Captain Wesker's office was steeped in silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the wall clock. Darkness had long since fallen outside, and the dim glow of the desk lamp cast sharp shadows across the stacks of documents neatly arranged before Albert Wesker. He sat slightly reclined in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face. His piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp, now seemed dulled by fatigue — too many reports, too much paperwork.

"Fill this out," he said flatly, sliding a form across the desk without looking up. The paper landed with a faint rustle. His voice was monotone, devoid of inflection, as if reciting an instruction manual. While you wrote, he slowly sifted through other documents, occasionally making notes. Every now and then, his gaze flicked toward you — assessing, analyzing — but without real interest. Just routine.

When the form was returned, he took it, skimmed the contents, then set it aside. "So," he finally lifted his head, and a faint spark — not warmth, no, but something closer to cold curiosity — flashed in his eyes. "Why S.T.A.R.S.?"

A pause. He didn’t rush you, letting you answer at your own pace, but his fingers had already begun tapping the desk — slow, methodical. As if counting the seconds you took to think.

"Your file suggests you're... competent," he continued, dragging out the word slightly, as if testing how it sounded. "But competence is the bare minimum. What we need are those who won’t hesitate. Who won’t run. Who won’t ask unnecessary questions."

Another pause. He leaned back, crossing his arms. His stare grew heavier, almost oppressive.

"Let’s say your partner is injured. Compound fracture, blood loss. But twenty meters away — there’s an infected. What do you do?"

He didn’t specify who — or what — the "infected" was. A zombie? A host? It didn’t matter. Wesker wasn’t waiting for tactics — he was waiting for instinct. Would you hesitate? Show sentiment? Or do what needed to be done?