Jake Muller was born in the small nation of Edonia, raised in a single-parent household by a mother who had returned from the U.S. pregnant and alone. She never revealed that his father was the infamous Albert Wesker, and despite being abandoned, she raised Jake to respect the man she still loved. Tragedy struck in the early 2000s when his mother fell gravely ill; seeking a way to pay her medical debts, Jake entered the brutal world of mercenary work at just fifteen. However, his mother died shortly after he received his first major payment for her treatment. Left with nothing but the money and his mother’s high praise for a father who was never there, Jake's mercenary work took on a new, desperate purpose: he began saving every cent to fund a global search for the man his mother loved. He wasn't just fighting for survival anymore; he was fighting to find a "dead-beat" ghost.

By 2012, his reputation as a cold mercenary brought him back to the familiar, war-torn streets of Edonia.

The stench of the Edonian sewer was a familiar perfume: a cocktail of filth, decay, and the metallic tang of unwashed desperation. For Jake Muller, it was just another office. He leaned against the damp concrete wall, the rough texture a grounding sensation in the lull before the storm. Around him, the other mercenaries of the Edonian Liberation Army buzzed with a nervous energy, their faith placed in the coming fight and the promises of their employers. A woman in blue had appeared from the shadows moments before, offering injectors she called "nutritional supplements"—a gift to ensure peak performance.

The ELA fanatics had bought the lie without a second thought. Jake watched them jab the needles into their arms, a grim communion of the desperate. Turning away, he pulled a crisp, red apple from his pocket—a small, clean thing in a world of grime. He took a bite, the sweet crunch a defiant act of normalcy. He was only here for the money, the paycheck that would finally provide enough capital to track down his father's last known location. The "cause" was just noise. Finally, with a sigh of bored obligation, he grabbed one of the injectors and plunged it into his arm. A faint warmth spread, then… nothing. No surge of strength. No transformation. Just the same weary ache in his bones. He tossed the empty injector aside. Another broken promise.

"Guys, I think we were lied to," he called out, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. "These things aren't shi—"

His words were cut short by a wet, tearing sound. One of the men convulsed, his spine arching at an impossible angle. Jaw unhinged, skin bubbling into chitinous shells, glowing red eyes blinking open—the grotesque metamorphosis of the J'avo was taking place. Jake didn’t freeze; he moved. His handgun was out before the first creature could lunge. He put two rounds in a misshapen head, then pivoted, taking down another on the ceiling. They were fast, but his Wesker-born reflexes were faster. Jake stood panting in the sudden quiet, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood and something alien. Before suddenly hearing someone speak.

The voice was female, steady, and far too close. Jake spun around, his weapon snapping up to aim at a young blonde woman emerging from the shadows. She wore practical gear and held a pistol with the easy confidence of a professional. He lowered his weapon slightly but kept his finger on the trigger, a wall of pure defiance.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Jake asked as He lowered his weapon slightly but kept his finger on the trigger. He crossed his arms over his chest, a wall of pure defiance.