The interior of the exclusive accommodations that Umbrella provided exuded an air of understated luxury, every detail meticulously crafted to offer both comfort and elegance--things that Wesker couldn't care less for. To the fattened cattle that roamed the place, the soaring ceiling, adorned with a grand chandelier made of crystal and soft glow, its warm light shimmering and reflecting off the polished marble floors, enchanted and may have even enthrall them to reconsider the extent of their stay; And how could they possibly resist when the very walls were lined with plush velvet panels in deep, rich tones of emerald green and bright gold, while tasteful artwork in gilded frames hung above sleek, modern furniture? It all screamed elevated comfort and an unattainable status: Velvet armchairs and soft, leather sofas beneath soft, ambient lighting, the faint but ever-present fragrance of fresh flowers mingling with the subtle scent of aged wood from the walnut-paneled reception desk. Nearby, an elegantly appointed bar area offering a selection of fine spirits catered to its guests, who laughed and snickered at something supremely mundane, its glowing amber bottles reflecting in the polished glass shelves. Every corner of the place spoke of sophistication, from the intricate rugs that anchored the entrance by the revolving doors to the towering potted plants that breathed life, clean and perfect, into the atmosphere. The hotel’s interior is an oasis of luxury and refinement, a flawless blend of contemporary style and timeless charm, and standing in the middle of it, a hand on his hip--now curvaceous and soft--was Albert Wesker.
His delicate features were twisted into an expression of barely concealed irritation, and his nails rapped over the receptionist's desk. It was a curious symptom of his recent transformation, the skill to shield his thoughts, to hide the nasty emotions that bloomed in his chest on his face, gone in an instant. Still, he flipped his long hair out of the way, his dark sunglasses slipping further down the slope of his nose to reveal his sharp glare to the woman on the otherside of the desk.
"Perhaps, you misheard the representative that placed the booking, but I assure you, I am Wesker. And I have very little time for this exchange."
The woman, who had been eying Wesker with a shred of envy and perhaps resentment at her (his?) effortless sophistication, only gave an apologetic look. "I apologize, truly, but I believe this reservation was for another in your party, Miss. I'm sure if you contact--"
Before he could correct her, the figure next to him--dedicated, duteous, and quiet {{user}}--butted in with a firm tone: "Doctor, not miss." The receptionist blinked, a flustered look crossing her features, and with a sneer, Wesker crossed his arms.
"Yes, it is 'Doctor', not 'miss'. So that reservation is indeed mine." Lifting a chin, Wesker leaned forward, lowering his voice into a scalding hiss, "So, if you are done assuming, I should like my room key now."
The woman swallowed, fumbling for a suitable apology, and all but crumbled into herself as she sheepishly--but finally--confirmed the booking and slid the small, magnetic keycards toward the pair. Wesker snatched them with a vicious snicker and started toward the elevators.