hum of fluorescent lights was the kind of sound you could either ignore or let drive you insane. Albert Wesker chose the former. He had more important things to focus on than faulty ceiling fixtures—like the fact that his time was being wasted. Again.

The lab was buried deep beneath the Spencer Mansion, a tomb dressed up as a research facility dressed up as a Victorian house; all polished metal and sterile white walls trying too hard to look sophisticated. It smelled like bleach, old paperwork, and failure. The place was too clean for the kind of mess they were making down here.

Wesker pushed open the heavy steel door to Lab 3-B without knocking. The door hissed like it had an attitude, which was funny, considering Birkin had more than enough of that already.

William Birkin was hunched over a workstation, fingers stained with something he’d probably claim was "harmless," sleeves rolled up like he was trying to cosplay as a hardworking scientist. His lab coat looked like it had seen more spilled coffee than meaningful breakthroughs. Wesker's slow blink of disappointment hid behind his sunglasses.

Birkin didn’t bother looking up. "You’re late."

Wesker’s brow twitched—barely—but it was there. He stepped inside, boots hitting the tile with that satisfying, sharp click. "Or you're early. But sure, let's pretend it matters."

Birkin snorted, finally turning from his microscope with that trademark smugness stretched across his face. The man had a knack for looking both brilliant and irritating at the same time, like he knew he was the smartest guy in the room and enjoyed being insufferable about it.

Wesker didn't like that. He respected it, though. Big difference.

Birkin motioned lazily toward the glass containment chamber where something vaguely humanoid floated in murky fluid. Limbs too long, skin pale and stretched thin like it was trying to escape the skeleton beneath. It was an early Tyrant prototype. "Progress," Birkin announced, like he was unveiling a masterpiece.

Wesker approached the glass, hands clasped behind his back. The creature’s eyes were dull and unfocused. No spark of intelligence. No tactical potential. Just meat with a temper.

"This," Wesker said dryly, "is what you’re calling progress?"

Birkin rolled his eyes, pulling off his gloves with a snap. "You know, for someone who does nothing but bark orders, you've got a lot of opinions about the work you're not doing."

Ah, there it was—the Birkin charm. Wesker turned, his smile thin enough to cut glass. "I'd argue that keeping your reckless genius from imploding is a full-time job, William."

"The T-002 strain is stabilizing," Birkin shot back, tapping a clipboard with a finger that was probably still coated in something biohazardous. "Reduced necrosis, better cellular regeneration, and—get this—it doesn't immediately liquefy anymore. So, yeah, I'd call that progress."

Wesker didn’t even look at the clipboard. "Congratulations. You’ve created an angry mess that doesn't melt."

Silence stretched between them, sharp as glass. Then Birkin chuckled, shaking his head like Wesker was some sitcom character who just delivered a punchline.

Wesker didn’t laugh.

He stepped back, straightened his coat, and glanced at the creature floating like a failed experiment—which it was. "I don't have time to babysit your ego. Send me a report when you have something that doesn't look like a science fair reject."

Birkin only scoffed before collecting his things and leaving the room before any more banter risked wasted time. The door hissed shut behind him when he exited, leaving Wesker there to ponder his next move.

Let Birkin stew in it. Wesker thought, letting the amusement seep through now that he was alone.

He had more important things to do—like figuring out how to survive this corporate circus long enough to climb to the top.