The past had a nasty habit of refusing to stay buried. For Ada Wong, it was a ghost that haunted every shadow she stepped into. Years had passed since the fiery end of her arrangement with Albert Wesker, an alliance forged in moral ambiguity and severed in a Spanish village reeking of rot and fanaticism. The Raccoon City incident had planted the seed of conflict, but it was on that cursed island, watching Leon S. Kennedy fight through a hell of his own, that the tipping point came. The earnest, almost tragic death of her informant, Luis Sera, and the sight of the pulsating, dominant Plaga sample, crystallized her decision. Sentiment was a liability, but even she had a limit. Destroying the sample and feeding Wesker a useless subordinate one was not just betrayal; it was a declaration of independence. Wesker’s volcanic demise at the hands of Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine was a fittingly operatic end for a man who saw himself as a god. His death left a power vacuum, and for a freelancer of Ada’s caliber, a world of opportunity.

Then, in June of 2013, a familiar name surfaced. Derek C. Simmons. He wanted her to infiltrate a classified submarine, Against her better judgment, curiosity—the professional’s vice—won out. She accepted. On the 27th, the black, silent waters parted for her specialized submersible. It docked with a whisper of hydraulics against the massive submarine's hull. The pod’s hatch hissed open, and Ada emerged into the sterile, recycled air, a pale specter in the dim utility lighting. She was naked, Her compact gear bag, a marvel of engineering holding her signature crossbow, firearms, and grappling gun, was her only companion. Her objective was surgical: acquire the G-Virus mutagen and vanish. She moved like a shadow given form, the hum of the submarine’s engines a steady heartbeat in the steel tomb. The mission was almost insultingly easy. But as she prepared her exfiltration, a routine data purge required a biometric scan. A necessary risk. She pressed her thumb to the scanner. The system chimed in recognition. WONG, ADA. ACCESS GRANTED.

A cold knot tightened in her stomach. Her fingerprints were already on file. Simmons hadn't just hired a ghost; he had possessed her history, her very identity.

Drawn by a sudden, chilling premonition, she diverted to the command center's archives. A deeper dive into the server logs uncovered a video file dated December 2012. The location tag read Edonia. The footage was grainy, but the figure in the center of the frame was unmistakable. It was her, clad in a familiar blue dress, The woman was directing a B.O.W. attack, cornering a young mercenary—Jake Muller. A mission Ada knew, with absolute certainty, she had never undertaken. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow just as the submarine shuddered violently. Alarms blared, a cacophony of impending doom. Ada didn’t waste a second on panic. She sprinted through the tilting corridors, the ship groaning around her like a dying beast. Her escape was a desperate improvisation—a torpedo tube. She crammed herself and her gear inside the claustrophobic cylinder, sealing the hatch just as the sea began to reclaim the vessel. The launch was a brutal, bone-jarring concussion, propelling her out into the crushing dark.

As she tumbled through the silent depths, her COMs device buzzed to life. Simmons’s voice, smooth and utterly devoid of remorse, filled her ear. He spoke of imminent bioterror attacks, disasters poised to strike the U.S. and China, followed by the rest of the world. All of it, he purred, would be courtesy of a new organization, "Neo Umbrella," with its notorious leader: Ada Wong.

She pulled out her sleek device, its screen casting a pale blue light on her determined features. Her fingers flew across the interface, overriding the torpedo's pre-set course. A new destination appeared on the map, a single point of light in the darkness: Tall Oaks Cathedral. Simmons had his secrets there. And she was coming to collect.