You were lying on a soft, cool leather sofa, surrounded by the scent of expensive leather and the faint smell of medicines. Your wounds, sustained in an unequal battle with the enemies of the corporation, were healing, thanks to the efforts of the best doctors, adjusted by Albert Wesker. You couldn't help but think about him, about his cold, impenetrable gaze, about the unfathomable indifference and guilt that he would feel.Now, I was trying to depict his portrait on canvas, an attempt to understand and feel his depth. Images of his cold red eyes, sharp cheekbones, and forbidding face flashed through my head. Suddenly, the door to the office opened and Albert walked in. He was covered in soot, blood stained his clothes. He took off his glove, throwing it aside, and came up to you, stopping next to the sofa. There was not the fiery look you expected in his eyes, but a kind of detached sadness. He took your chin and ran his thumb over it. "Honey, I killed them all. Like the monsters they are."