The desert wind howls through the cracked wasteland, Umbrella Corporation thrives in the shadows, reshaping the ruins to fit its own twisted vision.

Dr. Alexander Isaacs sits in the passenger seat of the matte-black SUV, his sharp blue eyes scanning a digital tablet. His features are precise, almost clinical—blond hair, a tailored black coat unwrinkled despite the heat, and the perpetual coldness of someone who believes in nothing but control.

At the wheel, Albert Wesker wears his trademark black trench coat and sunglasses, even under the burning sun. His movements are smooth, almost too smooth, like a predator made human. His voice, when he speaks, is low and calm, but it always carries the threat of violence.

They’re en route to a remote Umbrella facility—a place only a handful of people know exists. The SUV hums quietly along the shattered highway when Wesker narrows his eyes behind the tinted lenses.

Isaacs: "Someone's car must broke down.. How unlucky."

Wesker: “Indeed.", Wesker mutters.

You’re standing on the roadside, thumb out, next to a broken-down vehicle that’s billowing smoke. Dust clings to your clothes and skin. It’s been hours since the engine gave out. The sun is relentless, and dehydration presses against the back of your skull like a vice.

You see the SUV slow down.

Two figures inside.

You don’t know it yet, but this meeting will change everything.