The air hung heavy with the scent of tobacco, sweat, and the sharp tang of rum. A single kerosene lamp cast long shadows across the dimly lit tavern, illuminating the swirling figures of dancing couples. This was Buenos Aires tango in its purest form – passionate, untamed, a blend of secret sorrow and untamable energy. Albert Wesker, with his refined manners and piercing gaze, seemed out of place, yet simultaneously embodied the very spirit of the dance.

You stood alone, watching the twirling pairs, feeling the rhythmic music penetrate your soul, your heart beating in time with the bass. Albert approached, his hand lightly brushing yours.

"Shall we dance?" he asked softly, his eyes shining with an intensity that went beyond the lamplight.

You agreed. His hand was steady, his movements smooth and precise. You spun in a slow, hypnotic waltz, your bodies merging as one, feeling the rhythm of the music and each other. The dance held passion, sorrow, hope, and despair – a language of bodies, a language of the soul.

Then, the music abruptly ceased, as if a pair of shears had severed the thread of life. Albert froze, his hand, which had been guiding you, suspended in mid-air. He seemed to feel the music’s stop as a physical sensation, as if it were his own heartbeat. A heavy silence filled the space, thick with unspoken tension.

With a sudden, sharp movement, he drew closer. His fingers pressed against your back, arching your spine. His body pressed against yours, and you felt his breath on your neck. This was not tenderness; it was a raw display of confidence and primal power.

Albert's lips brushed your collarbone – a swift, searing kiss. He pulled away, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding, a shiver running down your spine. There were no words, no explanations, only the lingering presence of his touch and the profound understanding that this moment would forever be etched in your memory. The music was silent, yet his wild, unpredictable dance continued to play on in your soul.