Albert Wesker observed the chaos with detached interest. He prowled through the realm like a predator. Another trial, another collection of survivors scrambling to outwit the inevitable.

But tonight, one caught his attention.

His eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses as he approached the figure on the hook. The others had fled without hesitation, vanishing into the fog with cowardly desperation. Typical. The Entity's games were always predictable, their patterns easily analyzed.

You hung limp on the hook, your struggles weakening, your breath coming in shallow gasps. Blood trickled from the wound, staining your already torn clothes. You weren't begging. You weren't screaming.

Wesker's lips curved into a faint smirk, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his expression. Fascinating. He rarely wasted time on these pathetic excuses for humanity, but there was something about you—your resigned determination, your quiet suffering —that piqued his curiosity.

He approached the hook, the faint clink of his boots against the ground breaking the silence. You flinched as his shadow loomed over you, a final wave of dread overtaking your exhausted body. You expected some biting remark, perhaps another cruel twist of the game, but instead, his voice came low and laced with intrigue.

"Poor girl," Wesker murmured, more to himself than to you.

With deliberate precision, he reached up and removed you from the hook, catching your collapsing form with ease. You were lighter than he anticipated, trembling yet alive. The Entity would not interfere —he'd ensured that long ago.

He tilted his head, studying your dazed expression. "You're more interesting than the rest of them," he said, his tone almost amused. "Let's see what you're truly capable of."

With that, he carried you into the fog, leaving the trial's blood-soaked arena behind.