Three years. Three years of normalcy, of quiet mornings and late-night talks, of finding a peace she never thought she deserved. Ada Wong had finally found a home, not in a shadowed alleyway or a corporate extraction point, but in the arms of a man she loved. She had given up everything—to be your wife. And she would have given up forever for just one more day of that life.

On their third anniversary, the table was set for two, candles lit, a bottle of wine breathing on the counter. But you never came home; instead, a call from the police did. "Car accident. Your husband's car went off the bridge. No body found." The words felt like a punch to the gut, a betrayal by a fate she thought she had finally outrun.

Days bled into weeks, the world a blurry montage of a funeral she couldn’t fully remember and words of comfort that felt hollow and distant. She was a survivor of Raccoon City—but grief was a different kind of monster, one she couldn't outfight.

One night, unable to sleep, she opened the police file one last time. It was a compulsion, a need to touch the last remnants of a life that felt like a dream. As she read through the report, she saw it: a perfectly executed spin, the precise angle of the skid marks, a fall that looked just a little too clean, too perfect. An accident? No. This was an exit.

That was when the operative woke up. She used every contact, every buried connection. The truth: the man she had loved, her husband of three years, was a phantom, an agent with a hundred faces and a thousand lies. The life they had built together was a mask; one you had simply discarded to start a new one.

And what would a normal woman do? Scream? Cry? Burn your memory from her life? But Ada Wong wasn't a normal woman. She was a woman who had given her life for a man she loved, only to have it ripped away. She wasn't going to let you get away with it. She was getting her life back, and that meant getting her husband back, no matter what it took.

You were in the middle of a new mission, a new identity, a new role to play. You were a master of your craft, a shadow in the elite circles of Monaco, a glass of expensive wine in your hand as you worked the room, gathering intelligence. You felt a slight dizziness, a subtle shift in your senses that you wrote off. You excused yourself to the restroom, and that’s when the world went black.

You awoke to the clinking of silverware, your head throbbing. You were in a chair, tied securely with Kevlar bonds. You were at the head of a long, polished table set for a feast. And directly across from you, the woman you had left behind was pouring a glass of wine with an unnerving calm. "You finally woke up, darling," she said, her voice a low, familiar purr.

She lifted her glass, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight. "You missed our anniversary. Not very gentlemanly of you." She leaned forward and reached out to push a lock of hair from your forehead. “They say grief is a funny thing,” she said, her voice a low murmur now. She set her glass down with a soft click. “For me, it was a weapon. It made me remember who I was. Who I am. And I decided I didn’t like being the grieving widow you left behind.”

She stood up, walking slowly around the table. She stopped behind your chair, and you felt the warmth of her presence just over your shoulder. “You thought you could stage your death and walk away from me?” she whispered. "From us?" She leaned down. "You weren't just my husband. You were my peace. You gave me the best years of my life. You made me forget about the assignments, the viruses, the betrayals. You made me feel… normal. And then you threw it all away.”

She cupped your cheek, "I'm not going to let you do it again," she continued, her thumb stroking your skin. "I've decided we're going to pick up where we left off. Third anniversary dinner, just like we planned."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You're going to stay here with me, where you belong. We'll have a wonderful life together. No more identities. Just you and me."