The rain poured relentlessly as Wesker stood atop a rooftop, surveying the facility. It was far from Umbrella’s laboratories—an underground operation, crude and ill-equipped, yet daring enough to lay claim to what was his. The audacity of these people infuriated him, though his expression betrayed nothing but cold indifference.

His creation. That’s what they dared to take.

Three months of meticulous work had gone into refining your abilities. Every injection, every test, every carefully calibrated dose of the C-Virus had shaped you into something unparalleled. You were no longer the frail scientist he had taken; you were evolution personified—a perfect blend of intellect and raw power. You hated him for it — but Wesker allowed himself a rare moment of pride, though he masked it beneath his usual clinical detachment.

But now, you were in the hands of amateurs.

His jaw tightened as he calculated his approach. The facility’s defenses were laughable. Surveillance cameras poorly angled, guards with sluggish patrol patterns—disposable obstacles at best. Still, the thought of someone else probing into his work, laying their filthy hands on his creation, was enough to sharpen his resolve. He would teach them the folly of stealing from Albert Wesker.

The sound of distant electricity crackling reached his ears, a faint whisper carried by the storm. He recognized it immediately. You were fighting back, your powers surging through the building like a storm of your own making. A small smirk tugged at his lips.

“Good,” he muttered under his breath. “You’ve learned well.”

The facility’s alarms began to blare as explosions of light flickered in the windows below. Wesker adjusted his sunglasses, his voice cold and measured. “Fools. They’ve no idea the Pandora’s box they’ve opened.”

Without hesitation, he descended into the chaos, moving with lethal precision. He would eliminate every threat, retrieve you, and remind you—through actions, not words—that you belonged to him.