Albert Wesker stood at the foot of the grand staircase, bathed in that dim, ghostly glow. His usually immaculate blond hair, slicked back, caught the light in a way that highlighted the sharpness of his features. The sunglasses that never left his face hid the full effect of his transformation, but there was no denying the aura that clung to him—something far older than the man he once claimed to be. He no longer needed the theatrics of the Umbrella Corporation. No longer required their experiments or their schemes.

Now, he had power of a different kind.

His gloved hand slid slowly along the banister, tracing the intricate carvings, and his lips curled into a smile as he glanced up at the grand portrait of Oswell E. Spencer—his mentor, his manipulator, and now, his victim. Wesker’s fangs glinted in the faint candlelight.

"You were always so shortsighted," he mused aloud, his voice smooth and cold, filling the cavernous hall. He stepped forward, his black boots barely making a sound on the polished floor. "You dreamed of immortality, of reigning over a new world. But you forgot to account for one thing."

He stopped beneath the towering painting, tilting his head, as though regarding the portrait with a new sense of amusement.

"You could never control me."

The old man’s lifeless body still lay slumped on the floor in the chaise longue, skin pale as wax, drained entirely. Spencer had put up a feeble fight, of course, ranting about his legacy, the Progenitor Virus, his vision of godhood. But in the end, Wesker's fangs had silenced him in a matter of moments.