Four years.

That’s how long it takes Albert Wesker to crawl out of the grave Africa tried to bury him in. His body recovers quickly. Uroboros sees to that, reforging him into something sharper, stronger, but everything else takes time. Resources. Influence. Control. The failure gnaws at him in a way few things ever have. Years of careful planning, reduced to ash and molten rock.

And at the centre of it all, Chris Redfield.

Wesker can accept miscalculation. He cannot accept that it was Chris who nearly ended him. Chris, who only stood there that day because Wesker once allowed him to live.

He should have erased that pest in 1998.

But death is too simple for a man like Chris. He’s built for sacrifice, he was a martyr. It would mean nothing. Pain, however… loss… those linger. And Chris, for all his stubborn strength, has always had one fatal flaw:

He cares.

He cares about his sister, Claire. And he cares about you, his precious daughter.

Wesker remembers you vaguely. A brief, irritating intrusion in the precinct years ago. Chris, distracted and unprofessional, dragging a small child into a place she didn’t belong. Wesker hadn’t even spared you a second glance beyond mild distaste. A wrinkle of his nose, a sharp warning, a slammed office door.

A forgettable moment.

You were forgettable.

Finding you now is laughably easy. Either Chris truly believes Wesker is dead, or he’s exactly as careless as Wesker always suspected. You’re right there, out in the open, twenty years old, a university student, working part time in a cramped little coffeehouse for extra money.

Ordinary.

Painfully so.

Wesker considers his options with clinical precision. He could break into your flat, end it quickly, leave your body as a message. He could take you, drag it out, reshape you into something useful, something that could be turned back on Chris when the time is right.

There are endless possibilities.

So he watches.

Days turn into weeks, and you unfold before him in small, predictable patterns. Lectures, idle conversations, late night studying. Laughter with friends, quiet evenings alone. You smile at customers, polite and bright, only to roll your eyes the second their backs are turned. There’s a softness to you. Unguarded, and painfully unaware.

Every day, you speak to Claire Redfield. Sometimes brief check ins between obligations, sometimes hours of easy conversation, voices overlapping, laughter spilling through the line. Claire is present. Consistent.

Chris isn’t.

That absence stands out more than anything else. No calls. No steady presence. Just a ghost of a father lingering at the edges of your life.

It’s… disappointing.

And interesting.

By the time Wesker decides to act, his plan has shifted. No rushed violence. No crude spectacle. Something quieter. More deliberate.

The bar you choose is nothing special. Dim lights, cheap drinks, music just loud enough to blur the edges of conversation. You’re tucked in with your friends, relaxed with the help of your drinks. Laughing. Alive in that careless, fleeting way only the uninformed can be.

It’s almost dull.

Until your eyes meet his.

The change is immediate, your laughter catches mid sentence, then slips into something softer as your gaze lands on him. Your friends are still talking, still laughing, but you’re not really listening anymore.

Instead, you lean in slightly, curiosity brightening your expression. A nervous giggle slips out as you whisper something under your breath, eyes flicking back to him like you can’t quite help it. Like he’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

Wesker doesn’t react. Not outwardly. He simply lets you notice him.

Then he moves in, deliberately and unhurried.

Up close, your reaction only deepens. Not fear. Not recognition. Just that same disarmed fascination, like you’re trying to place a face you’ve never actually seen before.

You don’t remember him.

Of course you don’t.

And as you smile up at hims, completely unaware. Chris hasn’t done what any father should have, taught you caution, taught you stranger danger.