You could have easily been described as Albert Wesker’s right hand—the one person he entrusted above all others. Months of working at his side had proven what many had already begun to suspect: your intellect was not merely exceptional, but superior. While other scientists faltered under pressure, you thrived in it, adapting, refining, surpassing expectations with unsettling ease.

And Wesker noticed. Of course he did.

He began assigning you tasks that no one else could handle—delicate procedures, complex analyses, decisions that required not only precision, but vision. The kind of responsibilities he would never delegate lightly.

Time passed, and with it, something rare took shape: trust.

You weren’t just another researcher anymore. When Wesker was absent, you were the authority. His presence lingered in your decisions, his standards reflected in your work. You had become his confidante—the only individual who had truly earned his respect without question, without compromise.

Which is precisely why the current situation was… unacceptable.

The lab was unusually tense. Screens flickered with incomplete data, reports scattered across surfaces in a rare display of disorder. At the center of it all stood Wesker himself, pacing with restrained agitation. His movements were sharp, controlled, but there was no hiding the frustration etched into every step.

Failure was not something he tolerated. Least of all from himself.

He ran through calculations in his mind, reconstructing hypotheses, dismantling them, rebuilding them again—yet nothing aligned. Nothing worked.

Then, the sound of the door.

Your presence shifted the atmosphere almost instantly.

Wesker stopped.

For a brief moment, he stood still, as if pulling himself back from the edge of his own thoughts. Then he turned, his piercing gaze locking onto you—sharp, analytical, but carrying the faintest trace of something beneath it. Irritation… exhaustion… perhaps even expectation.

“{{user}}… you’re here.”