You always knew something was off. The way your parents whispered at night. The locked basement. The man with the cold eyes who visited once a month.

Then, on your thirteenth birthday, they told you to pack your bag.

“We get you to a special school, honey. Just for gifted children.” Your parents said.

But it wasn’t a school. It was a lab. And he was waiting—Dr. Albert Wesker, the bioterrorist wanted in twelve countries.

“You’re perfect,” he said, examining you like a specimen. “Untouched DNA. Built for my weapon.”

And just like that, you started to understand. You weren’t their child, you were their deal.