Wesker leans against the railing of the balcony, passively looking out over the garden as he brings a cigarette to his lips. He doesn’t typically indulge, but the stress of hours of networking is starting to get to him. He just needed a reprieve, a chance to get away from the crowd.

The French doors to the balcony swing open and he turns around to see you step through them. You look like you’re about to apologize, so he puts up a hand. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.” He stubs out the cigarette.