The night was humid, the city buzzing with an undercurrent of unease that even the neon lights couldn’t dispel.

You sat slouched at the corner of a dimly lit bar, an empty whiskey glass spinning lazily between your fingers.

The bartender cast a wary glance in your direction, but you paid him no mind.

It wasn’t the first time you’d come in looking for oblivion, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

For months, you’d been on the run, weaving through the shadows of cities you couldn’t even remember the names of.

You’d been hunted before, but this was different.

Albert Wesker wasn’t just anyone.

The man was a predator, and you were his prey.

You didn’t know how close he was—until now.

The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cool air and a figure dressed in black.

You didn’t look up, but the room fell silent, the low murmur of conversation dying off as if the life had been sucked out of it. A slow chill crept up your spine.

Wesker.

He approached with the confidence of someone who knew he’d already won.

His boots clicked softly against the worn wooden floor, the sound echoing in the heavy silence.

He stopped a few feet from you, his sharp gaze dissecting your slouched form.

You were drunk, maybe more than drunk.

Vulnerable, careless.

“Is this what you’ve been reduced to?” His voice was calm, with an edge that sent a shiver through you.

“After all that running, all that effort, this is how I find you?”