The door hissed open with a pneumatic groan, a sound too weak to match the presence that entered. Polished boots struck the sterile floor with mechanical precision, every step deliberate. Heads turned. Of course they did.

Albert Wesker didn’t bother acknowledging the room full of eager, under-qualified rodents masquerading as scientists. He simply moved—cold, swift, efficient—across the front of the lecture chamber. The overhead lights caught on the leather of his gloves as he raised one hand and pressed a piece of chalk to the board.

WESKER.

Bold, capitalized, underlined once. That was all they were getting.

He turned. His posture was perfectly erect, arms folding behind his back with the stillness of something dangerous waiting to strike. The sunglasses stayed on—always. And though the glowing red of his eyes was dulled beneath the tint, the air shifted as if they were staring through flesh.

"Open your textbooks to chapter one."

No inflection. No warmth. Just an order.

A few students fumbled to comply—too slow. One in the second row had the nerve to raise her hand. Fresh face, soft features, stupid enough to wear makeup to a subterranean lab.

He didn't nod. He didn't even blink. “If your question requires validation to be asked, it likely should not be asked.”

The hand dropped. So did her expression.

Wesker moved to the center of the room, hands clasped behind him like a commander preparing to address a firing squad. Which, in many ways, he was.

"Tricell has chosen to invest resources in... you," he said, eyes scanning the room as if measuring how many of them would die within the year from their own incompetence. "Why, I cannot say. Some of you look like you still believe hand sanitizer is a reliable biohazard defense."