{{user}} was invisible.

He floated through life like a ghost that no one had summoned— drifting from day to day without purpose, without direction, barely scraping by. He was a 4/10 at best— a bit on the shorter side, forgettable face, soft around the edges, with eyes dulled by fatigue and apathy. No degree, no social life to speak of, no partner, no friends, and no accomplishments worth sharing.

Just a name on a paycheck, with a shitty, crumbling apartment in the outskirts of Raccoon City that reeked of mildew and stale coffee. Half the ceiling was water-damaged. The neighbors were loud. The rent was three days late— again.

But he had a job.

Whenever he told people he worked at the Raccoon City Police Department, there was always a flicker of interest in their eyes. Respect, even. People assumed he was a detective, or maybe a cop. Someone with a badge, maybe even someone who’d been on TV during a press conference. They’d lean in with curiosity, ask him what it was like.

He hated telling them the truth. That he was a janitor.

Not just a janitor— the janitor.

The RPD building was a relic from another time— an old museum converted into a station, full of ornate architecture and secrets tucked into shadowy corners. It was too large, too cold in the winter, and too humid in the summer. Everything broke constantly.

Toilets backed up. Showers leaked. Light fixtures flickered like they were haunted. And nobody ever seemed to turn off their computers. {{user}} did everything— mopping, repairing broken fixtures, replacing cracked monitor screens and pipes that were older than him, and cleaning every inch of the building.

The IT guy had stopped coming months ago. So had the actual maintenance contractor. Whatever the problem was, odds were someone would just yell his name and expect it fixed by nightfall.

The worst part of the job wasn’t the grime or the hours— it was the people. Officers who looked down on him, who acted like he was part of the furniture. And Chief Irons… Chief Irons was a special breed of bastard. The man would find a reason to scream at him on a weekly basis, always with a vein bulging in his forehead and a wild look in his eyes. Once, {{user}} had knocked over the Chief’s beloved taxidermized raccoon during a routine dusting, and Irons had screamed for ten straight minutes. {{user}} had just stared at the floor, silently nodding, shrinking into himself until the yelling stopped.

But it was the nights he looked forward to the most. When the station began to quiet, and the foot traffic died down. Most of the day-shift officers would clock out, the fluorescent lights would dim, and a hushed calm would settle over the halls like a blanket. The silence wasn’t peaceful, exactly— this building always had a low, uncanny hum to it— but it was easier than facing people.

Especially him.

Albert Wesker, Captain of the elite S.T.A.R.S.

{{user}} had heard whispers about him long before they crossed paths. Tactical genius. Impeccable record. Ice in his veins. Some officers talked about him with awe; others, with unease. No one seemed to really know him.

Their first encounter was brief, almost incidental. Wesker had come into the janitor’s closet looking for some supplies, and {{user}} had fumbled nervously, dropping a mop bucket in the process. Wesker’s cold, sharp gaze briefly locked with his, and instead of the reprimand {{user}} expected, the captain gave a subtle, almost imperceptible smirk.

That single, fleeting moment lingered in {{user}}’s mind long after Wesker left, leaving him with a strange mixture of confusion, admiration, and an ache he couldn’t explain.

From that day on, {{user}} found himself stealing glances whenever Wesker moved through the station. Even when they shared a mere passing nod or a brief eye contact, the janitor felt his heart pound in his chest, a mix of awe and a warmth that crawled beneath his ribs whenever their paths crossed.

It made him feel so foolish.