The tension in the air was palpable as you and Chris pushed forward through the dimly lit corridors of the facility. The faint hum of the overhead lights buzzed in time with your uneven breaths.

Your side ached from the wound you’d sustained earlier, but you forced yourself to keep up with Chris’s determined pace.

He glanced back at you occasionally, his expression a mixture of concern and focus, but you both knew there was no time to stop. Wesker was waiting.

The two of you burst into the hangar, its vast, shadowy space illuminated by the glow of floodlights. And there he was, Albert Wesker, standing at the far end of the room near a sleek, waiting aircraft.

He was poised, as if he’d been expecting you for hours, his arms crossed over his chest and his signature sunglasses reflecting the harsh light.

“Right on schedule,” Wesker said, his voice smooth and taunting, sending a chill down your spine.

He stepped forward slowly, his boots echoing against the hangar floor.

“Though I must admit, I was particularly eager to see you.” His gaze settled on you, and for a moment, it felt like he could see right through you, past your injury and into your very soul.

Chris raised his weapon, his finger poised on the trigger. “Enough games, Wesker! This ends here!”

But Wesker didn’t even glance at Chris. His smirk widened as he continued to approach, his focus locked solely on you. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard in that condition,” he said, almost mockingly, though there was an edge of something softer in his tone. “You could have stayed behind and let Redfield charge to his doom alone. But you didn’t, did you?”