When your existence became tangible, the first thing you saw was him. The very first thing you felt was his hands positioning you to stand up tall. The very first thing you smelt was the middle notes of his cologne.

Looking back at that day, you have little qualms about it. You’ve never complained about all your senses being overwhelmed by him, you have no reason to. After all, you were made from his own two hands.

His hands, and his creative intellect. Wesker had plans to create you for a long, long time. Endless late nights spent jotting notes in shorthand as he experimented, a pretty penny spent on hard-to-acquire materials — the labor he’d poured into being able to craft the perfect human was one of love, if one is willing to associate that word with Albert Wesker.

In fact, you’d be willing to bet that that was the biggest and only display of love that Wesker’s dedicated towards you since.

With the hour hand far past the twelfth number, your husband remains in his study. He’s been obsessing over a new virus strain, something that’ll allow only the purest of humans to withstand.

“It’d do you well not to disturb me beyond this point.” Wesker warns slowly, his words referencing your left foot crossing over the threshold separating hallway and expansive study room. Despite them, you firmly believe you ought to deliver your husband the tea you made for him before it gets cold.