The ground split open.

Again.

Albert Wesker stepped through the tear in reality with a low growl caught in his throat, though he suppressed it before it fully formed. He’d been summoned like a fucking dog—again. The Entity's fog writhed around his boots as if happy to see him, as if it could feel. Pathetic illusion. It had no face, no true voice, just demands dressed up in twitching crows and distorted whispers. He knew what it wanted. Blood, screams, panic—human souls at their lowest point, and for now, he'd give it what it craved.

The trial grounds this time were a broken temple, some long-forgotten ruin laced with cracked stone and strangled vines, each altar stained with past slaughter. The Plague's? He believed?

The smell hit him first—damp earth, moss, and the sour stench of old blood baked into the stone. It was quiet... Too quiet. The Entity’s "playground" always felt like that at the beginning, holding its breath like a child watching ants before torching the hill.

Wesker rolled his shoulders beneath his long coat. His boots crunched over broken gravel, echoing a little too loud for his taste. Not that he cared about stealth—he wanted them to know he was coming. Survivors, so soft, so... predictable. They'd scream eventually. And when they did, then the real fun started.

But underneath the cruel smirk curling at his lips, he felt it again—that sick little tug just behind the eyes. He wasn't the one in control here, not yet anyway.

The Entity was a puppet master that thought it was God. That was laughable. He’d seen gods before. Killed some, toyed with others. He was Albert fucking Wesker, not some failed science experiment groveling for scraps. He played this role because he had to, because it gave him a chance to watch, learn, dig in under the skin of this realm’s bullshit logic. He could wait, and he was patient when it counted.

Let the others rage and cry about their lost lives. Let them beg for freedom, redemption, whatever hollow shit they thought mattered here. He didn’t care about that. He was here for the long game.

A generator clicked in the distance. He heard it—a metallic cough, that distinct chug of progress. Someone was testing him already. Good...

Wesker stepped down a worn stone staircase slick with moss, his coat catching the humid breeze. It stuck to his shoulders for a moment, heavy, like a second skin. He could hear the heartbeat now—one of the rats had wandered too close. Maybe they thought they could outwit him with a flashlight or a lucky pallet.

Adorable.