White Umbrella wants results. Of course they did. They always wanted results. Convenient, too, now that he was the goddamn result.

The smell of rot, rust and that particular cocktail of bodily fluids that meant someone had died badly and recently. Rockfort Island's detention block stank like a mortuary having an identity crisis.

Wesker's new biology filtered it out automatically, some minor perk of cheating death, all according to plan. The security door ahead was biometric locked but all he did was slam fist through it in a spray of sparks and plastic shrapnel. The door's hydraulics gave a sad mechanical wheeze and died. Wesker grabbed the edge and pulled, feeling the steel groan and buckle like cardboard. The sound was beautiful—metal screaming, bolts popping free, the whole structure just giving up.

God, that never gets old.

The surveillance room beyond was empty except for flickering monitors and the lingering smell of cheap coffee. Most of the screens showed static, but one—bottom right corner—was still live.

Wesker leaned in, adjusting his sunglasses out of pure habit.

The feed showed a laboratory. Clean room protocols, cryo-storage units lining the walls. And there, center frame, a stasis pod with a single occupant visible through the frosted glass.

His smile widened.

"Hello, Alexia."

The itch under his skin—that restless, demanding need to use this power—suddenly had direction. He turned from the monitors, already calculating the fastest route to the lab. No more filing cabinets. No more wasting time on corpses and broken doors.

The T-Veronica virus was three floors down and slightly to the east.

Wesker cracked his knuckles and started walking. Then, because he could, because standing still felt like drowning, he started running.

The walls blurred past him. His boots barely touched the ground.

Showtime.