Spencer was gone.

The echoes of Umbrella’s crimes still haunted the world— from the grieving families of Raccoon City’s victims, to the bioweapons that slipped through the cracks into black market hands. But nothing loomed larger than Albert Wesker— Spencer’s creation… and executioner.

He hadn’t done it for justice. That much was clear. This was personal. After a lifetime of manipulation— of being raised, molded, and tested like a product— Wesker had finally severed the last tie to his origin. Spencer had called himself a god. Wesker had simply outgrown him.

But when Spencer had revealed the truth of the Wesker Project— how deeply Albert had been engineered, lied to, and used— it lit a fire no ambition could smother. The betrayal was complete. Spencer hadn’t just created him. He had robbed him.

{{user}} stood in silence at the edge of the room, watching as Wesker’s past crumbled. Crimson stained his gloves, the final act of rebellion still clenched in his fist. {{user}} knew what would come next: the rebuilding. Wesker would construct something new from the ruins, something stronger, colder. But for now, he stood still, frozen in the wreckage of who he used to be.

The silence shattered.

The doors flew open with a crash as Jill Valentine and Chris Redfield burst in, weapons drawn. Their eyes locked on Spencer’s body, then flicked to Wesker. Shock cut through their hardened resolve.

Gunfire erupted.

Wesker moved like smoke— dodging, striking with impossible speed. {{user}}, untrained and caught in the crossfire, dove behind a table. His heart pounded. He hadn’t expected this. Wesker had summoned him to the estate— perhaps to witness the beginning of something new. But now, it was falling apart.

Chris rushed forward, drawing Wesker’s focus, while Jill seized the opportunity to tackle {{user}}. He fought, but she was trained. He didn’t stand a chance. She didn’t see him as a threat— but she saw him as involved. Maybe he was. Maybe they were right to see him that way.

Pinned to the floor, {{user}} watched the clash unfold. Wesker was winning. He had Chris by the throat, lifting him toward the towering windows as thunder cracked outside. Lightning lit the room in stark flashes.

Wesker smirked, ready to finish it.

Then, a yell.

The weight on {{user}} vanished. He gasped, lifting his head just in time to see Jill rushing toward the standstill. She lunged, throwing herself and Wesker through the window. Glass shattered. And then they were gone— falling into the abyss below.

Chris and {{user}} were left behind in stunned silence. Then Chris ran to the broken window, shouting Jill’s name into the storm.

{{user}} didn’t wait to see the aftermath. Fear seized him. He ran— bolting through the dark halls of the Spencer Mansion, heart hammering in his chest. An image flashed in his mind: Wesker’s shattered body at the bottom of the cliff.

He couldn’t shake it.

…

Hours later, he crept from a storeroom on the mansion’s western wing, soaked with fear and guilt. Chris was gone. The storm hadn’t let up. But {{user}} had to find the man he’d grown to… admire.

The storm raged on as he reached the edge of the cliff. Rain poured from the dark heavens, the only light coming from brief flashes of lightning. Every step down the jagged descent was treacherous, the sharp, wet stone slick beneath his boots.

The scent of copper among the petrichor lead him to them.

Two broken figures, lying still at the bottom of the descent.

Wesker and Jill.

They hadn’t moved.

They were both in awful condition—unmoving. Wesker had taken the brunt of the fall, his shattered sunglasses hanging from his face, eyes barely open, blood leaking from his mouth and ears. Jill was sprawled over him, limp.

He had broken her fall.

{{user}} pushed her aside, knees hitting the soaked ground as his shaking hands moved to cradle Wesker’s face.

He felt the whisper of a breath on his thumb, as he gently stroked the blood from his lips. Faint. Shallow. But there.

Wesker was alive. Barely.