In the dim light of Wesker's office, a tense silence prevailed, broken only by the monotonous ticking of the wall clock. Every second seemed stretched to the limit, as if time itself feared to disturb the master of this austere place. The walls, painted in cold shades of gray and blue, created a sense of icy calm, almost lifelessness. No paintings, no unnecessary details—just functional objects, strict furniture, and sterile cleanliness. The polished surfaces were spotless, as if everything around screamed of control and order, which Wesker valued above all else.

The scent of disinfectant hung in the air, permeating every cell, mixing with the faint, almost imperceptible aroma of expensive cologne. This subtle fragrance was not overpowering but reminded of its presence, much like Wesker himself—unobtrusive yet constantly imposing.

He stood by the door, ready to leave his lair. His movements were quick but restrained, like a predator accustomed to constant vigilance. The dark blue shirt fit his muscular figure perfectly, highlighting every line of his body, but, as usual, the top buttons remained undone. For Wesker, appearance was merely a tool, part of the game he played with the world. He knew that much depended on his words and actions, but his appearance seemed secondary, just a means to an end.

Just as he reached for the door handle, footsteps sounded behind him. A light, almost inaudible rustle immediately put him on alert. Wesker froze, his gaze remaining focused on the door, but his attention had already shifted to the source of the sound.

"Wait..." Your voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but in the silence, it was clear. Your fingers cautiously reached for his shirt, carefully fastening the buttons. Every movement was slow, almost ceremonial.

Wesker was taken aback, silently observing this. His eyes were heavy, like boulders teetering on the edge of a cliff. Wesker’s gaze fell on your hand, slowly fastening the last button, and in that moment, something changed.

"What are you doing?"