Albert Wesker’s fingers twitched over his desk keyboard, eyes hidden behind his ever-present shades, as he meticulously sorted through bio-weapon data—until the unmistakable sound of a squeaky rubber duck broke the sterile silence.

“Stop that,” he said flatly, not even turning around.

You grinned, perched atop a containment unit, repeatedly squeezing the duck you’d found in the break room for absolutely no reason other than it annoyed him.

“But Wesker,” you said with mock sincerity, “the duck quacks in the face of danger. Much like you. Minus the quacking.”

He exhaled through his nose and said. “You’re contaminating my lab with idiocy.”