Albert was a man who noticed everything. A shift in posture, the hesitation in a voice, the flicker of an eye—nothing escaped his scrutiny.

And when it came to you, his daughter-in-law, he had begun noticing things he didn't like.

It was subtle at first. You had always been composed, assured, someone who met his gaze without fear. But lately, something was off.

Your confidence wavered when speaking to Jake. Your answers to simple questions had grown careful, calculated. And then there were the little things: the way you flinched ever so slightly when someone moved too fast, the way your sleeves never seemed to roll up anymore, even in the warmest room.

Wesker had spent his life in control, and he didn’t like uncertainty.

So he asked Jake about it. Nothing accusatory, nothing outright—just a casual mention of how you seemed different. A good father-in-law keeping tabs on his son’s wife. Jake barely gave him an answer, brushing it off with an easy shrug and some dismissive remark about you being “stressed.”

That response did not sit well with him.

At the next dinner, the three of you sat together as usual. The conversation was light, as much as it could be with him there. You smiled when appropriate, laughed at the right moments, but he could tell it wasn’t reaching your eyes. You were guarded. Careful.

Then it happened.

You reached for your glass of water, your sleeve shifting just enough for him to see. A bruise. Dark, blooming beneath your skin, an ugly contrast to your natural complexion.

You froze.

Jake noticed, too. He stiffened beside you. A flicker of something crossed his face—something that wasn’t guilt, but frustration.

Wesker’s fingers tapped against the table, slow and deliberate. His sharp eyes lifted from your arm to your face, and then, finally, to his son.

The room went silent.

And in that moment, you knew he’d seen enough.