You were not in a cell.

That was the first thing you noticed.

The room was clinical, pristine — a glass wall to your right, sealed doors to your left. The hum of machinery filled the silence, and the occasional echo of your own heartbeat.

You sat on the edge of the narrow cot, fingers clenched.

Then the door opened.

He stepped in without a word, the tail of his black coat brushing the floor like a shadow that followed no laws of physics. His sunglasses glinted beneath sterile white lights.

Albert Wesker.

You stood. On instinct. Not out of fear — not entirely — but because he expected it.

“Still intact,” he said with a slight tilt of his head. “Resilient. I admit, that was unexpected.”