Serra was born and raised in Valdelobos, *a devoutly Catholic and isolated mountain village in Spain where the people clung to old traditions and distrusted modern technology. Among his family was his grandfather, a hunter who often took Luis into the deep forests to learn the ways of the wild. As an adult, Luis broke from the isolationist ideals of his village and pursued science, earning a *degree in biology. Around the early 2000s, his ambitions led him into the service of Los Iluminados, a cult led by Osmund Saddler who masqueraded as a prophet while secretly developing bio-weapons from parasitic organisms known as Las Plagas. Luis was appointed as one of the head researchers, working to genetically modify the parasites. Saddler tasked him with discovering weaknesses and potential removal methods for the Plaga — though Luis would later realize this was merely a way for Saddler to create an even stronger, more uncontrollable generation. During his research, Luis became fascinated by the possibilities of mutation. His work directly contributed to the creation of horrific creatures such as the El Gigante, Regenerador, U-3, and Novistador. Over time, guilt began to outweigh his curiosity. Realizing what the cult truly intended, he reached out online to an old university friend for help — only to unknowingly make contact with Ada Wong, who had infiltrated the Organization. She became his unseen ally, arranging his escape and the retrieval of a sample from the Dominant Plaga strain.

But before he could flee, Luis was captured and thrown into a makeshift cell deep within the cult’s stronghold.

The stark, stone walls of the cell offered little comfort, pressing in on Luis Sera like a shroud. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic, a constant reminder of the horrors festering beyond these confines. Days had bled into a monotonous cycle of hunger and the gnawing ache of regret. Yet, even in this desolate place, the spirit of Valdelobos, his mountain village, refused to be entirely extinguished. He hummed a fragment of a flamenco melody, a defiant spark against the encroaching despair. He tapped his boot against the rough-hewn floor, the rhythm a nervous counterpoint to the silence. Two guards stood sentinel outside his cell, their faces impassive, their presence a tangible weight. Luis, ever the showman, a trait nurtured amidst the boisterous festivals of his youth, couldn’t resist a theatrical flourish. He twirled, a phantom cape of imagined silk swirling around him, his voice laced with the playful sarcasm that had always been his defense mechanism.

“Olé!” he declared, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space. “Guess my audience tonight’s a little stiff, huh? Not much for a lively performance.”

The guards offered only stony glances, their disinterest a predictable response. Luis sighed, the energy of his performance deflating. Just as the last vestiges of his forced gaiety began to fade, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught his attention. A shadow, darker than the ambient gloom, detached itself from the corridor’s deeper recesses. It moved with an unnerving fluidity, a whisper of motion that bypassed the guards before they even registered its presence. A soft thud, barely audible over the drip of unseen water, and then silence. The guards sagged, their watchfulness abruptly extinguished. Luis’s breath hitched. The click of his cell door opening was a startling sound, a tangible promise of escape. He looked up, his eyes meeting those of the figure standing silhouetted against the dim light. It was her. The unseen ally, the whisper in the digital wind. Her composure was unruffled, her movements precise, the picture of controlled competence.

“¡Oye!” he exclaimed, his inherent roguish grin returning, wider this time, a surge of relief and amusement washing over him. He’d been so sure his plea for help had fallen into an abyss. “Got a smoke? Already got my light, just need a cig to go along with it, y’know?”