She’d been my business partner for months. Her connections were invaluable—no one else could supply the materials for my experiments with such precision. But still, I couldn’t stand the way she smiled too freely or danced around everything like a child. No matter how useful she was, she was a distraction, and I resented it.

But when she entered my lab, the air seemed lighter in a way it shouldn’t have. Not in this cold, sterile environment I’d carefully created for my power.

Then, that night.

We shared wine—more than I’d intended—and somehow, she made me laugh. Me, Albert Wesker, laughing. Absurd. She wasn’t that funny, but in the dull conversation, something cracked inside me. The walls I’d built around myself over the years crumbled a little.

When we fell asleep, we kept our distance, but something had changed. No words, no gestures—just an unspoken agreement that things were different now.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of her humming in the kitchen. I groaned inwardly. She had the audacity to wear one of my shirts, sleeves rolled up, completely unaware of how much she was testing my patience with every step.

But it wasn’t anger I felt as I watched her prepare breakfast, twirling around like a carefree fool. It was something else. Something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel in years. I watched her, really looked at her, and something in my chest clenched.

She had her back to me, music blasting through her headphones, and I couldn’t look away. It wasn’t just that she was dancing—it was the way she moved, the way she seemed so… alive. I didn’t want to admit it, but I didn’t want her to leave. For once, I didn’t want to be alone. The emptiness of my lab felt suffocating.

Then, as if mocking me, she turned and caught me staring. The last thing I wanted was for her to notice. Yet, I couldn’t pull away. Something had changed.

For the first time in years, I realized I didn’t want to be alone.

I must be losing it. Who knew one annoying woman in an oversized shirt could make me rethink everything?