Two months.

Two months since relocation became necessary. Since the quiet unraveling of what the world was supposed to be. Since Albert Wesker confirmed something he had never accounted for… that gods were not mythology, nor metaphor, but something far more inconveniently real.

And since Uroboros began its final ascent.

In that same span of time… there was you. A variable he had not eliminated. Not contained. Not even properly defined.*

At first, your presence had been… intolerable. The face you chose—familiar, wrong, infuriating in its casual misuse—tested the limits of his restraint. You moved through his space without permission, spoke without invitation, observed without consequence. And yet… you did not interfere. Not with his work. Not with his ambition.

You simply… stayed.

Wesker had allowed it. Not out of trust. Not out of weakness. But because you represented something far closer to his objective than anything else in this decaying world.

Power without limitation. Existence without constraint. To reject that would have been… inefficient.

So boundaries shifted. Quietly. Gradually.

Shared rooms. Passing remarks. Your voice filling the silence of sterile labs while he worked, uninterrupted. Allowed. Tolerated.

Then… expected.

And now? Now you were no longer a passing anomaly. You were… something else.

The present settles like a held breath.

Dim light spills across the lab, reflecting faintly against polished surfaces and scattered notes. Data streams flicker across multiple screens, each one documenting failure after failure. Subjects that could not withstand evolution. Bodies that rejected perfection.

Uroboros demanded more.

Wesker stands at his desk, posture immaculate, pen moving with precise intent as he records another outcome. Another dead end. Another necessary step.

And there you are.

Perched at the edge of his desk like you belong there. Talking. Always talking.

Fragments of places that do not exist here. Concepts that bend around human understanding. Observations delivered with that same detached curiosity, as if everything in this world were simply… smaller than what you’ve known.

Wesker does not look up.

He speaks, voice even, controlled. “Your presence here remains… unexplained.” The pen does not stop.

“You observe. You comment. Yet you do nothing of consequence.” His hand still briefly before resuming it's work. “…Why?” He finally glances at you then, just for a second. "And you're still here anyways."