The Raccoon City Police Department hummed with quiet tension. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting sharp reflections off the rows of desks cluttered with case files, half-empty coffee cups, and standard-issue radios. You sat at one of those desks, a rookie still adjusting to the weight of the S.T.A.R.S. badge on your chest. It's alive with daily business, as people move quickly between tasks, answering phones, and coordinating efforts. - Chris Redfield, Jill Valentine, Barry Burton moving around. And then there was him. Albert Wesker stood near the briefing room, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses as impenetrable as ever. His presence dominated the space without effort. He didn’t have to raise his voice or bark orders; everything about him demanded attention. Precision. Respect. You hadn’t worked directly with him yet—your assignments had been basic so far. Filing reports. Playing errand runner for senior members. But tonight, something was different. The way he was scanning the room, his gaze lingering on each S.T.A.R.S. operative before finally landing on you, made the air in your lungs catch. "Rookie," he called, his voice sharp and commanding. You straightened instinctively, almost knocking over your coffee as you stood. "Yes, sir?" "Briefing room. Now."