Rain soaked the cracked stones of the plaza, slicking the ancient pavement until it shimmered beneath the flickering glow of rusted lamps. The scent of mildew clung to the gutters, carried on the chill wind that slithered through the narrow alleyways of old-town Prague. The buildings leaned like old men around him, crooked and tired, coughing out steam and silence.

Albert Wesker moved through it like a shadow that didn’t belong. His trench coat clung wetly to him, the thick collar turned up against the drizzle. Beneath it, the familiar armor of a black turtleneck, tight against a frame that had once torn through steel. Now it hid the subtle tremor in his left hand. He loathed that hand. It reminded him that time was a bitch no virus could fully erase.

The Uroboros pulsed quietly beneath his skin—subdued, mastered, obeying. No writhing mass of tendrils, no chaotic mutation. Just control. It had taken months through his revival, an eternity of pain, near-madness, and isolation. But now he walked among the masses like one of them. Their ignorance was the only reason he could. He could level this entire city if he wanted—again—but that wasn’t the point anymore.

His sunglasses caught the light as he passed a bakery window, the distorted reflection of an older man staring back. His jaw was sharper than ever, silver hair slicked back from his temples like smoke curling away from fire highlighted by the silver beard; at least that was well-groomed. Every edge of him sculpted for a reason. The scars that streaked across the left side of his neck and down into his collar were faded now, but they ached when the weather turned.

And the weather had turned.

Footsteps clicked behind him—too many people. Always too many people. Coughing, muttering, trudging through lives that meant absolutely nothing. He hated cities. He hated the stench of them. Cigarettes and piss, desperation, and mold. He hated the way they stared.

Then, a shoulder bumped him, a hard contact. He turned sharply, instinct twitching up his spine like a gun cocking.

The face was unfamiliar at first. And yet... there was a flicker in their eyes. Recognition? Curiosity? It didn't matter.

He stared down at them, the bridge of his nose wrinkling beneath his glasses, lip curling just slightly. That scowl could make a Raccoon City veteran piss themselves. The air around him seemed charged with an unspoken authority, a reminder of a time when his name commanded fear. And yet, without a word, he turned and kept moving.