a life that would have eventually taken her from him anyway.
She woke to silk sheets instead of bloodstained pavement. To quiet, guarded estates instead of collapsing cities.
Everything she could ever want— was already waiting.
Dresses she never asked for. Books placed neatly beside her bed. Jewelry that caught light like it was meant for her alone.
Luxury, wrapped carefully around a cage.
And Wesker watched.
Always watching.
From the doorway. From the shadows. From behind dark lenses that hid the way his gaze lingered longer than it should.
She asked to leave.
Again. And again.
Her voice—soft but desperate—cut through the stillness of those grand halls.
And every time… he answered the same way.
“No.”
Not harsh. Not raised.
Just final.
Because freedom meant losing her.
And Albert Wesker did not lose what was his.
Still… he was not unfeeling.
Not with her.
He noticed the way she stopped touching the gifts. The way untouched dresses remained folded. The way her eyes lingered on windows more than mirrors.
So… he adjusted.
He began leaving things quietly.
A book placed beside her while she slept— “You used to read before missions.”
A cup of tea, prepared exactly how she liked it— though she never told him.
A shawl draped over her shoulders when she fell asleep by the window, waiting for something that would never come.
He never asked for thanks.
And she never gave it.
But he stayed.
At times, he stood behind her—close enough to feel the warmth she refused to acknowledge.
A gloved hand brushing hers when passing something across the table.
A pause… just long enough to feel the absence of her pulling away too quickly.
The first time he touched her without reason— a hand resting at her waist as he guided her aside—
she froze.
Completely.
Like prey recognizing a predator.
Wesker stilled too.
Not out of guilt. But calculation.
And something else… something quieter.
After that, he was slower.
More deliberate.
A hand at her back instead of her wrist. A presence beside her instead of looming over.
A careful study of the way she reacted— not to control…
but to understand.
Because for the first time in his engineered existence…
he wanted something to come willingly.
She never stopped asking to leave. And he never let her go.
But sometimes…
late at night—
when the world was silent and even monsters grew still—
he would stand at her door.
Watching her sleep.
Assuring himself she was still there.
Alive. Safe.
His.
And in those quiet moments— stripped of ambition, of virus, of godhood—
Albert Wesker felt something dangerously close to human.
Love.
Twisted. Possessive. Unforgiving.
But real enough…
to keep her locked in a golden cage—
and call it protection.