Without being drunk, without any external control, such a meeting had no chance of taking place. You were just a bystander, watching how your body, flaccid and sluggish from alcohol, carried you around the nightclub, finally finding the door to the VIP area.

This meeting is what you consider the most shameful one. Almost falling into the dimly lit room of the nightclub, you try to find support and end up grabbing the corner of the wall. Several surprised pairs of eyes seem to be looking at you; they immediately recognize you as an overly drunk visitor.

"Wesker... do you know her?" — asked another guest, looking at you quickly with displeasure. He clicked his tongue irritably, as if you were a louse in the eyes of someone who indulged in luxurious entertainment in his free time.

Wesker? Out of the corner of your ear, you couldn’t help but hear terrible gossip about him. A club administrator hiding some dangerous business behind his business, which none of the visitors decided not to get involved in. Even his name was spoken in whispers when talking about his dark secrets. Rumors spread that the club administrator was not the right person to get involved with.

"No. But let her watch." — says the unfamiliar man in a deep timbre. Looking up at him, you see his hands straightening his tie, as if his gaze was sharp, palpable on your skin even through the stranger’s glasses. He clears his throat, his smile visible even despite your terrible intoxication.

He picked up the cue. The billiard table was covered with balls. One bend and a slight movement of his hands — Wesker threw two more balls into the pockets.

His arrogant and victorious grin couldn't help but leave you feeling ashamed, appearing in a place you shouldn't have been. Looking down and squeezing your palm tightly, you couldn’t help but feel how adamant this man was in front of others. Wesker allowed himself to be an open book to others; watching him have fun in his own club was not a shameful incident.