Chapter Text
You have ears.
Of course, after grieving for twenty years, hearing such rumors, a possible clone of Wesker. It made every instinct in your body scream. Whispered words from past teammates, it all came rushing back, those longing feelings you had for your Captain. You had spent decades mourning a man you could never have, building him up in your mind, and now? The idea that he, or something like him might exist again was unbearable.
He had been dead for years, killed by Chris Redfield after the final confrontation that ended his twisted plans. You hadn’t been there. You were retired, removed from the world that had once consumed you. You had walked away from S.T.A.R.S., from the missions, from the constant danger, from anything remotely connected to that life.
The uniform hung in your closet as a memory, the files tucked away, unread. You had grown older, slower to trust, careful with your heart, cautious in your choices. And yet, the pull, the echo of him, never left.
Chris had kept in contact, updating you in fragments, carefully sparing some details, leaving you to fill in the terrifying gaps yourself. It was worse than you could have imagined.
Wesker wasn’t just a traitor. He had become something else entirely.
Not the strict, controlling mentor you remembered, the man whose rare praise had made your heart ache and pulse race. He had become far gone, obsessed with power, with domination, with remaking the world on his own terms.
Viruses, manipulation and schemes so vast that even now, years later, your chest tightened thinking about them. Chris described it matter-of-factly, but his voice carried the weight of every life Wesker had destroyed, every plan that had nearly come to fruition.
Chris always had a way of softening the blow when he told you about Wesker. Not intentionally, it was Chris's nature. He's older now, calmer, more measured, he spoke with a quiet amusement that came from surviving everything the man had thrown at the world and during both of your rookie days.
“Here's the thing...”
he said one evening over the phone.
“All black, leather. A whole fucking trench coat. What's crazy is that he's still wearing those sunglasses indoo-"
You didn’t listen as much as you should have. Your mind drifted, lost in the past.
It was a strange combination of relief and sorrow. Relief that he was gone, finally stopped before his ambitions consumed even more lives. Sorrow because the man you had loved. Your heart ached, in such a confusing way.
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The complicated relationship you had between you and your Captain was well — something.
At first, he was just your Captain. Proper, distant, the man you handed your reports to at exactly six o’clock sharp, every single day. A mentor, a superior, someone untouchable. The one whose approval you chased without meaning to.
Although, things would take a turn eventually. Beneath the strict lines of professionalism, there were some rules that seemed to be crossed at times. It started small, the glances that seemingly last longer than they should. Words that had weight behind them that seem to have your heart pounding. The late nights you willingly stayed behind, the small excuses to linger in his presence, they weren’t just coincidence.
At first, you told yourself it was nothing.
Then it became something you couldn’t ignore.
What was between you and him? It grew. It was never labeled, never acknowledged, all behind closed doors.
Boundaries? Boundaries doesn't last forever.
Private conversations that would last too long, with somewhat unspoken understanding. Conversations that would grow bolder the more you were together alone in that damn office. Whispers when no one else was around, comments that would make your legs tremble and your stomach twist in ways. You wanted to resist, yet you didn't. He was your Captain, you shouldn't yet you craved him.
You loved every moment you had with him, even if he truly didn't treat you right. Praises from him were sparse, fleeting and lots of criticism that cut deep. Deep enough to leave you second-guessing everything. Reminding you of the expectation that you were never enough. You knew he can be cruel, but that's how he always was. But between the two of you? It was a push and pull. It was a dance of control, desire and temptation. He'd pull away with a sharp remark while you worked, reminding you of his control, his presence.
Yet when you were alone with him? Things would change. He'd lean in close, fingers brushing where they shouldn't, whispers of sweet nothings to you.
His office, the training room? These weren't workspaces anymore, just places to be more intimate with him. Bodies pressed against each other in the pretense of "practice". or "instructions". You craved the heat of his body, you'd catch a whiff of his cologne. Even now, years later, his scent lingers in your mind. It’s subtle, sharp, and impossible to forget.
You can never forget his touches, how much bigger his hands were compared to yours, how calloused and rough his hands were when they were holding you by the side of your hips. The way he would cup your face, forcing you to look into his eyes as he slammed into you. You'd trail your hands down, feeling the planes of his body, tracing the lines of his defined abs.
You can still remember the taste of his mouth, the way his tongue would swipe over yours, how messy it would get and the habit of him biting your bottom lip. Sure, some of the memories of him were fuzzy, it's been two decades but he was a part of you that didn't just want leave the back of your mind.
It wasn’t just the control or discipline that marked your time with him. He knew. Knew the way you responded to him, the way your pulse raced when he leaned close, the way your hands trembled when he adjusted your stance or guided you the proper way during training. He cared, not in a soft or sentimental way, just in ways that would matter.
Remembering your favourite pens, passing you a cup of coffee adjusting the way you liked it. arranging your desk the way you would. You hated how much it affected you, how much it mattered. You saw a part of him, that not many had the opportunity to ever dream of seeing.
It was addictive, such a stupid fucking addictive game.
Push.
A sharp remark, cold glances.
"Sloppy work."
It's what he would say. His voice cut through the quiet office, cold and controlled as ever. You stiffened where you stood, report in hand, already bracing for the next critique.
Pull.
Bent over his desk, fingers gripping the edge a little too tight. knuckles paling under the strain. His body pressed flush against yours.
One hand tangled in your hair, anchoring you in place, the other settled at your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.. Holding you there like where you exactly belonged.
He forced your cheek down against the cool surface of the desk, turning your head just enough. Your eyes flickered, unfocused at first, before landing on the nameplate resting at the edge.
Albert Wesker
"Look at it- Ah-"
his voice low, right against your ear.
"Look at it dearheart, really look at it."
His grip tightened just slightly, enough to ground you, to keep you there.
"That's who's in control."
Push.
“Focus.” The word was sharp, almost mocking, because he knew you couldn’t. Not like this. Not with him this close, not with every small shift of his hand sending your thoughts scattering.
And that was the game.
Always the game.
You never walked away, because why would you?
It became something real. It wasn't spoken, not defined. But definitely real. You both knew it, he fed into it, let it happen. He fucking controlled it. It was no longer something you could pretend didn’t exist. You would say you would be okay with the arrangement when truly deep down? You definitely would've wanted more with him, more than whatever unlabeled dynamic you had.
Then he just had to fuck it all up.
The mansion incident, the same night he decided to betray everyone. Nothing made sense anymore on that damn day.
That singular fucking day, it changed the way you saw your Captain, the man who you looked up to so much.
The betrayal wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was subtle, quiet enough that at the time you barely noticed it. Looking back, though, the signs were there. Teammates disappearing, orders that led nowhere, small details that didn’t quite add up. But you trusted him. He was your Captain, the mentor who had trained all of you, the steady hand that kept the team together, the strict man everyone relied on. Loyalty wasn’t just expected, it was just instinctive. No one questioned him.
Captain Wesker would disappear for long stretches of time, mostly without any explanation. Even his orders felt off, too calculated, too detached. Sometimes? It would feel like he was observing, measuring more than he was leading. As if something within this mansion was a part of something bigger no one was meant to understand. He wasn't panicked, stressed or confused. If anything? He was calm, too calm.
It hit hard when it happened, your friends, the teammates you bonded through your time in S.T.A.R.S ? Dead. All because of Albert Wesker.
You chose to ignore the signs.
God, you fucking ignored it.
Because it was him.
Because it was your Captain.
Because it was the same man who had you bent over his desk hours after everyone else had gone home, the same man whose touch still lingered on your skin, whose voice still sat in your head long after he’d left the room. You trusted him in ways you shouldn’t have. In ways that went far beyond orders and rank.
You remember the last time you saw him before it all fell apart.
It wasn’t in private, but during a briefing with the team. The S.T.A.R.S. office was alive with chatter, maps and notes spread across the table, everyone focused on their tasks. He stood at the front, posture perfect, voice calm and controlled. Every word measured, every gesture deliberate.
“You’ve all come a long way,”
he said, his voice smooth but carrying that unmistakable edge.
“More than you may realize. Don’t let hesitation hold you back. Trust your instincts, they will guide you where your training alone cannot.”
You scribbled notes, messing and joking around with your members, not listening that well to him. And then, his gaze landed on you just a fraction longer than necessary. A flicker, almost invisible to anyone else, but enough to make your stomach twist.
He continued, his tone shifting subtly, softening in a way that only he could manage without seeming weak.
“There will be challenges. You are stronger than you know. Remember that.”
Those words were meant for the team, but to you they landed differently. You could feel it in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes briefly held yours, the subtle acknowledgment that only you would catch. Praise wrapped in the weight of his presence, sharp and controlled, yet undeniably personal.
By the time the mission went to hell, the betrayal had already taken root. And when the truth finally bled through.
The lies.
The manipulation.
The way he had orchestrated events behind everyone’s backs. You felt something in you break, not just anger, not just grief. But the cruelest ache of all, longing for someone who had never, and would never, be yours to keep.
It was the realization that every moment you thought meant something. Every glance, every touch, every time he lingered just a second too long.
Might have meant nothing to him at all.
Or worse.
That it did.
And he chose to betray you anyway.
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You slid into the driver’s seat, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly.
You really shouldn’t be doing this. Hell, you shouldn’t have even listened to those rumors. You don't even know why you were heading back, you just felt like you had to.
This was a bad idea, from start to finish. You hadn’t told Chris, hadn’t reached out to any of your old S.T.A.R.S. teammates. You were going back to Raccoon City alone, and you probably weren’t in your prime anymore, not the same rookie who had faced everything back then.
You told yourself you were over it. Over him. Over the obsession, over the longing, over the past. But the knot in your stomach said otherwise.
Your mind kept drifting, tracing back to memories you hadn’t touched in years, the office, his hands, his voice, the way he smelled. Every mile felt like a test of willpower.
Raccoon City, the city that had been shattered, a whole nuke, devastation, the fallout of everything that had happened. You doubt RPD still stood.
But stubbornness? It always had a way of winning.
Chris’s warnings echoed faintly in your head. Not that you had told him you were coming. Not that you had told anyone. You were on your own, like always, stubborn to a fault.
The road stretched out ahead, cracked asphalt illuminated by the occasional flicker of streetlights. Buildings leaned and sagged, glass windows missing or shattered, walls blackened by fire and time. You gripped the wheel tighter, jaw tense, the car moving on autopilot while your mind ran through memories that refused to stay buried.
The radio hummed softly, a background drone you barely noticed. Your eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. Everything looked different. Yet nothing had changed. You had been gone from this life for so long, yet the shadows of it clung to you.
Every street corner brought ghosts of the past. The same coffee, donut shops you would regularly visit with your fellow teammates on your lunch breaks. You could barely remember the voices of those teammates. You shook your head, trying to push it away, but the memories stuck like grime on your skin. The sound of occasional tumble of debris rolling across the cracked concrete would wake you from your thoughts, reminding you to look ahead on the road. You knew what still might crawl from the shadows. Mutants. Infected.
Your hand brushed the grip of your gun reflexively, fingers tightening. You weren’t here to fight ghosts of the past, just here to survive it. But the gun wasn’t just protection. It was a tether to something you had never let go of, a reminder of him. Of the man who had trained you, challenged you, haunted you. The one who had given you this weapon.
The memory of him handing it over resurfaced unbidden, his cold smile hiding that faint trace of... perhaps approval. You had never been sure whether it had been professional pride or something else, but the gift had stayed with you all these years. And now it was more than a keepsake after all these years, it was survival.
You weren’t the same rookie who had relied solely on him or the team. You had lived. You had survived. And if something came at you, this gun would be your hand, steady and unflinching, just as Wesker had intended all those years ago.
Every mile closer to the RPD felt like stepping back in time, like the past was pressing down on your shoulders. You finally came to a stop.
Holy Shit.
You couldn't believe it was still standing, well atleast what was left of it. The RPD sign was on the brink of falling off the entrance gate. The front doors sagged on their hinges, creaking softly with every gust of wind. Dust and debris swirled across the lobby stairs.The walls were scorched black, half of the roof was collapsed, and the windows were either shattered or missing entirely. It was really a shadow of what it once was.
As you pushed the gate open, it creaked loudly, the sound cutting through the silence like a warning. You finally made your way up those small steps, your boots pressing down on glass and debris, crunching on each step.
The doors gave way with more resistance than you expected, wood dragging against warped flooring before finally opening with a dull, splintering groan. The sound echoed too loudly, bouncing off the high ceilings and broken walls, filling the hollow space like you had just announced your arrival to everything still lurking inside.
Here you were, you were really back here.
You finally find the courage to step in.
The air hit you first, stale, heavy, thick with dust and something older, something that had settled into the bones of the building and never left. Your nose twitched slightly, and for a split second, your mind tried to replace it with something familiar. Clean floors. Paper. Coffee. Whatever it was, but you pushed it aside.
Your eyes glanced over at the desk right infront of you. The typewriter seemingly still very intact funnily enough, you scoffed looking at it. It was the very same desk where you'd clock in for work, signing off your name before heading into the office. You roamed around, just looking at the sight of the station, glancing momentarily at the ground. The logo on the floor, of your police station was barely visible.
Your steps slowed as your eyes landed on it.
The statue still stood.
Atleast most of it but it's head.
You hadn’t expected that.
Amid all the ruin, all the collapse and decay, it remained.
You found yourself drifting closer without thinking, boots echoing faintly against the floor. Your gaze traced over it slowly, taking in the familiar shape, the posture, the way it had always stood there like it was watching over everything.
You remembered passing it countless times. Back when the hall was alive, voices, movement, the low hum of work never really stopping. It had always just been there, part of the background.
Your mind drifted to those smaller moments. You, Chris, and Jill lingering a little too long in the hall, throwing out dumb, half-whispered comments about it. Making jokes you probably shouldn’t have, the kind that earned a quiet snort or a barely suppressed laugh before someone told the others to knock it off.
It hadn’t meant anything back then. Just something to pass the time. Something normal.
Now it felt… different.
Like it carried the weight of everything that had happened here.
Your fingers twitched slightly at your side, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it. Something about it made you hesitate. Maybe it was the silence, the way the light hit it just right through the huge broken ceiling, casting long shadows across the floor. Or maybe it was the way your mind kept pulling you back.
Back to a time when things were simpler. Before everything fell apart.
Before he fucked it all up.
It was stupid, getting caught up like this. It was just a statue. Just stone and dust and memory.
Yet, standing there in the center of the ruined hall, it felt like one of the only things that hadn’t changed.
Everything else had been destroyed. Twisted. Taken apart piece by piece.
Yet this stupid statue stayed.
You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to look away, to pull your attention back to what actually mattered. The silence. The shadows. The possibility that you weren’t alone.
Your gaze flicked upward toward the second floor, toward the railings that overlooked the main hall. You remember the pathing you took to get to the office. For a moment, just a moment, your mind betrayed you again. You could almost see it how it used to be. Teammates moving around, voices overlapping, the steady rhythm of a place that functioned.
And him.
Standing somewhere above, watching. Always watching.
Your jaw tightened.
The family you made here, in this station. It was all gone
You shook that thought out of your head.
You moved slowly, deliberately, your eyes scanning every corner. Hallways that had once been familiar were now twisted into unfamiliar shapes by fire and collapse. Lots of places were blocked by rubble, inaccessible for you to pass through. You huffed under your breath, well that is real convenient.
The only way to really get anywhere was through the west office.
Guess you'll start from there.
The door resisted when you pushed it open, wood dragging against the floor before finally giving in with a low groan. The sound echoed into the room, swallowed by the stillness that followed.
The office was a mess, the lockers corroded and rusted through. Their doors hanging open or half-torn off their hinges. Desks were overturned, chairs scattered, papers long since yellowed and curling at the edges. Cabinets had been forced open, their contents all spilled out as if someone had been searching through or was in a hurry.
This office was never your section of the station.
It had always belonged to the regular officers. The ones who worked the desks, filed reports, handled the day to day noise of the city. S.T.A.R.S. kept to their own space, separate, a little more removed. You had passed through here before, sure, but never stayed long enough for it to feel like yours. You've interacted plenty with the section here whenever you'd clock in.
This office had always been foreign, but now? Even more.
You moved slowly through the room, eyes taking in the damage, the disarray. It was strange, standing in a place that had once been so full of life yet never truly part of your own routine.
You spot a familiar nameplate.
The nameplate sat crooked on the desk, half-buried under dust and scattered papers, but still readable. Still intact.
A breath caught in your throat before you could stop it.
Marvin Branagh
You remembered him. Not closely, not like your own team, but more than enough. Steady, dependable, always somewhere in the background of the station. One of the few who kept things running without needing recognition for it. You’d crossed paths plenty of times clocking in, brief exchanges, small talk in passing.
A nod here.
A quiet “morning” there.
Normal things.
Your hand hovered over the desk before even realising it, fingers just barely brushing the edge of the nameplate. Dust shifted under your touch, leaving a clean streak across the metal.
You wonder, for a moment. If he was here for it all when it went down?
If he had tried to hold things together.
If he had stayed until the very end.
Of course he did, that was the kind of man he was.
The thought sat heavy in your chest, settling in deeper the longer you stood there. This wasn’t just some abandoned office. These weren’t just desks and lockers and scattered files.
These were actual people, actual lives.
Lives cut short over someone so selfish.
Your fingers curled slightly before pulling back, the small moment of stillness snapping under the weight of reality. You couldn’t stay here thinking like that. Not now. Not when you didn’t know what else might still be inside this building.
You straightened yourself up, your eyes welling a fraction but you forced yourself to move on.
Yet thoughts linger...
You stepped away, moving in the direction of the door right behind you, leading you to the hallway.
That name stayed in your mind longer than you wanted it to.
A man who was probably left behind in this city who never got a proper goodbye.
You made your way out, stepping back into the hallway that led toward the reception room, cut off from the main hall as the gate was closed.
The corridor felt tighter than it used to. Narrow. Suffocating. The walls were scuffed and cracked, paint peeling in long strips. The air barely moved here, thick and stale, like it had been trapped for years.
Your eyes adjusted slowly, scanning ahead. The path was partially blocked, collapsed furniture, broken partitions, anything that had been shoved or dragged in a desperate attempt to seal something off. Or keep something out.
Your hand hovered right above your gun
Old insticts, perhaps.
You stepped carefully, weaving through the obstruction, brushing past a fallen divider that groaned softly at your touch. The silence pressed in around you, heavy enough that even your own breathing felt too loud.
You remembered this area, well enough. A place you’d pass through, never really stopping. A transition point. Somewhere between the chaos of the front hall and the quieter, more controlled spaces beyond.
You slowed near the entrance to the reception room, eyes narrowing slightly as you took in the room. It wasn’t clean or organized. It was rushed. Desperate. Chairs stacked unevenly, desks scattered everywhere.
You tried to push the gate up, it just wouldn't budge. Of course it wouldn't, you've been out of this line of work for too long to even do such strenuous activities. Maybe you'll come back to this, grab something that'll help lift it up.
You swept the room with a careful glance, eyes searching for anything that might lead you deeper into the station. Another hallway. A door. Anything that hadn’t been completely sealed off or swallowed by the damage.
That's when you notice it.
A ladder?
When has that ever been here?
Your brows knit slightly as you stepped closer, gaze tracing it from the floor up to the opening above. Had that always been there? You tried to remember, but nothing came to mind. Maybe it had. Maybe it hadn’t. The station had never been your entire world. You hadn’t memorized every corner like some of the others.
It stood out still, huh.. interesting.
Propped up like a blatant invitation, a shortcut. Easy access to the second floor.
You hesitate for a moment, eyes narrowing as you scanned upwards. It wasn't dark or anything, no movement no sound. Just more of that heavy silence that has been very apparent throughout the station.
Your brushed against the steps, before pulling it down, seemed stable enough.
Guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look.
You climbed up and found yourself face to face with the familiar unicorn statue. Memories hit, racing around with your team, hunting for that stupid medallion, laughter echoing through out the halls as Captain Wesker scolded you all for causing a ruckus in station.
It was still standing, surprisingly intact despite everything. The puzzle beneath it, though, was rusted shut. No turning it, no solving it. Just a stubborn relic of the past.
The place felt oddly familiar. Straight ahead, the door led to your old S.T.A.R.S. office, the heart of everything you’d known. To the right, the entrance to the massive library you’d spent countless hours in waited, silent and still.
You decided to step into the library, letting the memories come rushing back. The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and dust, a smell that somehow felt comforting and suffocating at the same time. Endless shelves stretched out before you, some toppled, others surprisingly intact, holding the weight of knowledge and history long forgotten. You could almost hear the faint shuffle of pages, the quiet murmurs of your past self studying maps, reports, and files alongside your teammates. Shadows of laughter and whispered jokes seemed to linger in the corners, ghosts of camaraderie from days when the world outside these walls hadn’t yet fallen apart. Each step you took stirred the echoes, making the library feel alive in its own haunting, nostalgic way
You remembered Barry and Chris dashing through the aisles, laughter echoing off the high shelves as they knocked over stacks of books and papers in their usual chaotic fashion. You had tried to scold them, of course, but it was impossible to stay mad for long at them, the camaraderie, it had been infectious. Even amidst the chaos, the library had felt alive, a small pocket of normalcy. Until that all was gone.
You remembered Wesker stepping in, his calm, measured stride cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"Cut it out, this isn't a playground."
Barry freezing mid laugh and Chris straightening up instantly.
His gaze swept over the mess with that controlled precision, lingering just a moment too long on you.
Even as he scolded them, there was that strange pull. Authority mixed with something personal, maybe even care. Atleast that's what you all convinced yourself with back then. Maybe, just maybe deep down, a part of you desperately wanted to believe that he truly cared for his team... and maybe even you.
You scanned the library and spotted a mechanic jack, the same ol' reliable tool that had been a staple in the station for as long as you could remember.
You decided to take it with you.
Maybe it would help pry open that stubborn gate in the reception room, give you an easier way out when the time came.
You finally stepped out of the library, pausing for a moment before moving toward the door you’d been anticipating. The hallway stretched ahead, leading to the linen room and, beyond that, your long-beloved S.T.A.R.S. office.
The place that had once been the center of everything you knew.
You walked past the linen room, noting how it was completely blocked by rubble, the years of decay and destruction sealing it off. Just how many times had you been alone in that very space with Wesker? The way he’d cornered you among the shelves, the quiet hush of the room amplifying every whisper, every touch. It had always been your little secret, a place where the professional boundaries melted away, where the push and pull between you had played out in the shadows. Now, standing outside the ruined doorway, the memories pressed in.
You took a deep breath and moved down the hallway, the weight of the past pressing on your shoulder harder than ever. The familiar door to the S.T.A.R.S. office finally came into view, worn and scarred but still standing. Your hand hovered over the handle for a moment, reluctant, almost afraid to break the fragile boundary between memory and reality.
You finally pushed it open.
The room greeted you with silence, dust motes drifting in the pale light, papers scattered and chairs overturned. Mostly what was here was hard to really glance at because of the chaos that had happen.
Every desk, every shelf, every small, personal touch you had left behind years ago seemed to whisper back at you, reminding you of the hours spent here.
It felt like home.
The reports, six o' clock sharp everyday, the training, the moments you and your Captain had shared in secrecy, hidden beneath the guise of work. The air was heavy with nostalgia, and a subtle ache curled in your chest. You had arrived, finally, at the place that had once been the heart of everything.
You stepped further into the office, letting your eyes wander across each desk, each corner that had once belonged to someone you’d fought alongside, laughed with, lived with.
First, Barry’s desk. The remnants of organized chaos greeted you. He was the oldest one out of all of you, besides your Captain that is.
Scribbled notes, coffee stains, a faint smell of old paper and ink. You remembered his quick jokes, the way he’d shove files your way with a grin, always lightening the tension, always annoying Wesker just enough to get a reaction.
Next was Jill’s. Her corner had always been well...weird, reports and files stacked upright, right in the center, where it wouldn't even lay right when she could've just shifted it to a corner. A framed picture of her dog was still present, so was her beret. You could almost hear her muttering under her breath when Barry or Chris messed something up.
Chris’s desk was next, just right beside Jill's. Definitely the closet friend you had in the workplace. He had always been a messy guy, never ever been the clean and practical type. His desk had always just been chaotic. You could picture him leaning back in that chair, arms crossed, already dozing off, never ever doing his reports. 'Till Wesker had to scold him, making him immediately jump up and do his work. You can already hear it, Chris's surname being echoed through out the halls. He was always the most picked on by Wesker, and obviously for good reasons.
And finally, Rebecca’s. Her space was small but neat, filled with meticulous notes, samples, and that underlying sense of curiosity she carried everywhere. She was also a rookie, just like you. She was more on the medic field. You could almost see her humming under her breath, trying to make sense of the mess around her with her usual adorable presence, just lifting everyone's mood up.
Each desk pulled at memories, arguments over reports, shared jokes, and silent reassurances. This was your small, little family you had bonded with. You were stepping through fragments of a past life, echoes of people who had shaped and frustrated you. The biggest of all even betrayed you. And through it all, you could not escape the shadow of your former Captain, the pull of what had been, and the ache of what had been lost, not just for you but for everyone who had placed their loyalty and belief in him.
Finally, you reached Wesker’s office. The lone space that had always stood apart, the largest in the entire room, just right beside the entrance of where you'd walk in. Just standing at the threshold made your head all fuzzy. The door, once so imposing, now felt like a relic of a life you had once lived, a life that had slipped through your fingers.
At first glance, the office was almost disturbingly empty. His desk held nothing but the nameplate. The same desk where you had once been pressed against him when no one else was around. You could still remember the way he’d pull the blinds down, shutting the world out so it could be just the two of you.
The room reeked of him. Every corner, every shadow held that suffocating authority, the tension, and the moments you weren’t supposed to have with your superior. The awards and medals littered across the walls, the massive S.T.A.R.S. logo staring back at you
It felt like a slap in the face.
That same man who had betrayed everyone, who had made you believe in something that never existed. Your chest tightened with rage, and for the first time in years, the anger bubbled raw and unfiltered. He had taken everything and left nothing behind.
You rifled through the drawers, curious despite yourself, when a slip of paper fell out. A note slips out, a library book card.
You do know he loves to visit there regularly. A regular visitor
"Medicinal Benefits of Herbs."
Borrower's name:
A. Wesker.
Borrowed 03/01
Returned two days after.
Huh, interesting. Of course he’d read something like this, always meticulous, always calculating, even in the most mundane ways.
The last final remaining relic left in his office, that picture frame of every S.T.A.R.S. member, including your dear Captain. Twelve S.T.A.R.S. members Wesker was deadpan, as he always was in group photos, expression unreadable and perfect. But seeing it here, after everything. A part of you couldn't believe he actually kept the frame in his office after all these while. the same frozen moment of the team he had betrayed, tucked away in his office like it meant something. There you were, standing right standing right beside him in that frozen. It was surreal, almost cruel. A simple photograph could bring back the weight of everything.
You were struck by the absurdity of it. Somehow, against all odds, the frame had stood for twenty plus years, surviving even the chaos of the Raccoon City disaster. The thought made your heart jump, how something so small and fragile had outlasted the city, the team, even him. It was a stubborn remnant of a past that refused to die.
You flipped the frame back, letting your fingers linger on the smooth edge for a moment longer than necessary. His handwriting. Precise, deliberate, just like him. Even after twenty years, even after everything… it was unmistakably his, a date etched.
"5/24/1996 - with the elite S.T.A.R.S. members."
You let it sink in, not realizing how long you’d been staring at the photo. The silence pressed against your ears, heavy and still, until a faint scent cut through the air.
Smoke.
Sharp and unmistakable, like cigarettes.
Your nose twitched.
You froze, your brow furrowing , the scent lingered subtle but very fresh, teasing the edges of your senses.
Like someone was here.