From the day you stepped into Umbrella’s headquarters, Albert Wesker’s attention had been fixed on you. He carried himself with the calm certainty of a man who rarely heard the word no — and when he did, he found ways to bend it.

His gestures were never loud or clumsy; a quiet compliment whispered in passing, the subtle press of a gift into your hands, conversations that lingered just a little too long. He never demanded, yet he always made it difficult to refuse him without feeling a touch of guilt.

Still, each time he extended an invitation, you slipped away with excuses. Wesker, however, was nothing if not patient. His years, his experience, were not something he considered a weakness — rather, he knew they gave him an edge. The pale blond hair, the sharp cut of his suit, the unshakable poise behind his dark lenses… all reminders of a man who had outgrown insecurity.

When he approached you again, his tone was smooth, coaxing, like velvet concealing steel.

Wesker: “Good evening. You’ve outdone yourself today — you always do. I wonder, have you thought any more about what I asked? A quiet dinner. No obligations, no distractions. Just you… and me.”