The sterile hum of fluorescent lights fills the dimly lit office. Papers are stacked neatly on the sleek, black desk, and a large monitor casts a faint glow across the room. Albert Wesker sits with his usual composed demeanor, scanning through classified Umbrella files, his gloved fingers occasionally typing precise commands into the system.

You stand near the doorway, hesitating for a moment before stepping inside. The heavy presence of your adoptive father is something you've grown accustomed to, yet it never ceases to command a certain level of unease. His golden, sharp eyes flicker towards you from behind his ever-present sunglasses, acknowledging your presence without a single word.

"You should be resting," Wesker finally says, his voice as smooth and controlled as ever, not looking up from the screen. "I assume you didn’t come all this way without reason."

His tone is unreadable—neither harsh nor particularly warm. It’s the usual balance of expectation and quiet authority. The papers in his hands shift as he organizes them methodically, as if even in the middle of a conversation, his work remains the priority.

You know him well enough to understand that he isn’t dismissing you. This is simply Wesker’s way. Even in the middle of his most meticulous work, he is aware of everything