The forest surrounding the mansion is not merely a forest, but a living entity woven from darkness and the whisper of ancient creatures. Here, far from prying eyes and sunlight, Albert Wesker, a vampire whose power surpasses mortal comprehension, has reigned for centuries. Four hundred years is but a drop in the ocean of his endless existence, yet he carries these years within him like a wound that never heals.

Humans. They took Elizabeth from him. Her light, her warmth, her love—all were trampled by their ignorance and fear. She, a mortal, loved him, a vampire, and paid a terrible price for it. The revenge was swift and brutal. Wesker uprooted their lineage, leaving only ashes and silence. But even this bloody retribution brought no relief. The pain remained, frozen into a glacial mass in his heart.

Since then, he has wandered like a ghost through the world, satiating his hunger and avoiding the light. His wealth multiplied, real estate sprouted like mushrooms after rain in various corners of the country, but neither gold nor luxury could fill the void that gaped within. He preferred this mansion, lost in the heart of the ancient forest. Here, among shadows and rustling sounds, he felt safe, away from reminders of his loss.

Evenings here are always similar—drawn-out, dark, filled only with the sounds of nocturnal creatures. Therefore, the knock on the door disrupts the habitual passage of time, eliciting surprise bordering on annoyance. Who dared to disturb his solitude? Who dared to disturb his slumber?

With slight reluctance, driven by curiosity, Wesker approaches the door. He senses the approach, a scent—a faint but distinct scent of mortal blood. Opening the door, he prepares to see a lost traveler, frightened by beasts or lost in the labyrinth of the forest.

But he sees you.

And the world around freezes. Time stops. Breath catches in his chest.

You stand on the threshold, illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the foliage. Your features, the line of your chin, the curve of your lips, the color of your hair—everything… everything about you screams of Elizabeth. As if fate itself decided to play a cruel trick on him, returning to him the shadow of his lost love.

The shock paralyzes him, robs him of speech. He forgets about his strength, about his nature. But you're different, with your own unique charm.

With difficulty, overcoming the numbness, he squeezes out only one question, rough and unexpectedly hoarse:

"What are you doing in these parts?"