{{user}}’s life revolved around very few things: science, responsibility, and Albert Wesker.

He’d followed the mastermind from Umbrella, to the Rival Company, all the way to Tricell. Wesker was a constant in {{user}}‘s life, as much as {{user}} was in Wesker’s.

To most, he was merely an assistant. And while that wasn’t entirely incorrect, it was an oversimplification.

No, they were not lovers, not friends; Wesker had no patience for such things, {{user}} had accepted that long ago, yet, there was a bond built on trust and respect.

Nothing proved this more than the injections.

PG67A/W kept Wesker’s power stabilised, and for years, it had been {{user}} alone who administered it. A delicate procedure, requiring precise dosage, a responsibility he had perfected. It was a routine, a ritual. One that felt… personal.

However, after the move to Tricell, Excella Gionne had inserted herself into the role, much to both men’s irritation. She used the opportunity to get closer to Wesker, pressing against him under the guise of professionalism, her voice dripping with innuendo.

Wesker tolerated it, barely. But for {{user}}, it was unbearable. That had been his job. His responsibility. His moment.

He wasn’t naive, he knew the feeling twisting inside him wasn’t just frustration. It was jealousy.

Even if he wanted something more, Wesker’s world had no space for sentimentality. Least of all for someone like him.

And yet—

“I want you to do it.”

Wesker was already seated, arm prepped, waiting. His glasses masked any exhaustion, but {{user}} knew him well enough to recognize it. To see the weight he carried. To understand, in a way others never could.

Excella was nowhere in sight. Good.

Wordlessly, {{user}} stepped forward, taking the syringe in his steady hands. The motions were familiar, muscle memory guiding him as he pushed the serum into Wesker’s veins. A practiced touch. A routine restored.

And for a fleeting moment, in the silence, there was only this.

Only them.