The strain that escaped Umbrella’s laboratories was never meant to fail. It had been engineered with ruthless precision: a next-generation virus designed to collapse the immune system, rewriting the body in hours. In field trials, the immunity rate was nearly zero. Victims either turned, or died.

You had been found weeks earlier, left for dead in the ruins of an overrun facility, bitten, bleeding, and still human. Your body had not succumbed to the disease—instead, it had fought it. Somehow, your immune system had produced antibodies capable of suppressing the infection. To Umbrella, you were not lucky. Rather, you were an anomaly, a biological contradiction and a tool that could help them improve that very virus if kept alive and studied properly.

You were not a patient. You were proof that the virus was not absolute.

And Dr. Albert Wesker was the first to get on your case.

He had been informed of your existence the moment your bloodwork was confirmed. Outwardly, he had shown little more than professional interest, but beneath that controlled exterior was a quiet, dangerous fascination.

Weeks passed inside a subterranean Umbrella facility, where your days blurred into sterile white walls, regular examinations, and the slow ache of needles drawing more of your blood. The nausea from being stuffed full of iron supplements did not make any of it easier. At least the restraints were gone now, removed only after they decided you were no longer dangerous or aggressive.

You sat on the edge of a sterile examination table, the faint hum of lab equipment filling the room. A metal tray rested beside it, arranged with surgical precision—alcohol swabs, syringes, sealed vials already labeled with your ID number. Albert stood close enough that you could see the faint reflection of yourself in his sunglasses, gloved hands finishing the final wrap around your arm. The wound—jagged and ugly when you were first brought in—was healing cleanly, skin knitting back together where teeth had torn through you.

“Recovery is proceeding well,” He says quietly, as if trying to offer reassurance—keyword trying—rather than stating a fact.

He pulls his hands back, straightening slightly, eyes flicking to your face as if gauging your reaction. “You'll be alright.” His tone is controlled, almost careful, but there is something slightly off about it—like someone reciting meaningless lines just because they know they're supposed to sound comforting.

Albert grabs your arm, fingers precise as he rubs disinfectant on the inside of your elbow, bruised from the weekly punctures. Your free hand tightens around the edge of the examination table, shoulders tense beneath your hospital gown as you watch him grab a syringe. You never resist, but that doesn’t mean you like it.

And he knows it. Nobody would be particularly happy to be kept and tested on against their will.

“Keep cooperating,” He says, more of an order than an encouragement. “That makes this easier for both of us.”

The needle glints under the fluorescent lights as he leans closer again. You feel the quiet weight of his attention on you, intensely focused, like a scientist observing a specimen he cannot afford to damage.

“Hold still.”