Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The command room was bathed in the soft glow of monitors displaying streams of data. Wesker rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, his movements slow and methodical. The fabric, crisp and unwrinkled, contrasted with the remnants of tension coiling beneath his skin. The virus still hummed through him, leaving him with a euphoria unlike any other. He flexed his fingers briefly before resting his hands against the desk.

A sharp beep cut through the stillness, drawing his attention to the largest screen. An incoming call. He adjusted his shades, pressing a key to accept the transmission.

Ada Wong's face flickered into view, her expression as composed as ever.

“I have it,” she said without preamble. “A tissue fragment with Birkin’s G-Virus.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Of all possible outcomes, this had not been the one he anticipated. His sources suggested that Ada had betrayed them, deciding to help some rookie cop named Leon instead of focusing on the task at hand. Quite frankly, he thought she had died after her run in with the Tyrant. And yet, here she was, defying the odds just as she always did.

The surprise was fleeting and buried beneath years of discipline. “Well despite some setbacks… you have proven your value to us,” he remarked smoothly.

Her lips curled slightly, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Disappointed?”

“Only a little.” He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I trust there were no complications.”

“None worth mentioning.”

A lie, but he allowed it for now. There would be time to extract the details later.

“Very well,” he said, tapping a command into the console. “There are two things you must know. One, in moments, Raccoon City will be completely eradicated by a government launched missile. And two, an Umbrella officer will be leaving town on a helicopter. If you aren’t on it, there will be no other way to leave the city. It is in everyone’s best interest if you survive.”

A nearby case hummed open, suddenly revealing a hookshot for Ada’s use. Her eyes briefly flicked in its direction, taking note of the gift that Wesker bestowed upon her.

“We require that sample,” he added. “Don’t disappoint me again.” The screen blinked out, leaving him alone once more. Wesker exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the desk.

The G-virus. Secured. By her. She continued to surprise him, and that was a dangerous thing.

The virus suddenly pulsed beneath his skin again, sending a wave of sharpened awareness through him. He flexed his fingers against the desk, suppressing the unwanted rush of anticipation.

Another soft chime from the monitors pulled his focus. A live satellite feed displayed the city in its final moments—fires raging, streets flooded with the dead, the very foundation of Umbrella’s influence crumbling beneath the weight of its own hubris. The countdown had begun.

He activated a separate feed, tracking the identified helicopter’s trajectory. Ada had minutes to act. Her ability to adapt was one of her greatest assets, but even she had limits. If she failed to reach that extraction point… well, that was not his concern. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been. Scoffing under his breath, he pushed back from the desk. The virus had amplified many things—his strength, his speed, his clarity of thought—but it also clawed at the edges of his control, stirring something dangerously close to curiosity.

He would not allow it. Ada Wong was a useful asset, nothing more, nothing less. Should she fail to extract, then he still had access to Sherry Birkin. Even if Ada failed in their mission, he would not. Sentiment was never his strong suit, and he would deliver a sample of the G-Virus by any means necessary. And yet, as the missile streaked toward the doomed city, he found himself watching her signal longer than he should have.

The satellite feed flickered, casting harsh light across the dim command room as the missile neared its target. Raccoon City had mere moments left. Wesker observed in silence, his gaze shifting between the trajectory of the approaching strike and the small blinking indicator representing Ada’s last known position.

She had always been resourceful, but the odds were against her. He had given her the means to escape, but whether she utilized it in time was beyond his control. His fingers drummed idly against the desk. Why was he still watching?

With a sharp breath, Wesker pushed back from the console. His orders had been given, his part in this concluded. It no longer mattered whether Ada lived or died—what mattered was the sample. A tremor passed through the feed as the missile made contact. The screen flooded with white before transitioning to a grainy, static-ridden image of destruction. The city, the infection, the failures of Umbrella—wiped clean in a wave of nuclear fire.

And yet, a single signal still flickered on the monitor.

Wesker stilled, his hand hovering over the controls. The Umbrella helicopter had lifted off before the impact, and now, a secondary indicator registered movement. She made it.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he swiftly erased the expression. Of course, she had survived. His amusement was fleeting, quickly replaced by calculation. He would need to confirm the status of the sample as soon as possible. Albert straightened, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt before exiting the command room. HCF would be expecting his report, but his mind was already elsewhere.

The chopper will need to stop and refuel after about three hours. Provided there’s no adverse weather or other complications, she should be able to use the hookshot to slip away undetected after landing. In the meantime, I’ll need to let Control know to send out a team to meet her for proper extraction…

Albert’s thoughts drifted off as he continued walking through the winding halls of HCF. He passed through sleek glass doors in the high-security section, each one sliding open at his proximity, until he reached the director’s office. The sign on the door read “Director Braden Miles” in crisp, black letters—a name Wesker didn’t care for, but one he had learned to respect in a professional capacity. Braden had been a figurehead in HCF for years, and his influence was far-reaching. Wesker’s fingers curled slightly around the cold, metal handle of the door before he opened it.

Inside, the office was vast and imposing. One wall was lined with shelves full of data pads, dossiers, and well-maintained equipment. The other was a window, offering a view of the expansive, high-tech facilities below, where research was conducted with a near-religious fervor. Behind a polished mahogany desk sat the director, a middle-aged man with sharp, calculating eyes and a smile that didn’t quite reach his lips. He looked up from the screen in front of him as Wesker entered, his gaze briefly scanning Wesker’s frame before settling on his face.

“Ah, Albert. Come in,” Miles said, his voice smooth, but carrying an edge of amusement that was hard to place. He gestured toward a chair across from him. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

Wesker took the chair, his posture immaculate, his expression unreadable. “And what would that be, Miles?”

The director’s eyes gleamed as he tapped a few keys on his terminal, pulling up a new set of data. “I wanted to personally commend you. I just got the news that Miss Wong completed her mission and made it out of Raccoon City alive. Quite an accomplishment, considering the chaos surrounding her escape.”

Wesker’s lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile, a smirk just barely surfacing. “Miss Wong’s resourcefulness is... impressive. She handled the situation better than expected.”

Miles leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping on the edge of the desk as he studied Wesker. “Yes, well, according to some folks higher than me, it seems you two have some history, no? The fact she made it out at all seems a testament to your combined abilities.”

The statement had caught him off guard, but only for a moment. His gaze remained cold, calculating. “I would hardly call it history,” he corrected. “She had dated a colleague of mine while working undercover for you. Our paths crossed occasionally, but not to the degree being implied.”

Director Miles chuckled softly, though there was a sharpness to his tone. “I find it curious, though, Albert. You’ve both been working undercover for some time, haven’t you? And now she reports directly to you.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You understand why this could be cause for concern, especially for someone with... your reputation?”

Wesker’s voice remained smooth and level, his usual calm betraying no hint of emotion. “And what reputation would you be referring to, director?”

"Oh, come now, Al. Don't play coy with me. You're a man of... notable reputation here, and not just for your scientific acumen, I might add." Miles’ gaze seemed to sharpen as he studied Wesker’s face, almost as if testing to see if he would break under the scrutiny. "Many of the women around our establishment seem to be... charmed by you. You've developed quite the... following."

Wesker’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, but he made no other visible reaction. His lips were a thin line, his posture rigid as ever. He spoke calmly, his voice smooth, but each word deliberately chosen. “I don’t engage in personal matters when it comes to my team, Director. My focus is on results, not on relationships.”

Miles raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile. “Results, yes, of course. But let’s not pretend that there isn’t a certain... charisma about you, Albert. A certain... appeal that those around you, particularly in the weaker gender, seem to gravitate toward.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air before adding, “I simply wonder how well your team will function with someone like Miss Wong under your direct supervision, that’s all.”

Golden eyes flickered behind sunglasses for the briefest moment, but the emotion behind them was buried beneath layers of control. His lips parted, and for a moment, he seemed to consider the weight of Miles’ words before responding, his voice low and devoid of any warmth. “Miss Wong will function according to the guidelines I establish. You know of my disdain for those that can’t follow orders, Miles. If Ada becomes a complication, then she will be removed from the equation. Either assign her to another team or eliminate her. I couldn’t care less.”

His answer seemed to placate the director. Miles gave him a true, honest grin of approval. “A pragmatic approach as always. It’s what sets you apart from the other leads, Al. Very well then. Keep me posted on Miss Wong’s status. I want a full report in 48 hours.”

After leaving the director’s office, Albert’s mind still processed the conversation with Miles. His sunglasses remained firmly in place, the world around him nothing more than a blur of sterile white walls and dim lighting. He kept his posture straight, unfazed, but beneath the surface, his thoughts churned, grinding at the edges of his focus. Miles’ implications had unsettled him in ways he refused to acknowledge. Ada was a variable—one he would need to control, just like every other asset under his command. There was nothing else to it.

Reaching his quarters, he entered the room with a swift movement, the door clicking shut behind him. There was a faint glow from a single overhead light casting long shadows on the walls. It was a space designed for rest, but Wesker rarely used it for such trivial things. He had work to do—he always did. But for now, he needed a moment of solitude, away from the prying eyes of those who didn’t truly understand him.

Without wasting time, he made his way to the bathroom, his movements betraying no hint of fatigue or frustration. His reflection in the mirror was as impassive as ever. His gaze shifted from his face to the faint remnants of his recent battle—a reminder of his encounter with the Tyrant, and of the immense power still surging through his veins. His hand instinctively reached for the button of his shirt, quickly undoing it before pulling the fabric off, the motion smooth and practiced.

Wesker’s skin was pale, but there was an almost unsettling vitality beneath it. He turned his torso to the side, studying the healed wound on his abdomen—an injury from when the Tyrant had impaled him. The scar left behind was still visible, a jagged line stretching across his torso. Though the skin was still tender, there was no sign of any infection or complications. The T-virus had worked its usual wonders. His body was repairing itself at a rate far beyond human capability. Still, there was an unmistakable tightness in the muscles surrounding the injury, a reminder of how close he had come to death.

He traced the scar lightly with his fingers, feeling the heat beneath the surface. The inflammation was minimal, and the tenderness was expected, but the healing process had progressed much faster than Birkin had anticipated. He would have a thousand questions if he could see this… The fool. His work would have been even more valued outside of Umbrella. You should have gotten out when I told you to, and perhaps all of this could have been avoided.

Despite the physical progress, there was something gnawing at the back of his mind. Miles’ comments had gotten under his skin, even if he refused to admit it. He wasn’t a man easily distracted by others, yet the insinuation that Ada might be a threat to his focus lingered, twisting like a sharp thorn. He had always kept his emotions in check—detached, cold, efficient. But Ada... Ada was a wildcard, and she had already shown herself to be far more than just another tool for his use.

He let out a quiet exhale, pushing the thoughts aside as he inspected his wound once more. There was no room for distractions. Not now. Not with the mission at hand.

Pulling his shirt back on, he straightened, his gaze shifting back to the mirror. The man staring back at him was the same as always—cold, focused, in control. He had a mission to complete. And Ada Wong, no matter what complications she presented now or in the future would either fall into line or be eliminated.

There was no other option.

Chapter Text

Ada sat on the edge of an examination table, her red dress torn and stained with dried blood. A team of doctors and nurses worked around her—cleaning wounds, checking vitals, bandaging wounds she barely registered. This would forever be considered her ‘been worse’. On a positive note, she had plenty of time to process her near-death situation while tucked away with Umbrella cargo.

What she couldn’t ignore, however, was the man standing just a few feet away, arms crossed, shades concealing whatever expression might have flickered across his face. Wesker was relentless, his voice cold and clipped as he continuously pressed her for details.

“You were seen assisting Leon Kennedy,” he stated, watching her closely. “Explain.”

Ada exhaled sharply, rolling her eyes. “Can we do this later? I’m a little tied up at the moment.”

A nurse pressed gauze against a wound on her arm, and she winced. Not at the pain, but at the sheer absurdity of this situation—being interrogated while being stitched back together. But Wesker wasn’t interested in waiting.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Leave us.”

The medical staff hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances. One of the doctors cleared his throat. “Sir, she still needs—”

“I said leave.”

There was no room for argument in his tone. The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees. One by one, the doctors and nurses gathered their supplies and filed out, casting wary looks in Ada’s direction as they departed. The door slid shut behind them.

Ada let out a slow breath, rolling her stiff shoulder as she glanced up at him. “That was unnecessary.”

Wesker stepped closer. “You need to focus.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Focus? You dragged me straight from the landing pad, barely let them patch me up, and for what? A debrief that could wait an hour? Miles gives 48 on all his reports, don’t act like he told you any differently.” Her patience was wearing thin, and she could feel the heat of frustration rising in her chest. “There are more important things than your damn debrief, Wesker.”

His jaw tensed, and for a moment, silence stretched between them. She could see the flicker of something behind his shades, something restrained. Ada inhaled deeply, forcing herself to rein it in. She wasn’t going to snap. Not now. Not in front of an asshole like him.

“Just… give me a minute,” she muttered, looking away.

Wesker remained still, his expression unreadable behind his ever-present shades. The silence between them thickened, charged with unspoken tension. Ada refused to look at him, instead focusing on the sting of half-treated wounds and the lingering ache in her muscles. She wasn’t in the mood for one of his power plays, not after everything she’d just been through.

He exhaled sharply, the sound barely audible but laced with irritation. “You had time to recover on the flight back. I require answers now.”

Ada scoffed, turning her head to glare at him. “I wasn’t exactly lounging in first class with a glass of wine, Wesker.” She lifted her arm slightly, showing the hastily bandaged wound on her bicep. “Or did you miss the part where I nearly died for this mission?”

His gaze flickered to the wound, but if he had any concern, he didn’t voice it. Instead, he stepped closer, casting his shadow over her as he leaned against the table. “And yet, you had time to waste on a rookie cop.”

Ada’s lips parted slightly before pressing into a firm line. So this is what it was about. He wasn’t just irritated—he was angry. She could hear it in the low timbre of his voice, in the way he stood too still, too controlled. She let out a humorless chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re pissed because I saved a cop? You were a cop too, ya know.”

“I’m irritated,” Wesker corrected, his voice precise, “because you deviated from the mission. You were seen. You compromised your cover. And you didn’t eliminate remaining survivors per my orders.”

Ada tilted her head, her exhaustion making it harder to keep her usual composure. “Oh, please. Do you think people like Leon are in any position to expose me? They’re too busy being interrogated by the same government that nearly killed them. Who knows what’s in store for them now.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. Ada huffed, fingers twitching where they rested against the edge of the table. He isn’t going to let this go, is he? Always has to be his way or the highway.

“Leon wasn’t supposed to be there,” she admitted, tone softer but no less sharp. “I didn’t plan on saving him—it just happened.” She shrugged, the movement slight. “Call it a moment of weakness, if it makes you feel better.”

Wesker’s expression remained impassive, but something about the way he held himself shifted. Almost imperceptibly. Ada studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why do you even care so much, anyway?” She leaned forward just a fraction, gauging his reaction. “Unless… you’re worried I might have some lingering attachment to said rookie?”

She didn’t miss the way his fingers twitched at his side from her comment. Interesting. He watched our kiss through the NEST feeds, then. No doubt about it. Before she could push the matter further, Wesker finally spoke up.

“I don’t tolerate weakness, Ada. Momentary or otherwise. If you ever disobey my orders again, don’t bother coming back. I have no use for such agents, and neither does HCF.”

His words were cold and biting, more so than usual in Ada’s opinion. The iciness of his demeanor did little to cool the boiling rage he felt within. Of all the possible agents they could assign to him, of course it was the most difficult of the bunch.

Her last ‘handler’ had lost track of her for nearly six weeks. When he had finally found her, the man had nearly given up Ada’s cover. Wesker remembered how furious John Clemens was when he thought that Ada might have been cheating on him, the idiot. After that slip up, the handlers assigned to Ada seemed to switch frequently, that was, until Wesker was given the task.

The silence between them was heavy with tension. Ada knew better than to push her luck with Wesker. He had never been her flavor of choice—both as a man or as her superior. Naturally, she enjoyed working for men with whom she could get her way. Although she had limited interactions with Wesker prior to Raccoon’s demise, she knew enough about him to know that he was a prick with entitlement issues.

Asshole was born with a silver spoon in his mouth—the best upbringing money could buy, guaranteed positions within Umbrella after completing school, special attention from both Marcus and Spencer, and none of that was ever enough for him, she thought. There’s just no pleasing this guy, is there? So what? He says jump, and I’m supposed to ask how high?

She wanted to tell him to piss off, go to hell, or some combination of the two. But if she pushed her handler too far, she may never get the medical attention she still so desperately needed. Ada took a deep breath to try and calm herself. Her hand pressed more tightly against her side, blood seeping through her dress and bandages.

“Heard,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Now can we please bring the med team back in so we can close this wound? Or perhaps I should just drop my guts on the table for you to experiment with however you want?”

His eyes briefly flicked towards the hand on her wound. Albert had been so consumed with completing her debrief, he had entirely ignored the smell of fresh blood that permeated his nostrils. Her blood.

“One hour,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Then we are doing this debrief. And Ada? You’re complaining to someone who completed their mission with a hole in their chest—I don’t give two shits about your papercuts in comparison. Come find me when you’re ready to take this seriously.”

Before she could utter a retort, Wesker turned on his heel to leave. The doors of the infirmary gently slid closed behind him. A minute later, the med team filed back into the room to finish caring for the agent. For the first time in a long time, Ada saw nothing but red.

The infirmary was quiet in the early morning hours, save for the steady beeping of monitors and the occasional rustle of movement from the medical staff making their rounds. The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the faint coppery tang of blood that still lingered in Ada’s mind.

She lay propped against a stack of stiff, regulation pillows, the crisp white sheets pooling around her waist. The room was standard—minimalistic, uninviting. A single chair sat in the corner, untouched. A tray of food had been left on the bedside table, but she hadn’t so much as glanced at it.

Instead, her attention remained fixed on the wound spanning her side. The stitches were neat, medical-grade sutures holding the torn flesh together with practiced precision. The area was sore, the skin surrounding it an angry shade of red, but the doctors had assured her there was no infection. It would heal—eventually.

Ada traced the edge of the wound lightly, her fingers ghosting over the raised skin. The Tyrant had done this. That hellish creature had torn into her like she was nothing, a mere obstacle between it and Leon. She had been lucky to get away at all.

Her lips curled slightly, the faintest whisper of amusement flickering through her exhaustion. Funny, how he’s still the reason I’m breathing.

A sharp, mechanical hiss broke through her thoughts as the infirmary door slid open. She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Albert Wesker.

The weight of his presence alone was unmistakable—the precise cadence of his footsteps, the near-silent way he moved despite his size. His scent even carried into the room, clean and cool with an almost clinical sharpness. To make matters worse, she never did complete her debrief with him as instructed the day prior.

Ada sighed, dropping her hand from her wound as she tilted her head toward him. “You’re early," she said, attempting to maintain an air of playfulness with her boss.

“You’re late,” he corrected, his voice edged with irritation.

She didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered to her side, lingering for a fraction of a second before returning to her face.

“The doctors have me on bed rest,” she replied, feigning nonchalance as she leaned back against the pillows. “I don’t suppose that detail made it into your precious reports?”

Wesker’s expression was unreadable behind his shades, but she could feel his scrutiny. The tension between them had not lessened overnight—if anything, it had solidified, heavy and unmoving.

“I don’t recall authorizing delays,” he said coolly.

Ada exhaled through her nose, dragging a hand through her dark hair. “God forbid I take a moment to recover after nearly getting eviscerated.”

His patience, already thin, was wearing even further. “Your injuries don’t absolve you of your responsibilities.”

Her jaw clenched, but she forced a smile, slow and deliberate. “You’re right. Let me just rip these stitches open and bleed all over the debriefing room. I’m sure that’ll be very efficient.”

Silence stretched between them.

For the first time since he entered the room, Wesker truly looked at her—not as an asset, not as an operative who had delayed his schedule, but as a woman bound to a hospital bed, stitched together after barely surviving the chaos of Raccoon City.

She wasn’t exaggerating her condition. She was in pain. And she wasn’t going anywhere. Finally, he exhaled through his nose, a subtle but deliberate sign of restraint. “Twelve hours.”

Ada blinked.

“You now have twelve hours,” Wesker clarified. “After that, I expect you in my office—on your feet, not in this bed. If I have to retrieve you a second time, I won’t be as accommodating.”

She arched a brow, resisting the urge to scoff. Accommodating? That was rich. But she didn’t push him. Not this time. Wesker lingered a moment longer, as if weighing the situation once more before turning sharply on his heel and striding toward the exit.

Ada let her head fall back against the pillow, exhaling slowly. So much for a peaceful recovery. The infirmary door slid shut, leaving her alone once more. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, her fingers absently grazing the fresh stitches on her side.

Twelve hours, Wesker had said. As if he were being generous. The thought alone sent a slow burn of irritation through her chest. She wasn’t about to wait around like an obedient little soldier just because he demanded it. No, if Wesker wanted her on her feet so badly, she’d be more than happy to oblige—just not on his terms.

With a quiet grunt, Ada swung her legs over the side of the bed, bracing herself against the dull ache that rippled through her torso. The room swayed for a moment, her body protesting the sudden movement, but she ignored it.

The doctors had left her a fresh change of clothes—standard HCF attire. Black tactical pants, a gray shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Not her usual style, but it would do. She dressed carefully, wincing as she maneuvered around the bandages, then ran a hand through her hair to smooth out the worst of the bedhead.

Satisfied, she stepped out of the infirmary, ignoring the med staff who shot her wary looks as she strode toward the elevator. There was only one person who could override Wesker, and she intended to speak with him.

—

Braden Miles barely glanced up as she entered. He was sharp-eyed and pragmatic, with the air of someone who had seen everything and cared for little. Before he could ask why she was there, Ada dropped herself into the chair across from his desk, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back with a sigh.

“I want a new handler,” she announced.

The Director’s fingers paused over his keyboard. He finally looked at her, expression unreadable. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Ada tilted her head, gesturing vaguely. “Wesker and I don’t see eye to eye on anything. He’s insufferable. Controlling. Thinks I should jump the second he barks an order. That’s not how I work and you know it. Pairing us together was a mistake.”

Miles exhaled slowly, closing his laptop with a soft click. “You were assigned to Wesker because of your skillset, Miss Wong. And because you were one of the few operatives capable of retrieving the G-virus sample without failure.”

“Exactly,” she said, flashing a sharp smile. “I work alone.”

His gaze was steady, appraising. “And yet, your mission required supervision.”

Ada bristled but kept her expression composed. “I didn’t need Wesker breathing down my neck to do my job.”

“Did he interfere with your mission?”

She hesitated. No. If anything, he had given her autonomy in Raccoon City. But that wasn’t the point.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said with a shrug. “The point is, we’re oil and water. I don’t take orders well, and he doesn’t have an ounce of patience. Eventually, one of us is going to snap.”

The Director regarded her for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Are you certain it isn’t because he expects more from you than your previous superiors?”

Ada’s smile thinned. “He expects obedience. ”

He hummed, considering her words. “And yet, you followed his orders in Raccoon City.”

“I followed the mission,” she corrected. “Not him.”

He was silent for another stretch of time, and Ada could feel the weight of his scrutiny. Finally, he exhaled. “Request denied.”

Ada arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” The Director picked up a pen and began jotting down notes, signaling his disinterest in further debate. “You and Wesker may not see eye to eye, but together, you get results. Until I see reason to believe this partnership is detrimental to HCF, it remains.”

Ada let out a slow breath through her nose.

“Well,” she said, rising from her seat. “That was a waste of time.”

Miles didn’t look up. “Perhaps next time, you’ll use it to rest instead of making unnecessary requests.”

“Wesker doesn’t understand the meaning of that word,” she quietly bit back.

Ada scowled and turned sharply on her heel, striding out of the office. Fine. If they wanted her stuck with Wesker, so be it. But she wasn’t about to make this partnership easy for him. She moved with purpose, ignoring the sting in her side as she made her way to Wesker’s office next.

The door slid open at her approach, revealing the dimly lit space within. Wesker sat at his desk, the glow of his monitor casting sharp shadows across his features. He didn’t look up as she entered, but she knew he had been expecting her.

“I want to get this debrief over with,” she said, arms crossed as she stopped a few feet from his desk.

If he was surprised that she had come to him instead of making him track her down, he didn’t show it. Instead, he simply tapped a few keys on his terminal, bringing up a blank report file.

“Then begin,” he said smoothly.

No argument. No gloating. No smug remark about her finally listening to orders. She had expected at least something—some indication that he found satisfaction in this moment. Instead, he merely reached for a pen and prepared to take notes, as if this were nothing more than routine. Fine.

Ada exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight slightly. “I infiltrated Raccoon City under the pretense of dating an Umbrella researcher. My objective was to retrieve a sample of the G-virus from William Birkin’s research. Umbrella had already sent in their own retrieval team before I arrived. They botched the job.”

She saw the slight quirk of Wesker’s brow at that but continued before he could interject.

“Birkin was fatally wounded during the exchange but managed to inject himself with the G-virus before succumbing to his injuries. He mutated, killed most of the retrieval team, and spread the virus throughout the underground facility.”

Wesker made a small note on his pad but remained silent, letting her continue uninterrupted.

“I made contact with an RPD officer—Leon Kennedy. He was a rookie, completely unprepared for the situation, but… resourceful.” Her lips pressed together for a brief moment. “He survived better than most.”

That earned a subtle flick of Wesker’s pen across the paper. “And you aligned yourself with him,” he noted. It wasn’t a question.

Ada met his gaze evenly. “He was useful. We navigated the sewers and underground labs together. I gained access to Birkin’s research through his connections with Annette Birkin.”

Wesker leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers steepling. “And yet, my sources suggested you were compromised.”

Her jaw tightened just slightly. “I had an altercation with a Tyrant,” she admitted. “It nearly killed me.”

The memory was unpleasant—cold claws piercing her side, the sensation of her body giving out beneath her. Even now, she could feel the phantom pain along her side, a grim reminder that she had barely survived.

“And yet, here you are.”

She smirked faintly. “What can I say? I’m resilient.”

He didn’t return the sentiment, merely made another note before shifting gears. “You retrieved the sample. How?”

Ada tilted her head. “From Annette. She had a tissue fragment containing active strains of the virus. I secured it before escaping the facility.”

There was a pause. Then Wesker set the pen down, fingers tapping against the desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“You had ample opportunity to take a live subject,” he said.

It wasn’t an accusation, not exactly, but she heard the implied question beneath his words.

She shrugged. “I work smarter, not harder. Birkin was out of control. The sample was the only viable option.”

“Hm.” Wesker’s expression remained unreadable. He picked up his pen again, scribbling something down. “And Kennedy?”

Ada’s lips twitched. “What about him?”

“You spared his life.”

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t spare him. He just… happened to make it out alive.”

Wesker hummed again, neither confirming nor denying his thoughts on the matter. Then, as if the conversation were of no real consequence, he set the pen and paper aside.

“That will be all,” he said.

Just like that. No reprimands. No further probing. He had gotten what he wanted.

Ada exhaled, pushing off from where she had been standing. “Great. Glad we got that out of the way.”

She turned to leave, but before she could take another step, Wesker spoke again.

“You did well, Ada.”

She froze for half a second. Then, with a scoff, she glanced back at him. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Wesker.”

Without waiting for a response, she stepped out of the office, the door hissing shut behind her.

Chapter Text

The hum of servers filled the command room with a steady drone, a background noise that Wesker had long since tuned out. The screens before him displayed layers of encrypted data—schematics, personnel reports, outdated access codes—all pieces of a puzzle he was expected to solve. Rockfort Island. A fortress masquerading as a prison, its true purpose buried beneath layers of Umbrella’s deception. It was a key asset, and soon, it would be his to dismantle.

He steepled his fingers, scanning the preliminary intelligence reports. The island was more than a penal colony—it housed advanced research facilities and a significant stockpile of Umbrella’s viral weaponry. The security infrastructure was formidable, but hardly impenetrable. Rockfort’s greatest weakness wasn’t in its defenses, but in its arrogance. Like the company itself, it relied on the illusion of control. Wesker knew better than anyone how easily that illusion could be shattered.

A quiet chime signaled an incoming call. He glanced at the monitor, already anticipating the caller.

“Director Miles.”

Braden’s face materialized on-screen, his expression as impassive as ever. “I just got the confirmation—the Rockfort operation has been officially greenlit.”

Wesker’s lips curled slightly. “No hesitation, then? I thought pushback was expected?”

“Nope. The directive is clear—Umbrella’s assets are to be salvaged or destroyed before they can be recovered by competing interests. You are to oversee this operation personally.”

As expected. It was a task perfectly suited to him, one in which Miles had told him to begin working on before receiving approval from the higher ups.

“I trust you have assembled the necessary resources for me?”

“Working on it. Preliminary strike teams are being evaluated, and we’ve secured updated intel from a contact within Umbrella. Their security has been on edge ever since the Raccoon incident, but Rockfort remains largely isolated. They don’t expect an incursion.”

“Send the full intelligence briefing to my terminal,” Wesker instructed. “I’ll need every detail on troop rotations, research personnel, and facility layouts. I’ve never been there personally, so the more details the better.”

The Director gave a curt nod. “One more thing, Al—HCF has also flagged other Umbrella facilities for potential raids. Rockfort is the highest priority, but we may need to divide our forces. If that’s the case, you’ll need to figure out how to utilize Miss Wong, even if she isn’t fully recovered when the time comes.”

Wesker leaned back in his chair, considering the implications. The collapse of Raccoon City had sent ripples through the bio-weapons market. Every major player wanted a piece of Umbrella’s research, and HCF was no exception. The question wasn’t if rival factions would interfere—it was when.

“No matter,” he said, dismissing the concern. “Rockfort will fall, and whatever remains of Umbrella will follow. How much time do we have?”

“About three months.”

“Consider it done.”

Miles gave a brief nod before the transmission cut out.

Wesker exhaled slowly, his gaze returning to the glowing schematics. This was merely the next step. The remnants of his former employers were scattered, vulnerable. Soon, they would be nothing more than a footnote in history.

He tapped a command into the console, cycling through the security feeds from within HCF’s facility. His gaze lingered briefly on one in particular—the infirmary wing. Ada Wong was still there. Resting. Recovering. Biding her time.

She had followed his recent orders without resistance, a surprising level of compliance for someone of her disposition. But then, Ada had always been adept at playing the long game, or so Miles had told him. He knew better than to mistake her patience for submission.

The terminal screen dimmed as Wesker shut down the feed, pushing aside any distractions. Ada’s compliance—or rather, her lack of outright defiance—was an anomaly, but not a priority. What mattered now was the mission.

He turned his attention back to the Rockfort schematics that Miles had sent over, fingers tapping absently against the desk. The facility was divided into several key sections: the main prison, training grounds, an armory, and—most important of all—the underground research wing. That was where Umbrella hid its most valuable assets. Data, samples, and whatever remained of their bioweapons program.

He rose from his chair, adjusting his sleeves with practiced precision before exiting his office. His destination was now the research sector—a maze of sterile white corridors, humming machinery, and the sharp scent of antiseptic. This was where HCF’s true power resided, hidden behind layers of secrecy and cutting-edge virology. As he stepped through the automated doors, the division lead was already waiting for him.

Dr. Evelyn Hart stood with a confident poise, dark brunette hair pulled into a sleek bun, her pristine lab coat fitted perfectly over a form-hugging black dress. She had always been ambitious—an exceptional virologist with a keen interest in biological warfare. And, perhaps more annoyingly, a woman who had made no secret of her interest in him.

“Dr. Wesker,” she greeted smoothly, a slow smile curving her lips. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

He ignored the underlying flirtation in her tone, instead getting straight to the point. “I need a full assessment of our viable B.O.W.s and viral deployment options,” he said, stepping past her and into the lab.

Evelyn followed, matching his pace effortlessly. “Looking to make a mess?”

“Looking to create an advantage.”

She let out a quiet hum, pausing to tap a few commands into a nearby console. “We have several options in development, but if you want guaranteed destruction, a controlled T-virus outbreak is the most efficient route.”

An image flickered to life on another nearby monitor, showcasing various viral strains, test results, and potential carriers. Evelyn gestured toward the primary entry.

“A well-placed dispersal could cripple nearly any infrastructure. Most security forces are standard personnel, which means they’d be wiped out in hours.” Her gaze flicked toward him, brown eyes gleaming with interest. “And, of course, an outbreak would mean more than just casualties—it would mean chaos. Panic. The perfect distraction while your team secures the real prize.”

Wesker studied the data, considering the logistics. A full-scale outbreak had risks, but the benefits outweighed them at first glance. If the virus spread fast enough, Umbrella’s forces wouldn’t have time to react, let alone protect their assets. He glanced at Evelyn. “How controllable is the spread?”

She smiled. “That depends. If you want a clean-up crew to move in afterward, I’d recommend an airborne dispersal with a time-sensitive kill switch. If you don’t care about preservation…” She trailed off, arching a brow.

Wesker smirked faintly. “Noted.”

Evelyn leaned in slightly, resting a manicured hand against the console. “I’d be happy to oversee this personally for you,” she murmured. “I imagine you’re the type that prefers a more… hands-on approach?”

“I prefer results, Dr. Hart.”

She chuckled, unfazed. “Then you’ll have them.”

Turning back to the display, Wesker tapped a finger against the primary strain profile. “Prepare the necessary samples. I want a full viability report by the end of the week.”

“As you wish.” Evelyn’s voice was smooth, but there was a glint of something else in her expression—something intrigued, perhaps even entertained.

Wesker didn’t linger. He had what he needed. As he strode from the lab, his mind was already moving three steps ahead, however, an unusual thought crossed his mind. He was well aware of her attraction to him—she made little effort to conceal it. Under normal circumstances, he would have ignored such distractions without a second thought. Yet, something lingered in the back of his mind.

His body had changed. Evolved. His strength, his speed, his very senses had all been heightened beyond human limitations. And yet, there were… other aspects he had yet to test. He was still pushing his limits in combat, in control, in sheer dominance over his newfound power. But in other areas… he remained untested.

Perhaps an evening with Dr. Hart wouldn’t be such an inconvenience?

The idea was pragmatic more than anything of course. A controlled experiment. If there were any unexpected effects from his viral enhancements, it would be better to learn of them now rather than later. Evelyn was intelligent, attractive, and willing—She would serve the purpose well enough.

Still, the notion felt foreign—an indulgence he typically had no time for. It was a fleeting consideration, one he could discard as easily as he had entertained it. But as he continued down the corridor, he found himself wondering: Would it be so bad?

On his way back to his office, he stopped by one of the breakrooms. Wesker grabbed a crisp, green apple from one of the fruit bowls and took a bite. The other handlers, engrossed in their quiet conversations and passing around dossiers, didn’t look up as he entered. He didn’t expect them to. Albert wasn’t one for socializing, and they knew better than to engage him without reason.

As he chewed thoughtfully, his mind switched gears, now thinking of Ada. Though she wasn’t cleared for missions yet, she had already pushed herself past what most agents would consider rest. Granted, he had been the one to command that she get back on her feet sooner rather than later. Wesker wiped his lips, then casually asked the other handlers, "What have you heard about Ada Wong?"

The question was more directed at the men who were closest to him. Two handlers exchanged a glance, and one cleared his throat before leaning forward, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Not much,” the first man, a grizzled veteran with a perpetually bored expression, spoke up. “She’s sharp, keeps to herself mostly. Good with intel, good on the field. Doesn’t need babysitting, if that’s what you mean.”

The other handler, closer to Wesker’s age, leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping onto his face. “Well, there’s also the other thing,” he said, glancing at the others before continuing. “She’s a looker. As you’ve probably noticed.”

Wesker said nothing, merely watching as all the men chuckled.

“She gets plenty of attention around here. Most of the guys try their luck—asking her out, offering a ‘good time’ and all that,” he continued, lazily swirling the coffee in his mug. “She doesn’t take ‘em up on it, not that I’ve heard, but…” He trailed off, exchanging a knowing look with the older handler.

“She knows how to use it,” the older man filled in. “Doesn’t have to say much, just a look or a smile, and suddenly guys are jumping through hoops for her. Some say she’s got a few wrapped around her finger already.”

Wesker arched his brow slightly. “Such as?”

The younger handler hesitated before finally spilling the gossip. “Roland.” His smirk widened as he leaned in conspiratorially. “You know, he’s one of the other directors. He’s definitely got a thing for her. Tries to keep it professional, but…” He whistled lowly, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s getting something out of it.”

Wesker exhaled slowly through his nose, expression unreadable. If Ada entertained any man, it was because there was something in it for her. And if Roland was involved? That meant she had access to more than most operatives here. Wesker briefly wondered if Miles was aware of this.

“She’s playing the game,” Wesker grumbled, more to himself than anyone else.

“That’s one way to put it,” the older handler agreed with a lazy shrug. “But hey, can’t really blame her. When you’ve got that kind of advantage, why not use it?”

Wesker didn’t respond, only giving them a final glance before turning toward the door. As he stepped out, he bit into what remained of his apple, thoughts already shifting.

It wasn’t the idea of Ada being pursued that interested him—it was how she used it to her benefit. If she could manipulate a director, she was dangerous in ways even he hadn’t fully accounted for. And that, more than anything, made her worth watching.

It had been two weeks since Wesker received his orders regarding Rockfort Island. The mission planning was moving forward, and preparations were well underway. Ada had finally been cleared for light duty, which meant she was back to running errands in between her training and physical therapy. Today, that errand was a stack of reports that Miles had asked her to deliver to Wesker.

She expected to find him in his office, but when she arrived, the room was empty. A quick inquiry with one of the analysts pointed her toward his quarters instead. Ada hesitated only briefly before making her way there, balancing the reports in her arms as she made her way there. Although she normally wouldn’t bother, it seemed better to deliver the papers as soon as possible lest Wesker berate her for shirking her duties.

Standing before his door, Ada carefully shifted the stack of papers into one arm before briefly knocking. A few moments later, it swung open, but Wesker wasn’t the one standing before her. Surprisingly, it was Dr. Hart.

The doctor arched a brow at her, casually adjusting the collar of her blouse with one hand while reapplying her lipstick with the other. Her expression shifted when she recognized Ada, a small smile forming around the tube of red.

“Well, well, well. Ada Wong,” Dr. Hart mused, capping the lipstick with a soft click. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Ada met her gaze, unimpressed but polite. “I’m looking for Wesker. Seen him?”

Dr. Hart hummed, tilting her head slightly. “He’s inside.” Then, after a brief pause, her eyes flickered toward Ada’s side. “How’s the injury?”

It only took a split second for Ada to take in the details—the slightly tousled hair, the faint flush on Evelyn’s skin, the way she adjusted her blouse just a little too deliberately. The scent of Wesker’s cologne still lingered faintly in the air around her.

Ada didn’t need to ask what had happened. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stack of reports, but her expression remained unreadable. With a practiced ease, she smiled.

“Healing well. Thanks for asking.”

Dr. Hart smiled in return, clearly satisfied with herself. “Good to hear. You’ll be back in the field in no time, I’m sure.” She stepped past Ada, brushing against her shoulder ever so slightly as she exited into the hallway. “Enjoy your meeting. I think you’ll find him in a good mood today.”

Ada didn’t bother watching her leave. Instead, she exhaled slowly, schooling her expression before stepping forward and knocking against the open door frame.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she called dryly.

Wesker was standing in his living room, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. His hair was slightly disheveled—not enough to be obvious, but enough for Ada to notice. He barely spared her a glance as he adjusted his collar, entirely unbothered.

“Hardly.”

Ada stepped inside, closing the door behind her as she placed the reports on his kitchen table. “Miles wanted these delivered. I figured you wouldn’t want to wait.”

Wesker finally looked at her then, his expression unreadable behind his shades. She met his gaze evenly, refusing to let her thoughts show.

“How considerate,” he said, his tone smooth, indifferent.

“Oh, it was no trouble at all,” Ada replied easily, shifting her weight onto one leg. “And Dr. Hart was even kind enough to inform me you were still here.”

His lips quirked, just slightly. “Good to know that everyone is getting along.”

Ada’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Makes your job easier, I’m sure.”

For a moment, silence hung between them. Wesker studied her, but Ada refused to give him anything to work with. She had no reason to care who he spent his time with, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of thinking otherwise.

She gestured to the reports. “All yours. I’d offer to summarize, but I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your valuable time.”

Wesker smirked faintly. “Unusually to the point today. Have the doctors been giving you something to improve your mood, Miss Wong?”

“Oh yeah—the good stuff, twice a day,” she replied coldly. In truth, Wesker had blocked the med team’s use of most higher grade painkillers when it came to her. If anything, she should have been in a worse mood considering she only had generic painkillers to work with.

Ada didn’t linger. She turned on her heel and exited, her steps perfectly measured. Only when she was out of his quarters, the door sliding shut behind her, did she allow herself a breath. It didn’t matter. It was none of her business. So why did it bother her at all?

Instead of returning to her own duties, she opted for something that would help her clear her mind. Hours later, the rhythmic sound of her fists connecting with the punching bag echoed through the empty gym. Ada exhaled sharply with each strike, her movements precise, controlled. She wasn’t supposed to be pushing herself too hard—doctor’s orders and all—but she needed something to focus on, something to work out the irritation coiling in her chest.

It wasn’t about him. Not really. Ada hardly knew her handler aside from rumors and clipped conversations. No… It was the hypocrisy of it all.

If their roles had been reversed—if she had been the one caught with someone sneaking out of her quarters—Wesker would have had a pointed remark locked and loaded, ready to fire. Distractions, he would have called it. A lapse in discipline. Maybe even a liability.

But for him? Apparently, it was just another item on his schedule.

Her fists hit harder, the bag swinging slightly with the impact. The memory of Dr. Hart adjusting her blouse, the smug little smirk on her lips, flashed through Ada’s mind. She hated that it had stuck with her at all. Wesker could sleep with half the facility and she wouldn’t care—so long as it didn’t affect their work. That was all that mattered.

Another strike. Then another. Her breaths came steady, but there was an edge to them. She knew she was toeing the line of what her body could handle, but she didn’t care. She needed this. Needed to move, needed to shake off whatever this was.

And then—

“You shouldn’t be overexerting yourself.”

The deep voice cut through the quiet, smooth and authoritative. Ada didn’t pause, but she knew exactly who it was.

Wesker. Of course.

She landed one last punch before finally stilling, resting her gloved hands on the bag as she caught her breath. “Didn’t realize I needed a babysitter,” she said, her tone casual, controlled.

“You don’t,” Wesker replied, stepping closer. “But you do need to be in optimal condition for the field. Tearing your stitches open in some personal crusade isn’t going to accomplish that.”

Ada huffed a short, humorless laugh, still facing the bag. “Relax, sir. I know my limits.”

“Do you?” he mused.

She turned then, meeting his unreadable gaze. “If you came here to scold me, save it. I’m fine.”

Wesker studied her for a moment, then tilted his head slightly. “Then perhaps you’d like to explain why you’re hitting that bag as if it personally offended you.”

Ada’s jaw tightened, just slightly. He would notice that. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to smirk. “Would you rather I be hitting you, sir?”

For the first time since entering, Wesker’s lips twitched into something almost amused. “That would be ill-advised, regardless of the fact you’d never land a hit.”

Ada rolled her shoulders, turning her attention back to the bag. “Then I suggest you let me work out my frustrations in peace. I’m still following orders, aren’t I? Better to be on my feet than lounging in an infirmary bed, right?”

Wesker didn’t move. He lingered, watching her, and for a moment she thought he might push the issue further. But then, with a quiet hum of consideration, he simply said, “Don’t be late to tomorrow’s briefing.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone once more. Ada let out a slow breath, rolling her wrists as she turned back to the punching bag. She wasn’t done yet.

—

Wesker walked with purpose through the corridors of the facility, his mind meticulously cataloging the details of the upcoming Rockfort mission. Or at least, it should have been. But instead, it drifted—circling back to Ada Wong.

He had seen it in her eyes. The way her smirk had been just a little too sharp. The slight tension in her stance. Ada was observant—almost annoyingly so. It was no great leap to assume she had put two and two together after running into Dr. Hart earlier. He normally prided himself on discretion, but she had an uncanny ability to appear at the most inopportune moments.

Not that it mattered. He felt no obligation to explain himself—certainly not to her. He had indulged in a passing curiosity, nothing more. But if Ada took issue with it, if it had somehow gotten under her skin, she wouldn’t say so outright. That wasn’t her style. No, she would act.

A sharp thud jolted him from his thoughts. Someone had walked directly into his back, nearly stumbling from the impact.

“Ah—s-sir, my apologies! I—”

Wesker didn’t acknowledge them. He barely even registered the intrusion. His body remained unmoving, statuesque, as his mind latched onto a single, intrusive thought. What if she uses Roland to retaliate?

It was an absurd notion. Ada was too professional to let such notions interfere with her work. And yet, she was also unpredictable. Rebellious. He had spent months ensuring she remained focused, keeping her from veering too far off course while in Raccoon. If she decided to seek out her own fun now—as a statement, as some twisted form of retribution—it would only make her more difficult to rein in.

A flicker of irritation crossed his mind. It shouldn’t concern me. And yet, it did.

Not because he cared about who she warmed her bed with—of course not. But because if she was distracted, if her priorities shifted even slightly, it would become a liability. And liabilities, no matter how enticing, could not be tolerated.

His hands curled briefly into fists before he exhaled slowly, regaining control of his thoughts. No. He wouldn’t let this spiral into something ridiculous. Ada was still under his command. Still his to shape, to mold into something useful. He would ensure she stayed that way.

Wesker finally continued down the corridor, his stride slow as he made his way toward the lower levels of the facility. The research division had recently received a new shipment of viral samples for analysis, and while it wasn’t his direct responsibility to oversee them, he found the work mildly interesting. It would give him something to do—something else to focus on.

And yet, his mind remained preoccupied. His encounter with Dr. Hart had been… adequate. Pleasurable, even, though that was hardly an impressive feat. She had been eager and compliant. He had enjoyed the control, the way she had looked at him with thinly veiled admiration, desperate for his attention. But beyond that?

Boring.

That was the word for it.

Of course, he had a feeling that would be the case. He had held back, exercised an almost excruciating level of restraint. A test of discipline, perhaps. He had been uncertain about how the virus might influence his more carnal urges, and Evelyn had simply been a convenient way to gauge his own control.

And he had succeeded. Still, the encounter had left something to be desired. A vague, nagging sense of dissatisfaction.

Would it be different if I didn’t hold back as much?

The thought crossed his mind before he could dismiss it. A scientific curiosity, nothing more. He had spent so much time analyzing the virus’s effects on his physical capabilities, but not on this. It was an unexplored variable.

He reached the research lab and stepped inside, the scent of sterilized equipment and faint chemical residue filling the air. A few scientists acknowledged him with quick nods before returning to their work, instinctively keeping their distance. Wesker moved toward one of the viewing monitors, scrolling through the latest test results with a detached interest.

Fingers tapped idly against the console. Perhaps he would see Dr. Hart again. Not just for pleasure, necessarily, but for data. To see if the experience changed without his self-imposed restrictions. If he found it more… engaging.

Or if the issue lay elsewhere entirely. He smirked faintly, amused by the thought. Tch. Overanalyzing sex of all things. But any good scientist would need to establish a control before introducing an independent variable.

Chapter Text

The large display screen behind Wesker showed a detailed blueprint of Rockfort Island—its prison layout, research facilities, and security checkpoints all meticulously outlined. The debrief had gone precisely as he had expected: efficient, concise, and met with little resistance. His subordinates knew better than to question his judgment.

All except one, that was.

From her place at the table, Ada Wong sat with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable save for the slight tilt of her head—an indicator of thoughtfulness. When it became clear that no one else intended to speak, she broke the silence first.

“So who’s leading the mission?” Her tone was casual, but her eyes locked onto his with quiet intent. “I assume that will be me?”

Wesker leaned back slightly, interlocking his fingers atop the table. Presumptuous, but not unexpected.

“That depends,” he said smoothly. “Your recovery is progressing, but you aren’t at one hundred percent. Should that remain the case when the operation commences, you will be reassigned to assist another team.”

He caught the subtle tensing of her jaw. She wasn’t pleased to hear that, and she let him know as much.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Then recover faster,” Wesker countered, unbothered by her reaction. He had anticipated her displeasure. Ada was ambitious, but she was also practical—she wouldn’t argue for the sake of it.

After a brief pause, she exhaled slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Understood.”

It wasn’t a concession, not really. It was a tactical retreat. She would do everything in her power to ensure she was fit for the mission. Satisfied, Wesker turned his attention back to the gathered agents. “That concludes today’s debrief. For those of you mentioned, you have your assignments—see to them.”

As the others rose from their seats and began to file out, Wesker lingered, his gaze briefly shifting back to Ada. She remained seated for a moment longer, fingers lightly tapping against the table’s surface as if deep in thought. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smirk, she stood and followed the rest.

Wesker watched her go, already knowing she wouldn’t let the matter rest. Good. Let her push herself. It would make things more interesting.

He moved with his own precision, closing his laptop with a crisp snap before swiftly gathering his notes. Each page was stacked with meticulous care before being slipped into a slim black folder. His laptop fit neatly into the leather case at his side. A flick of his wrist secured the latch, and within moments, he was on his feet.

The meeting room had already emptied, save for the faint traces of conversation lingering in the halls beyond. Wesker adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, then strode toward the exit. His steps were purposeful, but unhurried—an air of command that came as naturally as breathing.

As he stepped into the hallway, something caught his eye.

Ada—

She moved with that signature, effortless confidence, but her trajectory was... interesting. Rather than heading toward the training facilities or her quarters, she turned down a corridor that led to the directors’ offices.

Hmph. That was unexpected. Wesker slowed his pace, allowing distance between them. He wasn’t one for idle curiosity, but Ada’s movements rarely deviated without reason. And if she was seeking out a superior after his orders had already been given, it warranted his attention.

He followed at a discreet distance, his enhanced vision making it easy to track her even as she moved further ahead. The corridor was mostly empty, save for a few analysts and low-ranking agents passing by, none of whom paid any mind to Ada as she walked with purpose toward Roland’s office.

Wesker came to a halt just before the corner, watching as she reached the heavy door. Without hesitation, she turned the handle and disappeared inside, closing it firmly behind her.

His eyes narrowed behind his shades. Interesting.

Rather than moving on, he lingered, silent and still, listening. The walls were thick, built for privacy, but his enhanced hearing strained to catch any indication of what was transpiring beyond that door.

Whatever it was, it had better not involve questioning his authority.

Ada, meanwhile, leaned against the closed door for the briefest moment, exhaling softly before pushing off and stepping further inside. Roland’s office was as polished as ever—sleek mahogany furniture, neatly stacked files, and a single glass of amber liquid waiting on his desk. The faint scent of expensive cologne lingered in the air, a deliberate touch, no doubt.

Roland, the handsome devil himself, stood near a small side table, where a crystal decanter gleamed under the dim overhead light. His black hair was messy, carefully falling into his eyes in a way that reminded her of Leon. He turned at the sound of her entrance, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his lips.

“Ah, Ada,” he said smoothly, reaching for a second glass. “Punctual as always.”

She crossed the room with ease, unbothered by the way his gaze swept over her. If she had been wearing her signature red dress, she might have understood his lingering stare. But even in the standard-issue black HCF attire, his appreciation was obvious.

Roland poured a generous measure of whiskey, then extended the glass to her. As she took it, his fingers barely grazed her own before he lifted his free hand, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You look ravishing, even in HCF sweatpants,” he murmured, letting his touch linger for just a second too long.

Ada tilted her head, lips curving into a coy smile. Flattering, she thought, if not entirely original. She took a small sip of the whiskey, savoring the burn before meeting his gaze.

“And here I thought you called me in for something important,” she mused, tone light but edged with curiosity. “Or was this just an excuse to get me alone?”

Roland chuckled, taking a slow sip of his own drink before setting it down. “Can’t it be both?”

Ada took another deliberate sip of her whiskey, her eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Roland set his glass down with a soft clink. There was a tension in the air, thick and charged, yet she kept her posture relaxed, leaning slightly against the side of the table as if she had all the time in the world. Her lips curled into a playful smile, though her mind was calculating.

“You certainly seem to have a flair for multi-tasking, Director,” she said, the words dripping with a hint of mockery. “And here I thought your usual business was all serious. You’re really letting the lines blur today.” She took another sip, savoring the burn as the alcohol warmed her throat, keeping her tone casual, but her eyes keen. She could see how he was watching her, the way his gaze shifted to follow the subtle movements of her body.

Roland didn't flinch at her words, the smile on his lips turning more predatory, more confident. He leaned forward slightly, his hand slipping lower as if testing the waters. His fingers brushed over the wound on her side, careful not to apply too much pressure.

Ada inhaled sharply, but it was more from the lingering pain than his touch. The director’s fingers lingered a moment too long, making her stiffen imperceptibly before he pulled back. He clicked his tongue in disapproval, muttering with an edge of mock sympathy, “It’s a damn shame, really. It’s Wesker’s fault you didn’t get the bed rest you needed. All that unnecessary rush—typical. If I had been overseeing that, he never would have been so cruel to you.”

Ada’s eyes flashed, a quick, calculating gleam flashing beneath the mask of playfulness she maintained. She tilted her head slightly, lips curling as if she found his comment amusing. Her eyes trailed down to the hand that had just grazed over her side, and she allowed her gaze to rise back up to meet his, a sultry flicker behind her eyes.

“Oh, please don’t blame Wesker for everything,” she said with a teasing lilt, her voice low but deliberate. She took a slow step closer, feeling the electric tension between them crackle. “Perhaps your bedside manner leaves a little something to be desired too. Though…” She leaned in, her breath a whisper against his ear, “I’m not so sure ‘bed rest’ is what I need anymore.”

Roland’s hand froze for a moment, his expression momentarily unreadable before he let out a low chuckle, a knowing gleam flickering in his eyes. His fingers slid down further, trailing the curve of her waist in a way that suggested this conversation was far from over.

“Oh? What is it that you need, then?” he asked, his voice almost a purr, though there was a challenge behind the smoothness, as if he were daring her to admit what she wanted, or perhaps, what she was willing to ask for.

Ada’s gaze softened ever so slightly, the flicker of challenge in her eyes replaced by something more contemplative. She leaned back just enough to catch Roland’s eyes, her expression serious for a moment before the smile returned, coy and playful.

“For Wesker to see reason,” she said softly, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “I’m going to try to do it myself of course.” She paused for a beat, letting the weight of the words hang between them before she added, “But if I can’t succeed…”

She let the sentence trail off as she set her empty glass down on the table. Her fingers lingered on the glass for a moment, her skin brushing against the smooth surface, as though she were weighing her next move. Then, without warning, she stepped forward, her body closing the remaining distance between them. In one fluid motion, she leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to Roland’s cheek.

The kiss was light, but intentional—just enough to leave him wanting more. She pulled back slowly, her lips still curled in that subtle smile, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

Roland, still caught in the unexpected gesture, reached up a hand as though to steady himself, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip as if he were savoring the sensation. His gaze darkened, something primal flashing behind his eyes, a clear desire for more. But he held himself back, taking a deep breath, and smoothed the moment over with a self-assured grin.

“Of course,” he murmured, his voice hushed, yet with a touch of finality. “You’re always welcome to come to me if things don’t work out. But you’ll find I’m far more reasonable than your current situation.” His fingers lingered on her lip a moment longer before he pulled away, a quiet promise hanging between them.

He straightened, shifting his posture to the more commanding presence he had perfected. “In fact,” he said smoothly, “I’ve already begun working on moving you to my team, with a more… reasonable handler. Someone who can appreciate your talents for what they are. I’ll keep you posted on any updates, granted, the news will probably reach Wesker before I can inform you myself.”

A transfer? She knew that Roland had a lingering desire for her to switch teams, but this was the first time he had put any effort into making the switch. Internally, she was apprehensive about the news. It would be harder to toy with the director if he actually became her superior.

After a moment, he gave her a dismissive yet oddly intimate gesture toward the door. “You’re dismissed for now, Ada. I trust I’ll hear from you soon?”

As she turned to leave, the tension between them still crackled in the air—unresolved, uncertain. But Ada knew better than to let that stop her from playing the game. She paused just long enough to look back at him, her smile soft but full of promise.

“See you around, Ro.”

—

A few hours later.

Ada had barely set foot in the cafeteria when she heard her name.

“Wong!”

She turned her head, already considering ignoring it, but when she spotted Dr. Hart waving her over with a smile, she hesitated. The doctor wasn’t alone—seated around her were three other women, all dressed in various HCF uniforms, their postures relaxed, their conversation clearly animated before she arrived.

For a split second, Ada debated keeping her distance. But if she was going to keep her ear to the ground, it wouldn’t hurt to indulge in a little casual socializing. With a sigh, she grabbed a bottle of water and a protein bar from the counter before heading over.

“You look like you could use some company,” Dr. Hart teased as Ada slid into the open seat beside her.

“I’m not sure I’d call it a need,” Ada replied smoothly, peeling back the wrapper on her bar.

The women chuckled, and she could feel their eyes on her—measuring, curious. They weren’t stupid; they knew she was different, knew she carried herself with the kind of confidence that kept most people at arm’s length. And then, as if waiting for the perfect moment, one of them—a woman with short, light hair and an amused glint in her eyes—leaned in slightly.

“So, Evelyn,” she began, her voice low, conspiratorial. “You’ve been with Wesker, right?”

Ada arched a brow, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation.

The woman smirked. “Come on. Is it all hype, or is he actually good in bed?”

A brief silence followed, broken only by the distant hum of conversation from the rest of the cafeteria. Ada could feel Dr. Hart’s barely concealed grin beside her, clearly entertained but making no move to intervene. The others were waiting, eyes alight with curiosity, and Ada knew they were expecting something—some kind of reaction, some kind of answer.

“Well,” Evelyn mused, as if genuinely considering if she wanted to share, “A man like Wesker doesn’t do anything halfway, I’ll say that.”

A chorus of giggles and murmurs of approval rippled around the table.

“Oh, you can’t just leave it at that,” one of the women teased.

Ada took another sip of her water, masking her amusement as Evelyn leaned forward, basking in the attention.

“I knew it was only a matter of time before he fell for me,” Evelyn continued, a smug smile playing at her lips. “Men like him? They pretend to be untouchable, but in the end, they always come around.”

Ada failed to repress the quiet snort that escaped her. It was small, almost imperceptible, but in the low murmur of voices around the table, it stood out like a gunshot.

A few of the women casted wary glances between Ada and Evelyn, clearly sensing the tension creeping in. Evelyn’s eyes narrowed. The amusement in her voice was gone when she spoke again.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said, her tone saccharine but laced with something sharper. “You hate Wesker, don’t you, Ada? I’ve heard he’s been quite the strict handler since you’ve returned.”

Ada remained calm in face of the accusation, her expression unreadable as she set down her water bottle. She met Evelyn’s gaze without hesitation, her smirk still faint but her eyes cool.

“Hate’s a strong word,” Ada said smoothly, tilting her head slightly. “Let’s just say I’m not nearly as impressed as you are. Then again, I imagine that a woman of your age will take whatever she can get.”

A couple of the women exchanged glances, their discomfort growing. Dr. Hart, for her part, hid her smile behind the rim of her coffee cup. “Sounds like someone’s bitter,” she quipped, her lips curving into something smug.

Ada just gave her a slow, knowing look, the kind that made people wonder what she was thinking rather than spelling it out for them.

“You think so?” she asked, her voice light, almost amused. “Yeah. You’re probably right… But hell will freeze over before I ever say something positive about that asshole. You’ve put him up on some ridiculous pedestal, but try actually working for him.”

Evelyn scoffed, leaning back in her chair with a skeptical arch of her brow. “Oh, please. Working for him? You run errands and play spy games—it’s not exactly the same as what the rest of us do.”

Ada smirked, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb before resting her elbow on the table. “You think I just run errands? That’s cute.”

The other women chuckled under their breath, breaking some of the tension. One of the other women, clearly uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone, busied herself stirring her coffee. Evelyn, however, wasn’t backing down. She leaned forward again, her eyes sharp. “If he’s so terrible, why are you still here? Why not transfer?”

Ada met her gaze evenly, taking a slow sip of water before answering. “Already working on that. If I’m lucky, I’ll be transferred before the end of next month.” She let the words settle, deliberately vague, before setting her bottle down.

Evelyn’s expression wavered just slightly, as if realizing that Ada wasn’t going to be as easy to rattle as she’d hoped. As the conversation shifted to safer topics—recent training exercises, upcoming projects, and the latest gossip circulating through the facility—Ada remained mostly silent, idly sipping her water. She could still feel Evelyn’s gaze flickering toward her every so often, as if waiting for her to slip up, to say something that might crack the carefully constructed image Ada projected.

It was almost amusing.

The past two days had passed uneventfully, much to Ada’s relief. She hadn’t seen much of Evelyn, which suited her just fine, and for once, no one had been breathing down her neck about upcoming assignments. It was the first real day off she’d had in what felt like forever, and she intended to enjoy every second of it.

The warm scent of sesame oil and garlic filled her small apartment as she stood at the stove, idly swaying to the smooth rhythm of song playing softly from her entertainment speakers. Loose grains of rice sizzled in the pan as she stirred, her body moving with the music in an unhurried, effortless way. She was comfortable, relaxed even.

She wore an oversized HCF t-shirt and a pair of compression shorts, feeling at ease in the privacy of her own space. The fabric of the shirt brushed against the tops of her thighs as she turned to grab a bottle of soy sauce from the fridge. As the beat began to pick up, Ada used the bottom of the spatula as a makeshift microphone until she heard someone clear their throat.

Ada startled slightly, the spatula in her hand pausing mid-air before she quickly regained her composure. She arched a brow, eyes flickering over to where Wesker stood leaning against the kitchen entryway. His arms were loosely crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable aside from the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his lips.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she turned back to her stove. “You know, normal people knock.”

Wesker pushed off the doorframe, taking a slow step forward as the music still played in the background. “I did knock. But normal people also don’t leave their doors unlocked.”

Ada rolled her eyes, expertly flipping the rice in the pan. “Well knock harder next time.”

He came to a stop just beside her, his gaze briefly flicking toward the pan of fried rice before meeting her eyes once more. “You have the day off,” he remarked. “I half-expected you to spend it in the training room.”

Ada hummed, tilting her head slightly. “And I half-expected you to mind your own business.”

A low chuckle. “Touché.”

He was too close now—close enough that she could catch the faintest traces of his cologne, that clean, crisp scent that had always clung to him. He wasn’t crowding her, not exactly, but he was still within arm’s reach, his presence commanding even in something as mundane as standing in her kitchen.

She finally turned to face him fully, spatula still in hand. “So, what does my oh-so-gracious handler want? Don’t tell me you’re here to critique my cooking.”

His smirk remained, but there was something sharper behind it. “Tempting,” he mused. “But no. I came to discuss something regarding Rockfort.”

Ada exhaled, rolling her eyes before turning back to her stove. “Of course you did,” she muttered. “Can’t even let me enjoy one day off in peace.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he leaned against the counter, watching her as if debating how much to say. “I’m simply ensuring you stay informed.”

“Mm-hmm,” she mused, plating her food with practiced ease. She gestured toward the counter. “Well, if you’re going to ruin my lunch, at least make yourself useful and grab some bowls.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, as if the idea of being ordered around in her kitchen was mildly amusing. Then, to her mild surprise, he actually complied, reaching into her cabinets she had motioned to with ease.

“I was also wondering,” he began, choosing his next words carefully, “how your conversation with Director Roland went the other day.”

Ada’s hand stilled for the briefest second before she forced herself to focus on the shrimp, flipping each one with care. She sprinkled the final seasonings over the rice, willing her expression to remain neutral.

Of course, Wesker would bring up Roland. She should have expected it. She should have known that he of all people wouldn’t let something like that slip by unnoticed. Still, the fact that he had followed her, had been curious enough to pry, irritated her more than she cared to admit.

She didn’t turn around. Instead, she let the question hang in the air for a second longer than necessary before offering a casual, “Didn’t realize you cared so much about my whereabouts, boss.”

Wesker didn’t respond immediately, but she could feel his gaze lingering on her, watching, assessing. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things.

That’s when an idea struck her. If he wanted to pry into her business, then two could play at that game. “So…” she said, finally turning off the stove and setting the spatula aside. “How’s dating Evelyn Hart been?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, just in time to see his face twist into something almost offended. A scowl deepened on his features, brief but unmistakable, as if the mere suggestion personally insulted him.

“We are not dating,” he said, his voice clipped, as though the very idea was distasteful.

Ada nearly laughed. She should have laughed, but instead, she just raised a brow, feigning innocent curiosity. “No?” she mused, tilting her head. “Could’ve fooled me. She certainly seems to think otherwise.”

Albert’s expression darkened slightly, irritation flickering in his eyes. “Dr. Hart is misguided, I assure you,” he said smoothly, but there was a distinct edge to his tone, one she rarely heard from him.

Now that was interesting.

“So you’re saying you didn’t enjoy your time with her?” Ada pressed, turning to fully face him now, crossing her arms over her chest.

Wesker exhaled through his nose, looking as though he was already regretting this entire conversation. “I’m saying,” he said evenly, “that it was nothing more than a one-time thing.”

Ada smirked, leaning against the counter. “That bad, huh?”

His jaw tensed ever so slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he simply regarded her with a calculating gaze. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

Damn. He wasn’t going to let it go. Ada exhaled, turning back to dish up the food. “Roland wanted to talk. Nothing more.”

“About?”

She scooped the fried rice into both bowls, pretending to focus on the presentation. “Work. Life. Me.”

She felt rather than saw Wesker’s eyes narrow slightly. “And?”

Ada sighed dramatically, finally meeting his gaze as she slid a plate toward him. “And what? If you’re so curious, you go ask him.”

Wesker didn’t so much as glance at the food she handed him. “I would rather hear it from you.”

Of course he would. Because when Wesker wanted something, he didn’t stop until he got it. Ada exhaled, tapping her manicured nails lightly against the counter. “Fine,” she said finally. “He made an offer.”

Wesker’s gaze sharpened. “An offer.”

She smirked, pushing off the counter. “To transfer.”

For the first time since the conversation started, she saw something flicker in his expression—something quick, something unreadable. He masked it almost immediately, but she had caught it, and that was enough. She picked up her plate, turning away as if the subject was already settled. “Eat up, Wesker. You barged in here—you might as well enjoy the food.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the faint clink of Ada’s chopsticks against her bowl as she took a bite, chewing slowly, seemingly unbothered by Wesker’s presence in her kitchen.

Wesker remained standing near the counter, his arms crossed, gaze flicking from his untouched bowl to Ada. There was an odd weight in the air—not the usual tension that brewed between them, but something quieter. Almost…awkward.

He finally picked up his meal, examining the contents before lifting a brow. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

Ada stopped mid-bite and slowly turned her head to give him a flat, deadpan stare.

“Who the hell do you think makes all my meals?” she asked, voice dry.

Wesker considered this for a moment, as if truly contemplating it. “Takeout,” he said finally. “Or the cafeteria.”

Ada snorted. “Right, because that’s sustainable.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to prepare your own food.”

“And you don’t strike me as the type to eat at all,” she shot back. “Yet here we are.”

Wesker hummed, unimpressed, before finally taking a seat at the small table. He picked up the chopsticks with a fluid motion, testing the grip before taking a bite. His expression remained unreadable as he chewed.

Ada watched him out of the corner of her eye, trying to gauge his reaction. She wasn’t sure why she cared whether or not he liked it—it wasn’t as if she had made it for him. But there was something about this moment, about this oddly civil meal they were sharing, that felt strangely out of place.

“Well?” she prompted.

Wesker set his chopsticks down for a moment. “It’s…adequate.”

Ada rolled her eyes. “High praise coming from you.”

He said nothing, merely continued eating. And for the first time in what felt like forever, they sat in a room together without arguing, without throwing barbed words at one another like knives.

It was almost unsettling. Ada wasn’t sure what to do with the silence, so she did what she always did—she pretended it didn’t bother her.

“Since you’re here,” she said, nudging the lack of conversation elsewhere, “you might as well tell me more of your grand plan for Rockfort.”

Wesker smirked slightly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Eager to return to work?”

“Eager to know what kind of mess you’ll be sending me into,” she corrected.

He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with that unreadable gaze again. “We’ll see if you’re even going first.”

Ada gave him a look. “Don’t be a tease, Wesker. We both know I’ll be there.”

His smirk widened, but he said nothing.

And just like that, the moment of strange civility passed, and they were back to playing their usual game—one neither of them had ever been willing to lose.

Chapter Text

A couple of weeks had passed since Ada’s impromptu lunch with Wesker, and in that time, she had fully recovered from her injury. Whatever bruising remained was faint, and the stitches had long since been removed. She had wasted no time in throwing herself back into her usual training routines, making it clear to anyone who questioned her that she was more than ready to return to the field.

When her clearance finally came through, stamped and signed—she was officially back in action.

That morning, she found herself in a debriefing room alongside several other agents, Roland leading the discussion. He had called them in to go over the upcoming missions, reassigning agents as needed and discussing the finer details of HCF’s larger objectives. Rockfort Island was still at least a month away, but smaller operations were already in motion.

Wesker sat at the table near the other handlers, as always, silent and composed, watching without interruption. Ada listened as Roland spoke, taking notes where necessary. But she wasn’t oblivious to the way his gaze occasionally slid in her direction, the way his smirk deepened when he mentioned an upcoming operation that he suspected would interest her.

When the meeting finally adjourned, the other agents filtered out, but as Ada went to leave, Roland stopped her with a casual, “Not so fast, Miss Wong.”

She arched a brow but didn’t protest, stepping aside as the others exited the room.

“Walk with me,” he said smoothly, nodding toward the door.

She sighed, already sensing where this was going, but played along. “Sure, sir.”

They strolled down the hall, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his steps unhurried. “You’re looking well,” he remarked, his voice low and warm. “Fully recovered, I assume?”

“Good as new,” Ada replied lightly.

“Perfect,” he mused, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Would be a shame to keep such a valuable asset benched any longer.”

Ada smirked but said nothing. They stopped near the overlook of the facility’s lower levels, where agents and researchers moved about below. Roland turned toward her fully, a slow smile curling his lips.

“You know, Ada, I was thinking… Now that you’re back in the field, perhaps we should celebrate. Just the two of us.”

She tilted her head slightly, the faintest hint of amusement in her expression. “Celebrate?”

Roland reached out then, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers barely grazing her skin. “Yes,” he said, voice softer now. “You know—a proper welcome back.”

She let the touch linger for a second longer than necessary before pulling back, her smirk never faltering. “Tempting,” she mused, voice dripping with something playful. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea to overdo it right now.”

Roland chuckled, clearly not deterred. “That’s a shame,” he said. “I would’ve liked to see what new things you've picked up since Raccoon.”

Ada laughed softly, shaking her head. “Maybe one day you’ll find out.” She turned then, walking away before he could respond, her strides slow and deliberate.

What she didn’t notice was Wesker, standing just around the corner, having witnessed the entire exchange. His jaw was set, fingers flexing slightly at his sides. He had expected Roland’s interest in Ada—the man had never been subtle despite the rumors. But something about the way she entertained him, the way she played into the game, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The irritation was uncalled for, unnecessary. And yet, as he finally moved from his spot, heading in the opposite direction, he found that it lingered all the same. Wesker’s steps were brisk as he walked down the narrow corridor toward the operations wing.

The irritation gnawing at him from the brief interaction he had witnessed lingered like a thorn in his side. Roland's behavior had crossed a line, and Wesker knew it. The director was making his move, and it was starting to get personal. He had no patience for it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Wesker stepped inside, pressing the button for the floor where Miles was waiting. His thoughts were focused, sharpening with each second. Roland’s interest in Ada was no longer just a minor inconvenience—it was starting to interfere with more than just professional boundaries. Wesker would not let that happen.

When the elevator reached its destination, he moved swiftly toward Miles’ office. He didn’t knock; he simply entered, the door clicking shut behind him. Miles looked up from his desk, his face softening slightly at the sight of Wesker.

“You look like you’ve got something to say, Al,” Miles remarked, already leaning back in his chair, his expression neutral but inquisitive.

Wesker didn’t waste time. “Roland is overstepping.” His voice was low, controlled, but the weight of his words carried through the room.

Miles’ brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything right away, waiting for Wesker to elaborate.

“He’s been trying to transfer Ada to his team,” Wesker continued, his tone sharp. “I want that blocked. Immediately.” His eyes never left Miles as he spoke, his jaw set in a way that suggested he wasn’t asking for a discussion—he was giving an order.

Miles sighed, pushing himself upright, and then folded his hands on the desk in front of him. He leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful but calculating. “You know, Albert…” he began, “She’s never been your favorite, and Roland’s got a point. She’s a high-value agent. If he thinks she’s better suited to someone else’s team, it might be the right move. I know she was cleared for duty again, but we can always find you a different agent for Rockfort.”

Wesker’s lips twitched in something that could’ve been a sneer. “I don’t care what Roland thinks.” He crossed his arms, his posture suddenly more rigid, his irritation clear. “The plans are in its final stages. Moving her now will cause delays. She stays where she is, under my control.”

Braden studied him for a long moment before letting out another sigh. “Alright, fine,” he relented, raising a hand in mock surrender. “But just out of curiosity, Wesker—other than Rockfort, why is transferring Ada such a bad thing? She’s not exactly your first pick, and she’s clearly not under your thumb like you want her to be.”

Albert’s gaze flickered briefly before he spoke, voice low but steady. “I never intended to have her on my team in the first place. But now that she’s here, she’s mine to manage. Not Roland’s, not anyone else’s. And if anyone is going to benefit from her skills, it’s going to be under my terms. The moment Roland thinks he can take that from me is the moment he makes himself a target.”

The director didn’t reply immediately, his expression unreadable, but Wesker could see the wheels turning in his mind. After a pause, Miles gave a small nod. “Alright. I’ll make sure Roland’s plans are put on hold. But you owe me one for this. You’re certainly not making my job easier, going up against another director like this. You really want control? Consider moving up to director yourself.”

Wesker’s lips curled into the faintest of smiles, a calculated expression that barely touched his eyes. “Add me to the consideration pool.” He paused, then added, “And make sure Director Roland knows Ada is not up for negotiation.”

With that, he turned and left the office without another word, leaving Miles to lean back in his chair, staring after him with a bemused shake of his head. The decision had been made. Roland’s plans would be halted for now. For now, the director would have to swallow his disappointment, and Wesker relished in the idea of throwing a wrench in his carefully laid out intentions.

It was a small victory, but a satisfying one nonetheless. Roland had gotten too comfortable, too confident that he could operate outside the boundaries Wesker had set. The director’s blatant interest in Ada, both personal and professional, had crossed a line. Now, Roland would have to deal with the consequences.

The thought of Ada staying exactly where she was, under his watchful eye, sent a brief surge of satisfaction through him. It wasn’t just about the control; it was about keeping her close, keeping her in his orbit where she belonged—where he could monitor her, evaluate her usefulness. Ada was a valuable asset, and as a survivor of Raccoon, he refused to give her up easily.

Wesker’s thoughts briefly shifted, a flicker of curiosity cutting through the calm veneer of his mind. How will Ada take this news?

Albert was reviewing a mission dossier when the sound of his office door opening pulled his attention away. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Ada Wong never knocked when she was in a mood.

She strode inside with the kind of confidence that suggested she was holding all the cards, despite knowing full well she wasn’t. The door shut behind her with a quiet but deliberate click.

He leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Wong?”

Ada placed her hands on the edge of his desk, fingers splayed over the polished surface. “I got word that my transfer was denied,” she said, her voice deceptively smooth.

Wesker allowed himself a small smirk. “Is that so?”

“Don’t play dumb.” She frowned, tilting her head slightly. “We both know who pulled the strings on that one.”

He didn’t deny it. He merely folded his hands in front of him, watching her with that ever-present, unreadable gaze. She exhaled slowly through her nose, keeping her composure. “I want to know why.”

Wesker finally leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Why?” he repeated, amusement flickering behind his glasses. “You should already know the answer to that.”

Ada narrowed her eyes. “Enlighten me.”

He studied her for a moment before answering. “It’d be harder to torture you if you left.”

She scoffed, pushing off the desk to cross her arms. “Spare me the flattery. If this is about Rockfort, you and I both know you have more than enough agents capable of handling it. You don’t need me.”

Wesker smirked, tilting his head slightly. “No, but I prefer you.”

For the first time, Ada hesitated. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but he caught it. She quickly masked it with a smirk of her own. “You prefer me?” she echoed, amusement lacing her tone. “That’s rich.”

Wesker merely shrugged. “You want to know why I blocked it? Because you’re adaptable. Skilled. You know how to get results when you don’t let your emotions take over.” He paused, his smirk widening ever so slightly. “And let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be nearly as entertained working under anyone else, would you?”

Ada chuckled, shaking her head. “You really do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She let the silence stretch between them for a few beats before exhaling, placing her hands on her hips. “So that’s it? I’m just a tool you’d rather keep in your kit?”

Wesker’s smirk faded slightly, his gaze sharpening. “You agreed to work for me, Ada. Or did you forget that? I merely ensured that choice remained intact.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, as if weighing his words, testing them for hidden meaning. Then, with a quiet scoff, she turned on her heel. “You’re insufferable,” she muttered, striding toward the door.

Wesker watched her go, a flicker of satisfaction settling in his chest. Right before she stepped out, she paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “Keeping me on your team will cost you extra. Roland isn’t going to keep floating my salary if he can’t have me on his team. Hope you can pull some strings with Miles on that too.”

His smirk slowly pulled into a frown. “He’s been floating your salary?” he asked.

Ada left without so much as a response. As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, she exhaled softly, leaning back against it. The tension she’d carried into the room eased—just a fraction—but enough for her to recognize what she didn’t want to admit outright.

She was relieved.

The moment she heard that her transfer was denied, she had been furious. But now? Now that she had spoken to Wesker, now that she had confirmed it was him who had pulled the strings and not someone else? She wasn’t nearly as mad as she should have been.

Roland talked a big game about giving her “better opportunities,” but Ada had seen what kind of strings came attached to them. He wasn’t subtle. He wasn’t careful. And most importantly, he wasn’t Wesker. She had no illusions about her current handler. Wesker was an arrogant bastard with a god complex, but he kept things professional where it mattered. If he wanted control over her, it was for her skills—not for her.

And if he could outmaneuver Roland so effortlessly, then maybe—just maybe—she was better off staying where she was. Ada sighed, rolling her shoulders before pushing off the door. She wasn’t about to thank Wesker for interfering, but she could acknowledge—at least to herself—that she had just dodged a far worse alternative.

As Ada disappeared down the hall, Wesker turned back toward his desk, settling into his chair with a contemplative expression. He didn't like surprises—especially when they involved his agents. With practiced ease, he picked up the phone and dialed Miles. It only rang once before the director answered. "Wesker. Something else you need I presume?"

"Tell me about Roland floating Ada's salary."

There was a pause, and then Miles sighed. "Shit. Meant to bring that up before." Papers shuffled on the other end of the line. "Part of Roland’s budget was specifically allocated for her position. If he decides to cut those funds, well… she’d take a hit."

Wesker’s fingers drummed against the desk. "How much of a hit?"

Miles hesitated. "Around forty percent of her current salary."

Wesker’s body stilled. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Miles muttered. "Roland fought for her contract when she first joined, arguing she was an asset worth the investment. So when she was officially placed under your command, he still kept the financial strings in his grasp. It just wasn’t in the budget for our division."

Wesker's jaw tightened. Typical. Roland may have lost the battle for Ada, but he’d made damn sure to keep his leverage. "And if he pulls that funding?" Wesker asked.

"Then Ada takes a significant pay cut overnight. We’d have to either justify the expense elsewhere or let her fend for herself with the reduced salary… It’s not all bad though. She’d still retain her company housing and travel.”

Wesker didn’t respond immediately, his mind already working through solutions. He had no doubt that Roland would use this as a pressure point to make Ada’s life difficult—and, by extension, his. That wasn’t going to happen.

"Redirect the funds," Wesker ordered. "Make sure her pay remains unchanged. I don’t care how you balance the books, just get it done."

Miles chuckled dryly. "You really don’t like losing, do you?"

"This isn’t about losing,” Wesker said coolly. "Roland is right about one thing—she is an investment, and I won’t have her compromised by the director’s pettiness."

Another pause. Then Miles sighed. "Alright, I’ll see what I can do. But don’t expect a miracle."

"Then get creative," Wesker said, his tone final. "Let me know when it’s handled." With that, he hung up, already considering his next move. It was quickly becoming more and more apparent that Wesker needed to move up if he was going to play the game effectively.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers lightly tapping against the armrest as his other hand clicked his pen with a steady, deliberate rhythm. The soft snick of the mechanism was the only sound in the office, filling the silence as he sifted through the pieces of his next move.

As it stood, his position allowed him a degree of autonomy, but it wasn’t absolute. The Directors, Miles included, still dictated far too much of what he could and couldn’t do.

Click.

None of the current Directors had plans to step down. There were no upcoming retirements, no signs of discontent within their ranks. No natural vacancies.

Click.

But vacancies didn’t have to be natural, did they?

A slow smirk crept onto his lips. If someone—one of them—were to not report back from a mission, then suddenly, there would be a very convenient gap to fill. And who better to step in than him?

Click.

The question was who?

Roland would have been the obvious choice—eliminating him would remove a thorn from Wesker’s side while also creating an opening. But Roland was too obvious. If something happened to him, there would be questions, scrutiny, an investigation that even he would rather avoid.

No, it had to be someone else. Someone whose disappearance wouldn’t send shockwaves through HCF. Wesker reached for his laptop, his fingers poised over the keys as he began pulling personnel files. One of these Directors was going to have an accident. It was simply a matter of deciding which one.

He sifted through names, career histories, and field assignments, looking for the perfect target. Wesker needed someone important enough that their departure would create a real opportunity but not so crucial that their absence would trigger a drawn-out investigation.

Then, he found him.

Director Warren Greaves.

A man whose presence at HCF was tolerated rather than valued. He was competent, sure, but uninspired—someone who had coasted into his position through longevity rather than true capability. He managed external operations, overseeing riskier retrieval missions that often required boots on the ground. Missions that sometimes went awry. And he controlled a department with one of the largest budgets.

Wesker smirked. Perfect.

Leaning back in his chair, he tapped his fingers together, running through the angles. Greaves had an upcoming mission: an Umbrella facility in South America that had been abandoned after the company’s decline. Intel suggested some of Umbrella’s former employees had gone rogue, setting up their own little black market operation using leftover bio-weapons. The site needed to be neutralized, the assets recovered—or destroyed. A dangerous assignment.

An expendable one.

Wesker clicked his pen once more, then set it down with finality.

He wouldn’t need to lift a finger himself. No, all it took was a few adjustments—a reassignment of personnel, a slight miscalculation in intel, a delay in backup response time. The mission would go sideways, and Greaves… well, Greaves wouldn’t make it out alive. Neither would any of his accompanying team members, but Wesker could replace them easily.

Albert pulled up the mission logistics and started making his modifications. By the time he was done, it would all seem like an inevitable failure, the kind that came with working in this field. Just another casualty of the job. And when that vacancy opened?

He’d be ready to fill it.

Chapter Text

The sun hung low over the HCF training grounds, casting long shadows across the open field where the agents gathered. The air was thick with exertion, the scent of sweat and damp earth mixing as the group moved through their training rotations.

Ada stood among them, dressed in standard-issue training gear—black compression shorts that rode high on her thighs and a fitted HCF t-shirt that clung to her form. Unlike some of the agents, who grumbled about the day’s exercises, she moved with quiet ease, her breathing steady, her focus sharp.

The session was structured like a military-style boot camp, designed to push even the most seasoned agents to their limits. Each station tested a different aspect of their conditioning—high-intensity cardio, weightlifting, combat drills, and endurance training.

At the whistle’s shrill command, the agents jogged in formation, their shoes pounding against the dirt track. The first rotation focused on sprints—short bursts of speed followed by punishing sets of burpees. Ada kept pace, her body adapting to the rhythm, her mind tuned out to everything but the motion.

The next station was weight training. She moved to the barbell racks, adjusting the weights before taking her position. Some of the men in her group exchanged knowing glances, likely expecting her to struggle under the load. She didn’t give them the satisfaction. With controlled precision, she lifted, her muscles flexing beneath her skin, her expression unreadable.

One of the male agents, a cocky recruit with more brawn than brains, smirked as he watched. “Didn’t think someone so small could handle all that.”

Ada didn’t even spare him a glance. “I’ve handled more,” she replied flatly, setting the barbell down without a hint of strain.

The next exercise took them to the combat mats—one-on-one sparring drills designed to simulate real engagement. Ada stepped onto the mat, rolling her shoulders as she prepared for her assigned opponent.

A large, burly agent smirked at her, clearly underestimating her size. “Try not to break a nail, sweetheart.”

Ada’s lips curved in a slow smirk of her own. Oh, this will be fun. The man barely had time to register the shift in Ada’s stance before she moved. In a blur of motion, she dodged his initial grab, pivoting smoothly to the side. Her opponent was bigger, heavier—he likely relied on brute strength more than actual technique. Ada, on the other hand, was fast. Small. She let him come to her, waiting for his next move.

He lunged, arms outstretched to trap her. Rookie mistake. Ada stepped forward at the last second, twisting her body to evade him while hooking a foot behind his leg. Using his own momentum against him, she delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs before sweeping his leg out from under him. The impact was brutal. He hit the mat with a loud thud, exhaling sharply as the air was knocked from his lungs.

For a moment, the other agents went silent, eyes flickering between them. Ada took a step back and tilted her head. “You good?” she asked, her voice smooth, barely winded.

The man groaned, rolling onto his side. “What the hell—”

Before he could fully recover, their instructor, a grizzled senior operative, barked out, “Next pair!”

Ada stepped off the mat, brushing imaginary dust from her shorts as she made her way toward the water station. A few of the other agents eyed her with newfound respect—or in some cases, barely concealed irritation. She ignored both.

It wasn’t until she took a sip of water that she felt someone watching her. Her gaze flickered across the field, scanning the observers until she spotted a familiar figure near the perimeter. Wesker. He stood slightly apart from the rest, his arms crossed over his chest, dark sunglasses in place, expression unreadable. Unlike the others, he wasn’t here for training. He was here to watch.

Their eyes met for a brief second. Ada took another sip, unbothered, and then turned back toward the next rotation, as if he wasn’t even there. If Wesker wanted to watch, let him watch.

She shook out any lingering stiffness before she moved to the next station—weighted sled pushes. It was a simple but grueling exercise, designed to build endurance and explosive power. Ada stepped into position, planting her feet firmly against the ground, gripping the bars of the sled. The other agents lined up at adjacent lanes, bracing themselves as well.

“On my mark,” the instructor called. “Three… two… one—move!”

She shoved forward, engaging her legs and core as she drove the sled across the field. The initial push was always the hardest, but she found her rhythm quickly, controlling her breathing, keeping her strides even. The agent next to her struggled, his movements jerky and inefficient. Another one grunted in frustration as his sled dragged against the turf.

Ada smirked to herself. She reached the end of the marked zone second, slowing to a controlled stop before turning back. The other agents finished shortly after, some panting heavily, others swearing under their breath.

“Again,” the instructor barked.

A few groans followed, but Ada simply repositioned herself, ready for the next round. From the corner of her eye, she caught Wesker shifting slightly, as if adjusting his stance. He hadn’t moved otherwise, but his head was tilted just enough to suggest that he was paying close attention.

She didn’t let it distract her.

From there, the exercises continued—more sled pushes, followed by weighted carries, followed by another grueling series of burpees and sprints. By the time she moved back to combat drills, some of the agents were visibly flagging, but Ada remained steady, focused. Her endurance had always been one of her stronger assets, and it was clear she wasn’t the only one who noticed.

By the time the group had cycled through most of the routine, Evelyn Hart strolled onto the training grounds along with some other curious researchers, her gaze sweeping across the field before zeroing in on Wesker. She smirked slightly as she approached him, casual but intentional in the way she positioned herself beside him.

Ada, now mid-drill with another agent, caught the interaction. She didn’t pause, didn’t break her focus, but she noticed. Hart leaned in slightly, speaking to Wesker in a low voice. She didn’t care…or at least, that’s what Ada told herself.

Before she knew it, a well-placed strike slammed into her torso, knocking the air from her lungs. Pain flared through her recently healed injury, a sharp and unwelcome reminder that she still wasn’t at one hundred percent despite the clearance. Her body hit the training mats first, but the impact sent her rolling off the edge onto the grass.

For a moment, she lay there, blinking up at the sky, stunned. The agent she had been sparring with hesitated, clearly unsure whether to offer a hand or step back. The others around them also paused, the brief silence stretching.

Then, she heard Evelyn’s voice. “Maybe you aren’t ready to be back in the field after all,” the doctor mused, her tone dripping with false concern.

Ada’s jaw clenched. She exhaled sharply, pushing herself up with deliberate slowness. Her ribs protested, but she ignored it. She wasn’t about to let Hart or anyone else think she was weaker than she was.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” Ada said as she brushed grass off her arms. “If I go down, it won’t be to some rookie.”

A few of the agents chuckled, though some of them still looked unsure. Her sparring partner grimaced. “Didn’t mean to hit you that hard,” he admitted. “Sorry…”

Ada shook her head. “Don’t apologize. That’s how you learn.”

Still, the dull ache in her side reminded her that she needed to be more careful. She rolled her shoulders, inhaled slowly, and turned back toward the group—only to find Wesker no longer standing where he had been.

Her eyes flicked across the training field, searching, but he was gone. Fine. Let him leave if he thought she was an embarrassment. She didn’t need him hovering over her anyway.

Suppressing another wince, Ada straightened up, adjusting the waistband of her shorts. “Alright,” she said, clearing her throat and nodding toward the instructor. “Who’s next?”

The group barely had time to react before the rookie’s body was launched across their field of vision, hitting the grass with a hard thud before rolling to an unceremonious stop. A pained groan left his lips, his limbs sprawled awkwardly across the dirt.

The entire training field went still. Ada, along with the rest of the team, turned sharply toward the source.

Wesker stood there, straightening to his full height, his stance composed but laced with something distinctly lethal. His gloved hands flexed at his sides, his face unreadable behind those ever-present sunglasses. But his presence alone was enough to command absolute attention.

The rookie wheezed, trying to sit up.

“You’re all playing games,” Wesker said coldly, his voice cutting through the silence. “Training as if you’re preparing for people.” He scoffed. “You have no concept of what you’re truly up against now.”

No one dared to move. The rookie looked as if he wanted to disappear into the dirt. Wesker stepped forward, slowly sweeping his gaze over the group.

“Raccoon City changed everything.” His tone was low, edged with something dangerous. “The old ways are obsolete. The rules of engagement are no longer dictated by mere tactics and training simulations.” He motioned toward the fallen trainee without looking. “Do you think a B.O.W. will hesitate? Will it hold back? Will it apologize?”

His voice dropped lower, colder.

“No. It will tear through you before you even have the chance to react.”

The unease rippled through the group like a slow-moving storm. Even those who had trained under HCF’s rigorous standards weren’t immune to the implications.

“The likelihood of facing a bio-organic weapon has increased exponentially,” Wesker continued, taking another slow step forward. “And yet, you still train as if you’ll be facing simple opposition—men with guns, enemies that bleed and break like you do.” He scoffed again, shaking his head.

He let the words settle, watching their reactions carefully. Then, he turned his head slightly, his attention flicking toward Ada. She met his gaze evenly, unreadable, but inside, she could feel her pulse steadying from the earlier hit. Whatever had prompted him to intervene, she wasn’t entirely sure. But one thing was certain—Wesker wasn’t just lecturing them.

He was warning them.

Wesker let the tension stretch, his gaze sweeping over the gathered agents like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, with a deliberate tilt of his head toward Ada, he spoke again, his voice sharp and cutting.

"You misunderstand who you’re standing beside."

The agents stiffened. Some stole brief, uncertain glances at Ada, while others tried to school their expressions.

"Wong is not just a survivor of Raccoon City," Wesker continued, his tone carrying the weight of undeniable authority. "She didn’t just escape it—she conquered it."

A beat of silence followed, the weight of his words settling in.

"While the rest of that city burned, she navigated its horrors alone, slipping past creatures that would have torn any of you apart in seconds. She lived through the impossible and walked out of it intact. That makes her your senior. You’d do well to start showing her some respect and—more importantly—paying attention."

Some of the agents shifted uncomfortably, realizing the full gravity of what he was saying. Others looked at Ada with renewed scrutiny. Ada, for her part, remained relaxed, though her lips curled slightly at the edge. She wasn’t sure if she appreciated the sudden endorsement or if Wesker was using her as an example to instill fear. Probably both.

"If you fail to learn a thing or two from her," Wesker went on, voice clipped and final, "then you should already consider yourselves dead."

That landed. A ripple of discomfort passed through the group. Wesker exhaled sharply, as if disappointed with what he saw before him. Then, after another moment of scrutiny, he took a step back, giving the fallen rookie a disinterested glance.

"On your feet," he ordered, and the rookie scrambled up, still winded but desperate to obey.

With that, Wesker turned on his heel and strode off, the tension in his wake lingering like a storm that had only just begun.

The remainder of the day passed with an air of quiet tension. Wesker’s words had sunk in deeper than some of the agents were willing to admit. Training exercises continued, but the usual camaraderie among the recruits had dimmed, replaced by an undercurrent of unease.

Ada could hear it in the murmured complaints between sets, the way some of them grumbled under their breath about her handler.

"Arrogant bastard," one of the men muttered while they rotated between pull-ups.

"No kidding. You’d think he was building an army just to stroke his own ego," another huffed.

"And we’re supposed to take lessons from her now?" a third scoffed, cutting Ada a glance before refocusing on his weights.

She pretended not to hear them, but she noticed the shift. For all their whining, others were treating her differently. A few trainees, especially the more observant ones, had begun watching her more closely—not with disdain, but with something else. Recognition.

One of them, a woman Ada had sparred with earlier, approached her before the last cardio rotation. "You really made it through Raccoon alone?" she asked, not quite skeptical but not fully convinced.

Ada took a sip of water, her expression unreadable. "Pretty much." Despite wanting to give Leon some sort of credit for helping her, it was better left unspoken. That seemed to satisfy her, because she gave a small nod before jogging back to her group.

By the time physical training concluded for the day, Ada felt the soreness creeping into her muscles. More than that, her recently healed injury ached from where she'd taken that hit earlier. She exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck as she dismissed herself, making a beeline for her quarters.

The moment she shut the door behind her, she exhaled and leaned against it, savoring the silence. The tension of the day clung to her, but she had a solution for that.

Kicking off her shoes, Ada wasted no time stripping down, peeling away her damp workout clothes and tossing them into the corner of the living room. She padded toward the small but functional bathroom, twisting the knobs of the tub and watching as steam billowed into the air.

As the water filled, she pushed her damp hair from her face and checked the mirror. A faint bruise was beginning to form where she’d taken that hit earlier. She sighed. Damn rookie actually got a good shot in.

Just as she was about to slip into the steaming bath, the shrill ring of her cordless phone echoed through her apartment. She sighed, pausing with one foot in the tub, debating whether or not to ignore it. Let it go to voicemail, she thought, but on the third ring, she exhaled sharply and ran for the receiver.

"Yeah?" she answered, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she walked back to the bathroom, carefully lowering herself into the bath. The heat instantly began working its magic, soothing the tension in her muscles.

"Ada," came Roland’s smooth voice on the other end. "I was hoping to catch you."

She didn’t bother suppressing the knowing smirk that crossed her lips. Of course you were.

"Well, you did," she said, grabbing her exfoliating mitt from the edge of the tub and running it over one leg. "What do you need?"

There was a short pause before he continued. "I heard about what happened during training today. Your handler causing a scene, putting his hands on one of my agents."

Ada didn’t stop scrubbing, her tone lazy. "Your agent shouldn’t have hit the ground so easily, then."

Roland let out a low chuckle, though there was something unreadable beneath it. "I wasn’t aware you were so loyal to him. Most of the time, it sounds like you can’t stand the man."

She switched to her other leg, arching a brow at his words. "Who said I was being loyal?"

He hummed, amused. "You’re defending him."

"I’m stating facts."

"Mm-hmm," he mused, then sighed. "Still, I don’t like how he handled things. Not the kind of leadership I want my people looking up to."

Ada bit back a laugh at that. Wesker? A leader people should look up to? The idea was so absurd she almost dropped the phone into the bath. The man was most likely a psychopath.

Instead, she shook her head and adjusted her grip. "So, what? You called to complain about him to me? Hate to break it to you, but I’m not exactly his keeper."

"Not quite," Roland replied smoothly. "I just wanted to hear your take. What do you think of what he did?"

Ada let the question hang in the air as she rinsed the exfoliating mitt under the warm water. She wasn’t sure what he expected her to say. That Wesker was unhinged? That she’d been horrified by his little display?

Finally, she leaned her head back against the cool edge of the tub, the phone still cradled against her shoulder.

"I think," she said, her voice carrying just a hint of playfulness, "you’re more interested in getting me to say something incriminating than actually caring about my opinion."

Another chuckle from Roland, this one lower. "You wound me, Ada."

She smirked but said nothing, waiting for him to get to the real reason he’d called.

Roland’s chuckle lingered in her ear, but Ada remained quiet, letting the warmth of the bath relax her as she waited. He was circling something—probing—but for what exactly, she wasn’t sure yet.

Finally, he sighed, his voice turning more thoughtful. “You know, I meant what I said before. You don’t belong under him. Someone with your talent, your skill set—you should be working with people who appreciate what you bring to the table.”

Ada lazily dragged her fingertips through the water, watching the ripples distort her reflection. “And you’re saying you would appreciate me more?”

“I know I would,” he replied smoothly. “Hell, I already do. You’re wasted under him, Ada. You don’t think it’s a little insulting? He blocks your transfer, treats you like an asset he can just move around at will, and you willingly stay?”

She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling the faint scent of the bath oils she’d added to the water. If she weren’t so used to people trying to manipulate her, she might’ve considered what he was saying. But Roland wasn’t trying to be her savior. He wasn’t concerned about her well-being. He just wanted to be the one pulling the strings.

“And what’s your grand plan for me, Roland?” she asked, her voice dripping with amusement. “You gonna sweep me away from my terrible boss and make my life so much better?”

"Something like that," he mused, his voice like silk. “You and I—we’re cut from the same cloth. I can give you something Wesker never will.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh? And what’s that?”

His next words were spoken low and deliberate. “Freedom.”

That actually made her pause, her fingers stilling in the water.

“I know you, Ada,” he continued. “You don’t take orders well. You hate being someone’s pawn. Wesker’s got you on a tight leash, and you’re too damn sharp not to see it. He thinks he owns you, and if you stay under him, you’ll never be anything more than a tool he uses when it’s convenient.”

Ada kept her face neutral, even as something twisted in her stomach. It wasn’t that he was wrong exactly. But she also wasn’t foolish enough to think that Roland’s leash would be any looser. She smiled faintly, leaning her head back again. “Sweet talk all you want, Ro-Ro, but if you really wanted to do something for me, you’d be working on my transfer—not making more promises you won’t keep.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and then he let out a quiet hum. “You wound me again, Ada,” he drawled. “But fine. Let’s say I do that. Let’s say I make your transfer to me happen. Where should I send you first?”

She let the question hang between them, pretending to think it over. Finally, she smirked. “Somewhere warm. Preferably with a beach.”

Roland chuckled. “Noted. You’re long overdue for a vacation anyway. I’ll be in touch.”

The line went dead, and Ada slowly lowered the phone, resting it on the dry tile beside the tub. She exhaled, staring up at the ceiling, letting the warmth of the bath try to unwind the tension in her body. She was fairly confident that Wesker would be able to uphold the block he put in place. But even if he couldn’t, was taking a vacation really such a bad idea?

Ada reached for the small dish of soap she had set on the edge of the tub, lathering it into her palms before rubbing it over her arms in slow, deliberate circles. The faint scent of vanilla and citrus filled the air, mixing with the steam curling around her.

She took her time, smoothing the suds over her shoulders, down her arms, across her abdomen. It had been too long since she had a moment to herself, without missions or training or someone trying to pull her in one direction or another.

Wesker had locked down her transfer. Roland was still whispering promises in her ear. But for once, Ada let herself think about her own future, not what others were trying to decide for her.

She ran the pad of her thumb along her collarbone, letting the bubbly texture of the soap slowly dissolve under the water. Wesker was a difficult man—controlling, arrogant, and completely infuriating at times—but he was also going places. That much was obvious. She had no doubt he wouldn’t be a handler for long. With his intelligence, his ambition, and the sheer force of his will, it was only a matter of time before he climbed the ranks.

Director? Higher than that? She could see it happening. The way he carried himself, the way he commanded respect—even when people hated him, they still listened.

And her? Where did she want to be?

She let out a slow breath, reaching for the bottle of body oil on the counter and smoothing a few drops over her legs. If she left, it wouldn’t be with Roland. That much was certain. He was just another version of the same game, another man trying to hold her in place while pretending to give her freedom.

But was she ready to leave HCF entirely? The more she thought about it, the more she realized—she wasn’t sure.

For all his flaws, Wesker had never been anything but direct with her. He didn’t play coy. He didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t. And while he was controlling, she had also never felt unsafe working for him. Annoyed? Yes. Tested? Constantly. But she could admit to herself that he was the devil she knew.

And perhaps… if she stayed under his command, there might be opportunities she hadn’t considered yet. She sighed, dragging a hand through her damp hair, slicking it back. No decisions needed to be made tonight. For now, she would enjoy the peace and quiet of her bath.

Chapter Text

Wesker awoke with a sharp inhale, his body tense, his breath uneven. The heat clinging to his skin was not from his virus-enhanced metabolism but from something far more irritating. Sweat dampened the sheets beneath him, the fabric tangled around his waist. His muscles still twitched with the remnants of a dream that had felt too damn real.

Ada.

The name alone sent an unbidden pulse of frustration and something dangerously close to longing through his system. His fingers curled into the sheets as he forced himself to focus, to push away the lingering images burned into his mind—the way her body moved, the way her lips parted ever so slightly when she breathed, the heat of her skin under his hands.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his tousled hair before glancing toward his nightstand. An old pack of cigarettes sat there, unopened for months. He hadn’t needed them—not since his body had evolved past such trivial vices. And yet, tonight, something inside him itched for the familiarity.

Reaching for the pack, he tore it open with controlled precision, plucking a cigarette free before flicking his lighter to life. The flame cast brief, flickering shadows over his features as he brought the filter to his lips and inhaled deeply.

The burn was immediate, acrid smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled it out into the cool night air. It wasn’t about the nicotine—his body no longer craved such things—but the ritual, the distraction.

He languidly got out of bed and headed to the far side of his room, pushing the window open further and settled onto the ledge, one arm resting against his knee as he took another drag. The faint glow of city lights in the distance twinkled softly, and his thoughts remained turned inward.

It had to be the training grounds. Watching Ada spar, watching her get knocked down and immediately push herself back up—it had stirred something. Not just admiration, but something more primal, something that had clearly bled into his subconscious.

Tch. How irritating. But here he was, waking from a dream like some undisciplined fool.

He took another long inhale, letting the smoke curl between his fingers as he exhaled slowly. If there was one thing he despised, it was the loss of control. And yet, here he was, indulging in a moment of weakness. His jaw tensed. He wouldn’t allow this to become a distraction.

Having such thoughts about her made him no better than Roland, and he refused to stoop to that level.

He tapped the ash from his cigarette, his mind shifting into its usual, analytical process. This was nothing more than a result of proximity—an unavoidable side effect of working so closely with someone as… striking as Ada. She had always carried an undeniable presence, one that commanded attention without effort. It was only natural that, after their months of daily interactions, his mind would occasionally wander down a path it shouldn’t.

It was a simple matter of chemistry—chemical responses, adrenaline, proximity. Nothing deeper.

Wesker leaned back against the window frame, rolling the cigarette between his fingers. If that were the case, then there was an easy solution. Perhaps another evening with Dr. Hart was in order.

Their last encounter had been satisfactory enough, if not lacking in something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But then again, he had been holding back, testing himself more than indulging. Perhaps, with fewer limitations, she could serve as a… useful distraction.

Yes. That was the logical course of action.

He reached over and crushed the remainder of his cigarette in the ashtray on his nightstand before standing, his decision made. If his subconscious was insisting on making a nuisance of itself, then he would simply remind it of its place.

Wesker glanced at his alarm clock. 4:00 AM flashed at him steadily, as if taunting him.

Well…he’d be up in an hour anyway. There was no point in trying to force himself back to sleep. His mind was already too active, and idleness was an enemy he had no patience for.

With a quiet exhale, he set about getting dressed. He kept it simple—black training pants, a fitted long-sleeve compression shirt, and his usual gloves. The facility’s gym was always empty this early, which was exactly how he preferred it.

—

The overhead lights flickered to life as Wesker stepped inside the training facility. The air smelled of rubber mats, metal weights, and the faint, lingering scent of sweat. He ignored the machines and weights for now, making his way to the farthest corner where the mats were set up.

There, in the dim solitude, he knelt onto the mat, settling into a meditative stance.

Control.

He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose, feeling his enhanced lungs expand with more efficiency than they had before. The virus had sharpened everything—his senses, his reflexes, his awareness. But at times, it felt like too much. Like an overclocked machine running at full capacity without pause.

That’s why he did this. To remind himself that he was still in control.

With each exhale, he pushed away the lingering remnants of the dream, of Ada, of the unwanted frustration that had followed him out of sleep.

Minutes passed.

His breathing steadied. His pulse slowed. His mind cleared.

Finally, his golden eyes opened.

With renewed focus, Wesker rose smoothly to his feet and moved into his warm-up routine. Slow, methodical movements—stances, strikes, evasions. Each motion was precise, deliberate. Muscle memory took over, his body flowing through the patterns with lethal grace.

Then, he picked up speed. Faster strikes. Sharper movements. The air around him seemed to shift with each motion, the force behind his blows something beyond human. His fists cut through the air, his legs sweeping low in devastating kicks. His training wasn’t just about maintaining his abilities—it was about pushing them further, refining them until they were second nature.

By the time he finished, the gym’s clock read 5:17 AM. His skin was damp, but his mind felt sharper than it had in days. Satisfied, Wesker left the gym, making his way back to his quarters for a quick shower.

—

Steam curled around the bathroom as hot water pounded against his shoulders. Wesker braced his hands against the tile, letting the heat soothe his muscles. He barely felt pain anymore—not in the way he used to—but the sensation was still… grounding. A necessary part of his routine.

Wesker moved through the rest of his morning routine with his normal efficiency. His attire, as always, was carefully chosen—charcoal trousers, a crisp button-down, and a matching vest. A practical ensemble, one that allowed him to move seamlessly between his responsibilities and the evening he had planned.

Not a date, of course. Taking Evelyn out was merely a matter of decorum—something he hadn’t offered her the first time around.

He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, straightening them meticulously before reaching for his watch. As he fastened it, his mind was already shifting ahead, planning out the day’s objectives.

First, a meeting with Miles. He needed an update on the transfer issue and the finer details of Roland’s budget manipulation. That particular problem required careful handling. Then, he had a briefing with the field operatives regarding Rockfort Island. HCF was eager to move forward with their operations, and Wesker had no intention of allowing inefficiency to slow him down.

And, of course, there was Ada.

His jaw tensed slightly as he reached for his leather gloves, sliding them on with a quiet snap. He had spent far too much of his energy considering her lately. She was a distraction he had every intention of compartmentalizing, pushing her into a neat, manageable category where she belonged—an asset. Nothing. More.

He smoothed out his vest, exhaled through his nose, and grabbed his data tablet from the desk. With everything in place, he left his quarters, his stride purposeful.

The day awaited. And so did Dr. Hart.

—

Wesker moved through the facility with his usual commanding presence. His first stop: the administrative wing, where Miles would be waiting with updates on Roland and the ongoing financial maneuvering.

As he entered the director’s office, Miles was already sifting through paperwork, eyes flicking up only briefly as Wesker stepped inside.

“Wesker,” he greeted, setting a folder aside. “I assume you’re here for the update on Roland.”

He took a seat without invitation, resting his forearms on the desk. “I trust you’ve handled the budgeting issue? Rockfort is quickly approaching and I need to discuss the matter with Ada.”

Miles sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Mostly. The funding for her is still technically under Roland’s budget, but I’ve started reallocating some of it under broader field operations. If he decides to cut her pay, it can’t be for the full amount.”

“What are we looking at now?”

“About 25 percent,” he admitted.

“Not good enough.”

Miles scoffed. “You’re not exactly making this easy.”

“I’m not interested in easy. I want control, Miles.”

Miles rubbed his temples. “You always do.” He grabbed a separate document, sliding it across the desk. “This is where it gets interesting. Roland’s budget isn’t just skewed for Ada—he’s been pocketing excess funds from his entire team. If someone were to... say, bring this to the right people, he’d be under scrutiny.”

Wesker smirked. “How careless of him.”

“Indeed,” Miles murmured. “I doubt the Chairhead would remove Roland for this, but it might slow them down while we figure something out.”

Wesker picked up the folder, flipping through it briefly. “Interesting.” He snapped it shut and stood. “Let me know if you come across anything else.” Although Wesker had every intention of taking out Warren Greaves, keeping a little blackmail in his back pocket never hurt.

Miles watched him for a moment before chuckling under his breath. “I’ll keep you posted, Al.”

With that, Wesker left the office, the scent of stale coffee and paper fading as he moved on to his next task.

—

The conference room was filled with HCF field operatives, all seated in neat rows as they reviewed their mission dossiers. The air was thick with focus, though some shifted uneasily as Wesker strode in. His reputation had long since preceded him—efficient, ruthless, and intolerant of incompetence.

He wasted no time.

“The objective is simple,” he began, pulling up a projection of Rockfort Island. “We infiltrate, secure the data, and eliminate any obstacles. You have three weeks left to prepare, which means you will be trained accordingly. Failure is not an option.”

His gaze swept the room. “HCF has always operated under the assumption that our main enemy is human. Raccoon City proved otherwise. You are no longer preparing for gunfights and counter-ops. You are preparing for bioweapons.”

A few agents exchanged glances. Wesker continued. “I expect every one of you to train for worst-case scenarios. If you hesitate in the field, you will die. If you are weak, you will die. I do not tolerate failure, and neither should you. If you can’t handle this, then save us all the time and paperwork and submit your resignation.”

Silence filled the room.

Then, Ada spoke. “And if we do slip up, Wesker?”

Wesker smirked slightly. “Then you’ll die,” he reiterated.

The tension thickened, but no one dared challenge him further. His agent casually shrugged her shoulders, as if she was anything but concerned for the upcoming mission.

“Fair enough,” she replied coolly, flipping through the folder she was given. “I still don’t see where I’m assigned in all this.”

“You’ll be the get-go, of course” Wesker said, as if the answer was obvious. Ada raised a curious brow in response. He sighed, momentarily pinching the bridge of his nose before continuing. “You’ll ‘get-to-go’ wherever I need you most. It could be with any of the listed squads, so you get the special privilege of preparing for all of it.”

Ada’s head tilted slightly, her eyes flashing with mischief.

“So you admit I’m special, then?” she teased.

“Dismissed.”

—

Hours later, Wesker found himself seated across from Dr. Evelyn Hart. The restaurant was upscale but discreet, tucked away in a quieter part of the city where HCF executives and high-ranking personnel could dine without concern for prying eyes. The lighting was soft, the murmur of other conversations blending seamlessly into the ambiance.

She was dressed elegantly, a dark blue number that hugged her curves, her hair pulled into a loose updo. She had certainly made an effort. He had, too—though his reasons were far less sentimental. Evelyn smiled at him over the rim of her wine glass. “You’re full of surprises, Wesker. Didn’t take you for the ‘fine dining’ type.”

“I make the occasional exception.”

Her eyes gleamed with interest. “Lucky me.”

Wesker merely smirked, sipping his own drink. The night had only just begun, but his mind was elsewhere. The meeting with Miles. Roland and Warren’s impending downfall. The Rockfort mission.

And, against his better judgment, the ghost of a smirk from a certain woman in an HCF training uniform. He exhaled slowly, setting his glass down.

Tonight, he had other distractions to entertain. A server had just finished pouring Evelyn another glass of wine, and she swirled it lazily, watching Wesker with the kind of knowing gaze that suggested she thought she had him figured out.

She was mistaken, of course.

“I have to admit,” Evelyn mused, her red lips curling into a smirk, “I didn’t expect you to be so... traditional when it comes to courtship.”

Wesker, who had been cutting into his filet mignon with methodical movements, barely spared her a glance. “Courtship?”

Her smirk deepened. “Well, we both know what this is.” She gestured vaguely between them. “Most men in your position wouldn’t bother with dinner second. But here you are, wining and dining me now. How very… gentlemanly of you.”

Wesker set down his knife, resting his forearms against the table. “Is that what you think this is? A display of civility?”

Evelyn arched a brow, sipping her wine before responding. “I think you’re indulging in formality to convince yourself you’re not like the rest of them.”

Wesker’s smirk was barely there, but it was enough to make her eyes glint in satisfaction. “And here I thought you were the one who wanted to be wine-and-dined.”

She chuckled, the sound smooth and knowing. “Flattery, Wesker? That’s not like you.”

He leaned back in his chair, assessing her with cold amusement. Evelyn was sharp—intelligent, confident, and manipulative in her own right. He could appreciate that, to a degree. But she was also predictable. She liked to believe she had the upper hand, when in reality, she was simply another piece on his board.

Still, for tonight, she served a purpose.

“You’re overanalyzing,” he finally said, taking a measured sip of his whiskey. “I’m merely fulfilling an expectation. If I wanted something, I would have it already.”

Evelyn didn’t miss the implication. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip, her amusement never wavering. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Wesker replied smoothly. “I have no need for pretense.”

She exhaled a quiet laugh, setting her glass down. “Then let’s drop the act.” She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering. “Why did you invite me here, really?”

Wesker regarded her for a moment, considering how much to say. He could lie. He could manipulate her into thinking this was more than a casual indulgence. Or he could be honest—not out of courtesy, but because it hardly mattered.

“I was curious,” he admitted. “Our last meeting was... sufficient, but I suspect it could be improved upon.”

Evelyn tilted her head, feigning offense. “Sufficient?”

He merely smirked in response. She hummed, clearly pleased with his bluntness. “Well, if that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just have to outdo ourselves, won’t we?”

Wesker didn’t respond, merely returning to his meal. There was no rush. The night would unfold as he dictated. And if, for some reason, it didn’t quite satisfy the lingering thoughts he sought to suppress—well, that was a problem for another time.

The rest of their dinner had gone smoothly—predictable, even. Evelyn had flirted, Wesker had indulged her with just enough attention to keep her interested, and they had both walked away with the unspoken understanding of where the night would lead.

Now, in the dim lighting of Evelyn’s bedroom, he found himself standing near the edge of her bed, unbuttoning his vest with methodical ease. Evelyn had already slipped off her heels, her dress hanging loosely off her shoulders as she leaned against the bedpost, watching him with an amused, knowing expression.

“You’re tense,” she observed, moving closer. “I’d say it’s because of work, but I have a feeling you don’t let that kind of thing get to you.”

Wesker hummed noncommittally, finishing the last button before shrugging off the vest and setting it over a chair. He tried to not just focus on the mechanics of what they were about to do. Evelyn was not a piece of glass he had to be concerned about—she’d be fine if he let loose just a little…

—

Hours later, Albert stared at the ceiling, his vision adjusting easily to the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the blinds. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic sound of Dr. Hart’s breathing beside him. Her bare skin pressed against his arm, warm and soft, but he felt… nothing. No satisfaction, no lingering pleasure—just an unshakable sense of boredom.

He turned his head slightly, watching as she lay peacefully, her brunette hair splayed over the pillow. She had been just as willing as the first time, but in the end, it was all so… expected. So routine. Prior to injecting himself with the experimental virus, this would have been more than enjoyable for him.

Wesker exhaled slowly through his nose, his mind already drifting elsewhere. Logically, there was nothing wrong with tonight—Evelyn was intelligent, beautiful, and she understood discretion. It was precisely what he had intended. Yet, the dull weight in his chest told him otherwise.

He carefully slid out of bed, moving silently as he gathered his clothes. Evelyn stirred slightly but didn’t wake. He didn’t bother with a farewell, merely dressing with efficiency before slipping out the door.

By the time he stepped into the cool night air, his mind was already moving past her entirely. There were more important things to concern himself with. And yet, as he made his way back to his quarters at HCF, an unbidden thought flickered at the edge of his consciousness.

He dismissed it before it could take root.

Chapter Text

The conference hall was packed. Agents, scientists, and administrators alike filled the rows of seats, murmuring among themselves in hushed voices. The news had spread fast—Director Warren Greaves and his entire team were dead. It wasn’t just a failed operation; it was an outright catastrophe. A whole sector of HCF’s operations wiped out overnight.

Ada sat near the back, arms crossed, her expression unreadable as she listened to the whispers around her. Warren hadn’t been the most respected Director for some time, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t shocked. For him and his entire team to be lost in the field? That was a brutal stroke of bad luck.

At the front of the room, the Chairman stood at the podium, flanked by a few of the senior administrators. His presence alone was enough to command attention, and as he raised a hand, the noise died instantly.

“As most of you are already aware, Director Warren Greaves and his team were lost during their most recent deployment.” The Chairman’s voice was steady, practiced. “This is an unfortunate loss for HCF, and we will ensure that the circumstances surrounding this incident are fully investigated.”

Ada’s gaze flickered toward the man standing just behind the Chairman—Wesker. He stood straight, hands folded behind his back, his expression unreadable behind his shades. If he had any strong feelings about Warren’s death, he certainly didn’t show them.

The Chairman continued, “After careful deliberation, we have already identified a suitable replacement for Director Greaves. Effective immediately, Albert Wesker will assume his responsibilities.”

The murmurs started again, this time more reactive. Even Ada’s lips parted slightly at the news. Wesker? It wasn’t that he was incapable—far from it—but Warren’s body was barely cold. That was fast.

The Chairman raised a hand again, cutting through the noise. “Given the upcoming Rockfort operation, Director Wesker will remain focused on overseeing the mission’s success alongside Braden Miles before fully stepping into his new role. I expect all divisions to cooperate with the transition accordingly.”

With that, he gestured toward Wesker. “Director, if you’d like to say a few words.”

Wesker stepped forward smoothly, his expression impassive. He let the silence settle just long enough to command the room before he spoke.

“I will be brief,” he said. His voice was calm, assured. “HCF cannot afford to falter, and while Director Greaves’ loss is unfortunate, we will move forward. My focus will remain on ensuring operational success, beginning with Rockfort.”

His gaze swept over the room before he finished, “If you have concerns, you may bring them to my attention. Otherwise, I expect business as usual. Dismissed.”

And just like that, the meeting was over. People began standing, their voices hushed once again, some casting wary glances at Wesker. Ada remained seated for a moment longer, arms still crossed as she watched the new Director from a distance. There was no way in hell anyone would tell Wesker to his face if they had a problem. Cowards… But if he was already moving up the ranks, where would that leave her?

As the conference hall emptied, Miles made his way through the lingering clusters of agents until he reached Wesker, who now stood by the side of the room, still composed as ever.

“Well, Director,” Miles said, a smirk playing at his lips. “Might as well take you to your new office. No point in letting it sit empty now that you’re moving up.”

Wesker inclined his head slightly. “Let’s go. I’m curious as to what kind of mess Warren left me.”

The two of them strode through the corridors, the chatter of HCF personnel still buzzing in the background. It would take time for people to adjust, but Wesker had no intention of letting them drag their feet. He had plans.

Miles glanced at him as they walked. “Once Rockfort is wrapped up, I’ll need to reassign Ada to a new handler. Any ideas on who I should consider?”

At that, Wesker let out a quiet chuckle. “That won’t be necessary.”

Miles raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Ada will move to my division,” Wesker said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And she’ll report directly to me.”

Miles let out a low whistle. “Didn’t think you’d be so quick to claim her.”

“All strategic,” Wesker replied, his pace unchanging. “Warren had a larger budget which could accommodate her higher salary. That will free your division up for other things. Not to mention… her talents would be wasted under anyone else’s supervision.”

Miles gave him a slow clap, impressed that Wesker had already put such a plan together. They reached the office doors—formerly Greaves’, but now Wesker’s. Braden stepped aside, gesturing for the new director to go first.

Wesker took a slow, deliberate step into his new office. It was larger than his previous workspace, as expected for a director, but not ostentatious. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, some still occupied by Greaves’ neatly arranged files. A glass desk sat at the center of the room, its surface pristine save for a single file left behind—perhaps something Greaves had intended to address before his untimely demise.

He walked around the desk, trailing a gloved hand over the polished glass before settling into the high-backed leather chair. He leaned back, testing its comfort. Acceptable.

Miles lingered in the doorway, watching him with amusement. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Wesker steepled his fingers. “It’s just business, Miles.”

The other man snorted. “You say that, but I’d bet good money you’re enjoying this more than you let on.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Wesker merely glanced toward the large window that overlooked the facility’s lower levels, watching the movement of agents and researchers going about their business. They had no idea how close they’d been to a shift in leadership even before today’s announcement. Now, he had his own research team on top of his selection of agents.

Braden took the silence for what it was and crossed his arms. “Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted with your new kingdom. There’s still some bureaucracy to sort out before you’re fully settled, but for now, Rockfort takes priority.”

Wesker nodded once. “You don’t have to remind me.”

Miles turned to leave but paused just before stepping out. “And Ada—she’s going to just love that decision of yours.” His smirk was unmistakable.

Wesker allowed himself a ghost of a smile. “I’m sure she will.”

Once the door shut behind Miles, Wesker exhaled slowly, letting the quiet of his new office settle around him. This was a calculated victory, but there was still work to be done. He reached for the lone file on the desk, flipping it open. The top page bore a summary of an ongoing operation—one of Greaves’ unfinished tasks. Interesting, but not enough to maintain his curiosity.

Wesker tapped his fingers against the glass desk, his mind already shifting toward the changes he intended to implement. The previous director had relied on the same bloated structure as other divisions—handlers overseeing agents, middlemen buffering every command, layers of inefficiency built under the guise of “organization.” It was a waste. A crutch for the weak-willed who couldn’t manage their own teams effectively.

He wouldn’t operate like that.

Albert made his second executive decision then and there—his division wouldn’t require handlers. He would oversee his agents directly. The reduction in unnecessary personnel meant a reallocation of resources, and he already knew where some of that would go.

He picked up a pen and wrote a single note in the margin of Greaves’ abandoned file: Reevaluate pay structures.

It was only logical. Ada, despite her reputation for being insubordinate, was a high-value asset. She had survived Raccoon City, accomplished what others could not, demonstrated skills that most of HCF’s agents lacked, and completed missions with minimal support. Compensation should reflect capability, not just tenure.

Besides, he was certain Miles had lowballed her salary when she first joined HCF, using Roland’s budget allocation as an excuse. That error would be corrected. Satisfied with the decision, Wesker set the pen down and flipped through the rest of the file.

Greaves had been working on a long-term weapons development initiative, one focused on refining B.O.W. deployment strategies. His notes were meticulous, but some areas were frustratingly vague—likely by design. The man had wanted to maintain control, keeping the full scope of his projects to himself despite his lack of motivation to move forward. It was irrelevant now. Those responsibilities belonged to Wesker.

He leaned back in his chair, considering his next move. Before he left for Rockfort, he would need to get a full assessment of Greaves’ projects. Find out what was useful. Determine what needed to be scrapped. Power had shifted. And Wesker would make sure it stayed in his hands.

As he continued searching through the office, he barely looked over when his office door swung open. He had expected Roland to make an appearance sooner rather than later, but that didn’t make the interruption any less irritating.

The other Director strolled in with his usual air of self-importance, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well, well. I suppose congratulations are in order, Director Wesker.” His tone was light, but there was something beneath it—something edged.

Wesker merely inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “Roland.”

The other man leaned against the edge of Wesker’s desk, casual in a way that was meant to be disarming. “Quite the promotion. Though I imagine it comes with some… disappointments.”

Wesker gave him a pointed look over the rim of his sunglasses. “Disappointments?”

Roland’s smirk widened. “Your last mission as Ada’s handler, of course. A shame, isn’t it? She’s not exactly an easy one to replace.”

Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose—amused, if only slightly. He decided to entertain the game.

“You’re right,” he said, steepling his fingers. “I suppose it will be my last mission as her handler.”

Roland’s smirk deepened, clearly pleased with himself.

Then, Wesker leaned back, tilting his head ever so slightly. “Before I become her director.”

The smirk wavered.

Roland’s brows knit together, the realization settling in just a fraction too late. His attempt at keeping a neutral expression failed him for a brief second before he quickly recovered. “You’re moving her to your division.” It wasn’t a question.

Wesker allowed himself the faintest hint of a smirk. “Naturally.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “She’s mine, Wesker. Everyone here seems to understand that except for you.”

Wesker barely inclined his head, his expression unreadable. “You really think so?”

“Oh, I know so.” Roland stepped closer, his hands sliding into his pockets, his gaze taking on a lazy, knowing gleam. “She likes to play hard to get, sure. But a woman like Ada? She wants someone who won’t take no for an answer. Running back to you is how she plays the game.”

Wesker’s jaw twitched.

Roland noticed. His grin sharpened as he leaned in just a fraction. “And you think I don’t see the way you look at her? All that restraint—must be maddening. She walks around in those tight little dresses, such a tease without even trying. And when she does try…” His tongue clicked against his teeth. “Christ. No wonder you’re wound so tight.”

Wesker’s fingers curled against the desk, but he didn’t speak.

Roland chuckled, his voice thick with satisfaction. “You really should loosen up, Wesker. Maybe then, you could have had a taste like I did.”

Something inside Wesker snapped.

Faster than Roland could react, Wesker was on him, shoving him back against the wall with a force that rattled the glass in the window. Roland let out a sharp grunt, but before he could recover, Wesker’s hand was already around his throat, squeezing just enough to make his point.

His voice was a low, dangerous growl. “If I ever catch wind of you putting your hands on my agent, you won’t have them moving forward. Do I make myself clear?”

The Director’s smirk faltered, his fingers grasping at Wesker’s wrist. “Christ, Wesker, touchy much?” His voice was hoarse but still laced with amusement. “Don’t tell me she’s also got you wrapped around her little—”

Wesker squeezed just a little harder, cutting him off. Roland choked, his smirk finally vanishing.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the slow, measured breaths from Wesker’s end.

Then, just as suddenly as he had grabbed him, Wesker let go, stepping back with perfect composure. Roland coughed, rubbing at his throat, his expression darkening.

Wesker adjusted his cuffs with a precise, practiced motion. “You were saying?”

Roland glared but didn’t push his luck. Instead, he straightened his collar, rolling his shoulders like he hadn’t just been manhandled. “I suppose this means our professional relationship just took a hit.”

Wesker smirked. “What professional relationship?”

Roland gave a humorless chuckle, then stepped toward the door. He paused just before leaving, glancing back over his shoulder. “Enjoy playing the hero while it lasts, Director. You can’t force her to stay somewhere she doesn’t want to be.”

The door shut behind him with a sharp click.

Wesker exhaled through his nose, rolling his wrist, his knuckles cracking one by one.

His patience had its limits.

Jaw tightening as he began to pace the length of his office, his smooth, deliberate stride barely containing the storm brewing inside him. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them open again, shaking out the tension in his fingers. His encounter with Roland had left a bitter taste in his mouth, one that no amount of calculated restraint could fully wash away—The audacity of that man.

To speak about Ada in such a way. To suggest that he had already had her—like she was some trophy to be claimed. Wesker exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. He needed to focus. He needed to think.

Roland was an issue—one that needed handling. But eliminating him outright wasn’t the simplest solution, not when the man had seniority and influence among their ranks. A disappearance so soon after Greaves' would raise questions, and he wasn’t about to deal with a potential wave of scrutiny before he’d even settled into his new position.

His fingers twitched at the thought of putting a bullet between Roland’s eyes. A clean solution. Efficient. But reckless.

No—this required strategy.

The real problem wasn’t just Roland; it was Ada’s own agency. She wasn’t stupid. If he came to her, issued some sort of order forbidding her from engaging with Roland in any capacity, she would see right through him. Challenge him. Defy him, if only to prove she wasn’t under his thumb.

And in truth, she wasn’t. Not yet.

Wesker stopped pacing, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. There was no controlling her outside of mission directives. That was the reality of the situation. Whatever she chose to do with her time—and who she chose to spend it with—was entirely up to her.

Which meant he had no say in whether she humored Roland’s advances. The thought sent a fresh wave of irritation coursing through him. His lips pressed into a firm line. She wasn’t naïve. She knew what men like Roland wanted. Knew how to use that knowledge to her advantage when it suited her. But was she still tempted?

He clenched his jaw. He hated that the question had even entered his mind. Of course she wasn’t. She wasn’t so careless. Still…

Wesker moved to his desk, placing his hands flat against the polished glass as he stared at nothing in particular. He needed to address this before it festered. But how? How did one navigate such a topic without making it clear that it was a topic?

He tapped his fingers against the surface, his mind racing. An indirect approach, then. Casual, yet pointed. A warning—but one wrapped in careful phrasing, something that wouldn’t push her to do the opposite out of spite.

Yes. That would have to do. He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders before settling back into his chair. One way or another, Roland would learn his place and Ada would stay where she belonged.

A few days later, he and Ada were in the weapons bay, going through their post-training routine. Wesker stood at the workbench, methodically inspecting a disassembled rifle while Ada leaned against a nearby crate, idly using a knife to clean under her nails. The room was quiet aside from the occasional clink of metal against metal as they worked.

Wesker didn’t look up as he broke the silence. “You should watch yourself around Roland.”

Ada let out a quiet snort. “Please. I met Roland long before I met you.” She sheathed the knife and tossed it on a nearby rack. “I don’t need you telling me what I already know.”

His jaw tightened. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. “He’s gotten worse,” Wesker stated flatly.

Ada merely hummed in response, not looking concerned in the slightest.

Wesker set down the rifle piece with a quiet click. He turned his head slightly in her direction, voice lower, colder. “If he lays hands on you again, I’m going to break them.”

That got a reaction. Ada’s brow lifted, curiosity flickering in her dark eyes. Then, her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

“Is that a promise?” she teased, stepping closer.

Wesker didn’t respond right away, his gaze unreadable behind his shades. She was toying with him again, testing the limits of his patience. Ada tilted her head, watching him closely, waiting to see if he’d bite.

She took another slow step forward, deliberate and smooth, closing the distance between them just enough to make it noticeable. The air between them shifted—charged, humming with something unspoken. She tapped a finger against the workbench, red nails softly clicking against the metal surface.

Wesker, ever composed, didn’t move an inch, but she could see the way his fingers flexed ever so slightly before settling into stillness again.

“Come on now,” she murmured, voice carrying a dangerous kind of amusement. “You don’t usually make threats unless you mean them. So, tell me, Director—” her lips practically purred the title, knowing how much he would loathe it, “—just how far are you willing to go to protect your agent? Well, for the limited time I’ll remain your agent, that is.”

Wesker’s expression remained unreadable, but she knew better. His silence was always calculated, measured. His body language—his tension—spoke volumes.

“I don’t make empty threats, Miss Wong.” His voice was low, dangerously steady.

Her smile deepened. “Mmmhmmm, I didn’t think you did.”

Ada reached for the disassembled rifle on the workbench, fingers grazing the cool metal as she idly inspected it. “But let’s be honest,” she continued, her tone light, almost playful. “Roland’s hands aren’t the only thing you’d like to break, are they?”

Wesker’s jaw tightened. She was baiting him, prodding at something deeper, something she wasn’t even sure he’d admit to himself. She tilted her head slightly, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. “You’re awfully invested in this, don’t you think?”

He leaned forward then, placing both hands flat on the workbench, closing the space between them just enough to make her feel it. His presence was imposing, suffocating in a way that sent a thrill up Ada’s spine rather than fear.

“You misinterpret my concern,” he said smoothly.

“Oh?” Ada arched a delicate brow. “I don’t think I do.”

Wesker remained silent for a beat too long. Then, without another word, he reached out, plucking the rifle from her grasp with a practiced ease, turning his attention back to his work as though the conversation had already ended.

Ada let out a quiet, amused hum. “Well, if you ever change your mind…” She trailed off, her smirk lingering as she stepped away. Albert didn’t watch her go, but he heard her every step, felt the ghost of her presence even after she had left.

She was toying with him. And worse—he was starting to think he liked it. If he had to pick between her being defiant or overly flirtatious, was the latter option really so bad?

Chapter Text

The island was eerily quiet, the distant crackle of fire and the occasional groan of the infected the only sounds cutting through the stillness. Wesker and Ada moved quietly through the ruins, their steps calculated, their eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

Despite the tactical nature of their mission, Ada had chosen attire that was anything but practical—her black sweater dress hugged every curve, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Her boots, though stylish, made the faintest of clicks against the uneven pavement, a sound that grated on Wesker’s nerves almost as much as the sight of her did.

“I thought I told you this was a covert operation, Ada, not a runway,” he said, his voice clipped as they reached the remnants of a collapsed wall, forcing them to pause.

Ada smirked, casually adjusting the strap of her thigh holster. “A girl has to have a little fun, doesn’t she?”

Wesker exhaled sharply. Fun? That was Ada’s priority in all this? He should have expected as much. Still, he had to admit—albeit begrudgingly—that she moved with the same efficiency as always, regardless of her choice in wardrobe.

Her walk slowed to a stop, crouching beside him to peer through a gap in a pile of debris in their path. “Looks like we’ve got to find another way through. It’s too tight.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, lips curling in amusement. “You ready to take the long way, Captain?”

He rolled his eyes, noting the obvious provocation. “I told you to stop calling me that. I’m not your Captain.”

Ada barely had time to react before she felt Wesker’s arms scoop her up, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. A quiet squeak escaped her lips before she could swallow it down, her stomach twisting as he vaulted over the debris with inhuman ease. The drop was higher than she anticipated, her breath catching as they landed with a soft thud on the other side.

He set her down smoothly, his grip lingering for only a fraction of a second before he stepped away as if the entire maneuver had been nothing more than routine. Ada, however, was momentarily off balance—not physically, but mentally. She placed a steadying hand on her hip, eyeing him with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“Warn a girl next time,” she muttered, brushing nonexistent dust off her dress.

Wesker didn’t even spare her a glance. “If you had brought your hookshot, you could have managed on your own.”

She tilted her head, eyes glittering in the dim light. “And miss out on being swept off my feet? I think not.”

He exhaled sharply, the closest thing to a scoff she was going to get. “Keep up, Ada. We have work to do.”

She watched him move ahead, his pace steady, his focus unwavering. But Ada? She was still reeling just a little. Being carried like that—so effortlessly, like she weighed nothing—had stirred something in her similar to excitement. With a smirk, she adjusted her dress and followed suit. “Lead the way, Captain.”

The first building they entered was eerily silent, save for the faint crackle of static from abandoned radios and the occasional, distant groan of something inhuman. Rockfort had been plunged into chaos, but not everyone had succumbed to the virus—yet.

Wesker moved ahead without hesitation. Unlike Ada, he carried no firearms or visible weapons. He didn’t need them. His confidence was well-founded, and she had seen firsthand how little effort it took for him to snap bones, crush throats, and move faster than the eye could track.

Ada, on the other hand, had no intention of being caught unarmed. Her pistol sat comfortably in her grip, and as they crept through the dimly lit corridors, she took careful stock of their surroundings. A muffled voice reached her ears—a guard. Alive. She signaled to Wesker with a slight tilt of her head, and he simply stepped to the side, allowing her to handle it.

She moved quickly, a silent shadow against the wall. The guard had his back turned, fumbling with his radio, unaware of the danger creeping up behind him. In one swift motion, Ada wrapped an arm around his neck and drove her knife between his ribs, right into his heart. The man barely had time to gasp before she lowered him to the ground soundlessly.

Her boss didn’t react, nor did he slow down. He merely glanced at her, eyes unreadable behind his shades, before continuing forward. More guards patrolled the building—men left behind, trying to regain control in a situation spiraling beyond their grasp. Ada dealt with each of them methodically. A silenced shot to the head. A swift snap of the neck. A well-placed blade under the chin, piercing straight into the brain.

The last one—a younger man, barely past twenty—caught sight of her just a second too late. He went to raise his weapon, but she was faster. Her knee drove into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. As he stumbled, she grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against the metal wall, a sickening crack echoing through the corridor. He slid to the ground, motionless.

She exhaled, adjusting the hem of her dress as she turned back to Wesker.

“See? Functional and fashionable.”

He barely acknowledged her remark, stepping over one of the bodies as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience. “Save your breath. You’ve already made your point.”

They pressed forward, deeper into the facility, the air growing heavier with the scent of death and blood. They found their way to a room with the faint whir of an old film projector filling the otherwise silent space. The machine flickered to life, casting grainy black-and-white footage onto the cracked wall ahead.

Ada slowed her steps, her brows knitting together as she took in the scene. Two children—a boy and a girl, identical in their delicate features and pale hair—sat together in an ornate room. The footage was old, but the clarity was enough to make out their expressions. The girl held a dragonfly between her fingers, its wings struggling feebly against her grasp. The boy watched with an eerie fascination as she plucked them off one by one, a slow, deliberate motion that made Ada’s stomach twist.

The dragonfly’s tiny body twitched, helpless as its fragile wings were stripped away. The girl giggled, holding the now-flightless insect up to her brother, who took it from her with almost reverent care. Then, without hesitation, he dropped it into an ant pile where the insects began to torture the dragonfly even further.

The film jumped slightly, the next frame lingering on the twins staring at one another, something unsettling and too knowing in their gazes. Neither of them blinked. Neither of them spoke.

Ada grimaced, arms crossing over her chest. “Ew,” she muttered. “Creepy little brats.”

Beside her, Wesker remained silent, his expression unreadable as he studied the projection. The footage looped back, replaying the same twisted game over again. The way the twins looked at each other made Ada’s skin crawl—there was something unnatural about it, something unspoken and deeply disturbing.

She turned away, shaking her head. “What the hell kind of childhood is that?”

Wesker finally spoke, his voice quiet but laced with a knowing edge. “A conditioned one.”

Ada shot him a glance, but his gaze was still fixed on the flickering image of the Ashford children. Whatever he saw in them, something told her that Wesker almost seemed to understand them in his own kind of way. Freaky… I wonder if he has a sibling or something.

She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders as if shaking off the unease. “Well, that explains why this place is such a disaster.” She gestured vaguely to their surroundings. “With kids like that in charge, it was only a matter of time before everything went to hell.”

He didn’t disagree. Wesker simply reached forward and switched off the projector, plunging the room into silence once more. “Alexia reportedly died years ago. And Alfred is actually an adult with the maturity level of a child.”

Ada didn’t argue, eager to put the eerie film behind them. They continued on, eventually making their way back outside. Wesker briefly checked one of the maps he brought, deciding on the quickest way for them to reach their destination.

He paused mid-step just as they walked on, his head tilting slightly at the transmission crackling through their earpieces. One of the retrieval teams had run into resistance—enough to warrant backup. He sighed quietly, debating whether he should turn to head in their direction, but Ada’s hand shot out, fingers curling loosely around his arm.

“I got this,” she said smoothly.

His gaze flickered down to where she touched him before rising to meet her eyes, unreadable behind his shades. “And we’re close to the estate. I’m not about to detour for a minor setback.”

“Exactly.” Ada let go, resting a hand on her hip. “You’re too close to turn back now. This team isn’t in critical condition—they just need some extra muscle.” She smirked slightly, tapping a gloved finger against his forearm. “Only one of us needs to go.”

Wesker remained silent for a moment. He didn't like deviations from his carefully laid plans, but she had a point. They were almost at their destination, and doubling back would only slow things down. But if only one of them went… Well…

Ada thrived in unpredictable situations. She tilted her head, watching him expectantly. “Come on, Wesker,” she teased. “Have a little faith.”

Wesker let out a quiet sigh, though there was a hint of amusement in his expression. “Fine. If you aren’t back by the time I’m done here, I’m not waiting.”

Ada winked before stepping back. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

And with that, she turned, slipping off in the direction of the distressed team, using her hookshot to swing through the air unexpectedly. Wesker watched her go for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before pivoting on his heel and continuing forward toward the Ashford estate.

Wait. Her hookshot? She had brought it with her, yet he had been carrying them over any obstacles they had come across. What a little devil she is.

As he pressed on, the air eventually became thick with the scent of smoke and rot, mingling with the salt of the ocean. The further he walked, the quieter everything became—only the distant groans of the infected and the occasional crackle of burning wreckage broke the silence.

Then, he heard movement.

A figure emerged from behind one of the crumbling pillars—cautious, but quick. A flash of red. Claire Redfield. He recognized her from the many, many photos Chris had kept at his desk over the years. She hadn’t seen him yet, her focus directed toward the estate’s towering front doors. But the moment she turned her head, her expression darkened.

Wesker smirked. Oh, this is too perfect.

“Greetings,” he drawled, stepping forward. “You must be the lovely Claire Redfield.”

She hesitated, clearly assessing whether he was a threat. “Who are you?”

His pace was slow, deliberate. “Let’s just say… I’m a ghost, coming back to haunt your dear brother.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wesker?”

He chuckled. “Well, that saves me an introduction.” He gestured broadly to the destruction around them. “I was the one who attacked this island. Now… who’d have thought that you’d be hanging about?” His smirk deepened as he reached the landing where she stood. “All the better for me, really. Now that the cat dragged in this surprise, your ever so caring brother will definitely show up. I must thank you for being such good bait.”

Claire squared her shoulders, defiant. “Look, I don’t know what went on between you two, but you have him all wrong!” she said, “My brother is not the kind of person you think he is.”

Wesker’s hand shot out, seizing Claire’s chin in a vice-like grip. He yanked her forward until their faces were inches apart.

“I despise Chris!” he hissed.

She grit her teeth, eyes blazing. “What are you gonna do to him?”

Instead of answering, Wesker released her—only to strike. The back of his hand connected with her face, sending her flying down the stone walkway. She hit the ground hard, skidding before coming to a painful stop. As she struggled to recover, Wesker closed the distance with unhurried strides. He pressed a boot firmly against her shoulder, pinning her in place.

“Oh, how your brother will weep to see you die…” he mused, relishing the thought.

Before he could continue his torment, a soft beep sounded in his earpiece.

His expression soured.

“Ugh. What?”

“Sir, requesting backup!”

Wesker’s jaw tightened. “What is it?”

“There was a second BOW. It knocked her off the–”

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

His fingers twitched at his sides as a rush of irritation flickered through him. What could Ada have possibly gotten herself into? Didn’t she say she could handle the matter on her own? Irritation flickered in his expression as he turned back to Claire. His boot lashed out, striking her across the cheek and sending her sprawling once again.

“It appears you may be of some further use to me. I’m going to let you live a little longer…” he said, walking down the path towards the direction Ada had gone earlier. Then, with a single powerful leap, he disappeared into the night.

Claire rubbed her sore cheek, staring at the place where Wesker had stood moments before. There was something off about Wesker—something that left her with a chill deep within her bones. If her brother ended up running into Wesker, she only hoped he’d be able to take him in a fight.

—

Wesker landed effortlessly on the other side of the battlefield. The moment his boots touched the cracked earth, his eyes locked onto the scene ahead. Ada was hanging precariously over the canyon’s edge, her fingers gripping onto a jagged piece of debris on the bridge for dear life. Below her, darkness stretched endlessly. Whatever B.O.W. she had fought lay motionless nearby, its grotesque form twitching in its final moments.

With inhuman speed, he closed the distance between them, stepping over broken bodies and ruined terrain until he reached her. Ada’s head tilted up at the sound of his approach. Even in peril, she smirked. “Took you long enough.”

He crouched down, his gloved hands reaching for hers. “Always so chatty,” he muttered. As he went to haul her up, a sudden gust of wind and the screech of tearing air snapped his focus skyward. Fuck, they did mention there was something else, didn’t they?

The creature struck Albert with the force of a battering ram, its claws raking across his back as it knocked him off balance. His fingers slipped.

Ada’s weight vanished from his grasp.

She fell.

A sharp gasp left her lips as she barely managed to catch herself on the same jagged piece of debris. Her body swung violently, legs kicking over the void beneath her as she fought for purchase. The debris shifted, inching her closer to the canyon below.

“Shit,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Wesker’s gaze flicked between her and the B.O.W. No time. If he didn’t deal with this now, she’d fall. But if he took too long, the outcome would be the same.

The beast circled back, its massive wings stirring up dust and debris. It let out a guttural, inhuman screech before diving again, talons extended to rip him apart. Wesker didn’t hesitate.

He suddenly pivoted and leapt straight toward it. His fist connected with the creature’s chest mid-air, sending them both careening sideways. The force of the impact cracked bone, and the B.O.W. shrieked, wings flailing wildly as it struggled to correct itself.

It slashed out, razor-sharp claws slicing through the front of Wesker’s tactical vest, just shy of his ribs. He barely acknowledged the sting as he grabbed hold of its throat, squeezing with crushing force.

The monster convulsed in his grip, shrieking and writhing, but Wesker was relentless. He twisted sharply—there was a sickening crunch as vertebrae snapped. The monster gave one final shudder before going limp.

Without a second thought, he tossed the corpse aside, sending it plummeting into the abyss below. Then, he turned back to Ada. She was still clinging to the debris, but her grip was slipping, her knuckles white from strain. A bead of sweat rolled down her temple.

“Well?” she called up, her voice dry despite the situation. “Are you gonna get me, or are you just going to admire the view?”

Wesker huffed, stepping to the edge. “You’re the one that’s insufferable, you know that?”

She smirked, but there was tension in her arms. Without another word, he crouched down again, this time securing both her wrists in his iron grip. He pulled, effortlessly hauling her up and over the ledge in one smooth motion.

She landed against him, her breath coming out in a sharp exhale.

For a moment, they stood there, her body flush against his, the adrenaline still coursing through them both. Ada let her hands rest lightly against his chest, fingers brushing over the torn fabric of his vest as she steadied herself. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, replaced by the subtle tremor of exertion in her muscles.

And yet… she wasn’t in a rush to move.

Wesker’s hold on her was firm but not crushing, unyielding yet absent of any urgency to let go. His warmth seeped through the layers of fabric, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected. For the first time in a long time, she felt… secure. Just like when Leon had taken care of me…

The realization unsettled her, so she reverted back to what she knew best.

With measured ease, she pressed her palms against his chest and took a small step back, putting distance between them. “Well, aren’t you chivalrous?” she said with a teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood. Internally, she was still uneasy from being dropped.

Wesker said nothing at first. His gaze, hidden behind those ever-present sunglasses, remained fixed on her. His expression was unreadable, but she could feel the way he was studying her, peeling back layers with that sharp, calculating mind of his.

Finally, he huffed. “Hardly.”

Ada smirked. “Could’ve fooled me.” She turned away first, brushing off what remained of the dust and debris clinging to her dress. Focus, Wong, focus. He won’t be pulling you out of holes a second time.

“Come on,” she said, already moving. “I sent the team ahead… Guess I should have made one of them stay behind though.”

Wesker fell into step beside her, his posture as composed as ever, though she didn’t miss the slight tension in his jaw. Whether it was from her brush with death or something else entirely, she wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered.

As they moved further from the canyon’s edge, Wesker’s voice cut through the silence.

“Where is your hookshot?”

Ada glanced at him from the corner of her eye, an innocent little smile forming on her lips. “Funny thing about that…”

He stopped walking. She sighed, turning fully to face him.

“I may have dropped it.”

Wesker crossed his arms, tilting his head just slightly. “Dropped it?”

Ada shrugged. “Slipped right out of my hands and into the canyon.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His patience was thinning, she could tell. But instead of pressing his luck, he exhaled through his nose and resumed walking. Ada fell into step beside him, unbothered.

“I suppose that means you’ll need a replacement,” he said dryly.

She turned her head toward him, batting her lashes. “You wouldn’t mind getting me a new one, would you?” She pouted, just a little, just enough to test his reaction. “Pretty please?”

Wesker scoffed. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Wrong. Flattery will get you everywhere. Regardless, I’m simply reminding you of your duties as my handler.”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “My duty, is it?”

“Mm-hm.” Ada grinned. “You’re in charge of my equipment. It’s only fair that I get a new one when we’re back.”

Wesker didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied her, likely weighing the merits of arguing versus simply indulging her request. Finally, he sighed. “Fine. But don’t lose the next one.”

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Do I seem that careless to you?”

Wesker didn’t dignify her with a response. Ada simply laughed, brushing past him as they continued toward the recon team. Perhaps Wesker wasn’t as bad as she originally believed.

Chapter Text

As Wesker and Ada approached the remnants of Delta Team’s last known position, the scene before them was one of barely contained chaos. The squad had successfully eliminated the immediate threats in the area, but the disarray in their formation and the exhaustion on their faces told Wesker everything he needed to know—this unit had been led by a fool.

His sharp gaze landed on Captain Harris, the leader of Delta Team, who stood near the remains of the B.O.W. they had just taken down. The man was panting, his rifle clutched too tightly in his gloved hands, his uniform smeared with dirt and sweat. He was speaking into his comm unit, reporting their status, but even from a distance, Wesker could hear the tension in his voice. Weakness.

Ada, still dusting herself off from her own encounter, muttered under her breath. “Geez, what a mess.”

Wesker didn’t acknowledge her comment. Instead, he walked straight toward Harris, who barely had time to register his presence before Wesker spoke.

“When you called for assistance,” Wesker stated, voice as cold as steel. “I assumed it was for something serious.”

Harris straightened, swallowing hard. “Sir. The B.O.W. was more aggressive than anticipated. We lost two men, but we handled it.”

Wesker tilted his head. “Handled it?” His voice dripped with condescension. “You lost men unnecessarily. You left Miss Wong behind. Your poor leadership cost this unit time and resources.”

Harris stiffened. “With respect, sir, we weren’t briefed on the specifics of this creature. It was an ambush.”

Ada, standing slightly off to the side, crossed her arms and gave a small smirk. She knew that arguing with Wesker was pointless, but she seemed content to watch Harris dig his own grave.

The director took a slow step forward, forcing the man to meet his gaze. “A competent leader prepares for the unpredictable. A competent leader does not flounder when faced with adversity.” His gloved hand shot out, gripping Harris by the throat in a crushing grip. The captain choked, hands scrambling to pry Wesker’s fingers loose, but it was a futile effort.

“I do not tolerate incompetence, Captain,” Wesker said simply before tightening his grip with inhuman strength. There was a sickening crack—Harris’ neck snapping like brittle twigs beneath Wesker’s fingers. The captain’s body went limp, and Wesker let him drop unceremoniously to the ground.

A stunned silence fell over the remaining soldiers. Some tensed, unsure if they would be next. Others looked away, unwilling to acknowledge what had just happened.

Wesker turned his gaze toward the rest of Delta Team. “You have a new captain now.” His eyes landed on a soldier who had held his position firm throughout the chaos. “You. Take command. Complete the mission. If you find it’s too much for you, save me the time and energy—just put a bullet in yourself.”

The soldier—Lieutenant Dawson—gave a sharp nod. “Yes, sir.”

Satisfied, Wesker turned away from the team, his focus already shifting back to his own objectives. Ada, who had been watching with an unreadable expression, finally broke the silence between them.

“Well,” she mused, “I suppose that’s one way to handle poor management.”

He motioned for Ada to follow as he continued towards their destination. When they were far enough away, he let out a quiet sigh of annoyance.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, catching the subtle irritation beneath his composed exterior. “What is it? Regretting your choice already?” she teased.

Wesker didn’t slow his stride. “No.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “Then what’s with the sigh? You’re not usually one to let things bother you.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “It’s a waste of our time to clean up after them. If they had done their jobs correctly, you wouldn’t have been hanging above your death.”

Ada smirked, tilting her head. “You really hate inefficiency, don’t you?”

“I despise it.”

She chuckled softly, clearly amused. “And yet, you keep me around.”

Wesker finally turned his head toward her, his red eyes glinting behind his shades. “You don’t give yourself enough credit sometimes.”

She let the compliment settle between them before shifting her focus forward again. “So, what’s the plan when we get to the estate? Kick down the door and hope for the best?”

Wesker huffed, though whether it was in amusement or annoyance, she couldn’t quite tell. “Hardly. We’ll enter through one of the side wings. If there’s anything valuable left inside, the last thing I want is to risk its destruction by barging in recklessly.”

Ada nodded, accepting his logic. “Think we’ll run into any more survivors?”

His lips curled into something resembling a smirk. “If we do, I doubt they’ll be as lucky as the last one.”

“Oh? Did someone get away from you?” she asked curiously.

“She didn’t ‘get away’. I decided to let her live a little while longer. She’ll be excellent bait in drawing Chris—provided we don’t finish up by then.”

Ada cast him a knowing look but said nothing. Claire Redfield? Wesker must have been in a good mood if he decided to not kill her right away. She knew what he was like—how he eliminated obstacles without hesitation. And yet, despite that, she was still here, walking beside him without fear. Their pace remained steady as they neared the estate, the towering structure looming in the distance.

He came to a halt just short of the estate’s entrance, his gaze tracing the building’s structure with meticulous calculation. The first floor was cluttered with debris, crumbled pillars, and twisted iron—hardly a welcoming sight. The main doors were still intact, but that meant little; the interior was likely crawling with the infected, if not worse. No, they needed another way inside.

His gaze lifted, settling on a grand, arched balcony on the second floor. It jutted out over the courtyard, supported by ornate stone pillars that had, against all odds, remained standing. If they could reach it, they’d bypass most of the ground-level dangers.

Nearby, a smaller, adjacent building caught his attention. It was partially collapsed, but the sloping remains of its rooftop created a potential path—an upward incline that would allow for a well-placed jump. Wesker smirked faintly. A simple feat for him, but…

He turned to Ada, his expression unreadable behind his ever-present shades. “Miss Wong,” he said smoothly, gesturing toward the balcony with a slight nod. “If I may?”

Ada quirked a brow at his uncharacteristic display of courtesy. “My, my. How polite of you.” The corner of her lips curled as she gave a lazy wave of her hand. “By all means.”

Without another word, Wesker stepped closer. One arm slipped beneath her knees, the other curled around her back. She barely had a second to react before she found herself lifted off the ground, cradled effortlessly in his grasp.

His grip was firm yet controlled, his body a steady pillar of heat even through the thick layers of his tactical gear. Then there was his hand—gloved fingers pressed against the curve of her waist, dangerously close to her breast. Given the number of times this evening they had to do this, Ada wasn’t sure if his hand placement was merely an accident.

Except… Wesker doesn’t do accidents.

The sound of his voice pulled her from her thoughts. “Hold on,” he instructed.

She barely had time to hold onto his vest before they were off the ground. With a single, explosive burst of power, he leapt from their place, the ruined courtyard vanishing beneath them. The wind rushed past, whipping Ada’s hair around her face as the two of them soared effortlessly through the air. The impact never came—at least, not in the way she expected.

Albert landed as if he had merely stepped off a curb, his boots hitting the rooftop with an eerie lightness. The force of the jump barely registered through his frame, but Ada felt it in her stomach—the brief, weightless sensation that sent a small jolt through her nerves.

Still holding her, he shifted his stance, barely needing to adjust before crouching slightly, preparing for the final leap. Ada’s fingers curled instinctively tighter against his torn vest. She wouldn’t admit it, but there was something exciting about the sheer effortlessness of it all—about him.

Then, another jump.

This time, the air was thick with tension, the estate’s balcony looming closer. And then, just like before, Wesker landed smoothly, his balance unwavering. Finally, he set her down. Ada regained her footing quickly this time, smoothing out her dress as she cast him a sidelong glance.

“Well,” she mused, rolling her shoulders as if to rid herself of the phantom sensation of his hold. “I don’t care what anyone else says—this is quickly becoming my favorite way to travel.”

Wesker merely adjusted his leather gloves, his expression unreadable. “Don’t get used to it. Wouldn’t want others to get the wrong idea about us.”

Ada smirked at his choice of words, her eyes glinting with mischief as she adjusted the hem of her dress. “The wrong idea?” she echoed, tilting her head slightly as she stepped past him toward the estate’s large, dust-covered doors. “Now you’ve got me curious. What idea would that be, exactly?”

Wesker followed behind her, his movements as composed as ever, despite the amusement that flickered briefly across his face. “You know precisely what I mean.”

Ada hummed, placing a gloved hand against the wooden door and giving it an experimental push. It groaned against its rusted hinges, the decay of the once-grand estate making itself known. “Oh, I don’t know,” she mused as they stepped inside, the dimly lit hall stretching before them. “You’re the one who chose those words. I’m just trying to keep up.”

The air inside was stale with the faintest trace of rot. The marble flooring beneath them was cracked, and tattered curtains hung limply over broken windows, allowing thin slivers of moonlight to cast eerie shadows across the space.

Wesker ignored her teasing, his focus scanning the layout as he assessed their next move. Ada, however, wasn’t finished playing with him just yet.

“I imagine Dr. Hart is overjoyed about your promotion,” she remarked, her tone light, but the meaning beneath it clear. “She always did seem rather… enthusiastic about you.”

Wesker’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Hart’s enthusiasm is irrelevant.”

Ada chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure she doesn’t think so. And with you becoming Director, I suppose I’ll finally be getting a new handler once this mission’s over.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, watching for a reaction.

Wesker kept his gaze ahead, his stride unbroken as he navigated the decrepit hallway. “That was the plan,” he admitted. “I was waiting until our return to share the details, but since you’re so eager to discuss the matter…” He finally turned his head toward her, his voice smooth and deliberate. “You’ll be staying under my command.”

Her steps slowed just a fraction, her sharp mind working through the implications of his words. She had expected a new handler, someone else to toy with, someone to keep at arm’s length. But staying under his command? That was unexpected.

Ada glanced at him, searching for any sign of ulterior motive, but—as always—Wesker’s expression didn’t give anything further away. “I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming,” she said, her voice lighter than the curiosity gnawing at her.

His silence was answer enough.

Her lips curled slightly, though there was no teasing in her tone when she spoke next. “And what about Director Roland?”

The moment his name left her lips, Wesker’s head turned sharply in her direction. “I would never allow talent like yours to rot under him,” he said, his tone carrying an unmistakable edge of disdain.

Ada’s brows lifted slightly, caught off guard by the swiftness of his response. His usual, measured control was still intact, but there was something definitive about the way he had cut her off. Blunt. Absolute. Perhaps he was serious about keeping Ro at arm’s length…

For a moment, she simply looked at him, her amusement dimmed by intrigue. Wesker had always been difficult to pin down—his motivations layered beneath cold calculation. But this? This was different.

“That passionate about keeping me to yourself, are you?” she mused, her smirk returning as she resumed walking, her boots clicking softly against the cracked marble floor.

Wesker merely adjusted his gloves. “If that’s what you want to call it. Yes.”

“Careful—I wouldn’t want to make Evelyn jealous.”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel his gaze on her, studying, assessing—just as she was doing to him. The air between them carried an unspoken weight, something neither of them were willing to acknowledge outright.

Her handler’s steps slowed to a stop, Wesker’s head tilting ever so slightly as he listened to the world around them. Ada knew better than to interrupt—it could be the difference between life and death for them. Albert tilted his head in the opposite direction, brows slightly furrowed as he picked up on something in the distance.

She silently motioned her hand to gain his attention. Ada wasn’t sure if she needed to find a way to corner whatever was coming or simply deal with the problem head on. Before she could take a step closer, Albert’s hand shot out, warning her to stay still. Then, she heard something too.

Ada’s breath caught for a moment as the silence was shattered by the faintest of sounds—a soft click, followed by a sudden rustling from somewhere nearby. Albert’s posture shifted, every muscle tense, a predator on alert. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing, and Ada knew, without him saying a word, that danger was near.

Before either of them could react, a gunshot rang out, its sharp crack slicing through the air like a blade.

Ada didn’t have time to move before she felt a strong arm wrap around her, pulling her to safety. Her heart skipped a beat as Wesker moved with blinding speed, his body a shield against the bullet meant for her. The impact echoed through his arm, the searing pain momentarily flashing across his face, but his grip never wavered as he kept her hidden behind him.

The bullet had lodged into his arm with a sickening thud, and she could hear the faint grind of it embedding into the muscle. His movements were quick, instinctual—he was already assessing their position, positioning her further behind his body as he whipped his head around. Ada could hear the faint sound of a bullet casing falling behind them.

Alfred Ashford. The name floated in her mind, a distant memory of someone she'd long since considered irrelevant. She hadn’t expected him to be alive, let alone actively targeting them. Wesker’s gaze flicked to the left, pinning Alfred as he stepped out from behind a hidden door, his face contorted with madness. His gun was still aimed in their direction, but now it was Wesker who was the focus of his rage.

Albert stood fully in front of her now, his posture unnervingly calm despite the pain. The bullet in his arm was nothing more than an irritation now. Ada's pulse quickened, her body still pressed against his back, but her mind was already racing. How had she missed him? She should have realized he would have hidden in the walls like a rat.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said, the words dripping with a terrifying calm.

The man sneered, his finger twitching on the trigger, but before he could pull it again, Wesker was moving, a blur of motion that had Ada catching her breath.

He didn’t hesitate—he never did. The speed at which he closed the distance between them was almost impossible to track, but in the blink of an eye, Alfred was on the floor, gasping for breath, his weapon already taken from his hand and crushed underfoot.

Wesker stood over him, one boot pressing against the man’s chest, the weight of it enough to keep him down. Alfred’s breathing was ragged, his face pale, his eyes wild with desperation. “You… you’re not going to get away with this. You aren’t worthy…” he rasped, his voice trailing off in a fit of manic laughter.

Wesker’s gaze darkened, his patience wearing thin. He stepped down harder, his boot pressing down on Alfred’s chest, causing the man to wince in pain.

“You’re in no position to make such statements,” Wesker growled. “Tell me, where are you storing the Veronica virus?”

Alfred’s wild-eyed gaze flicked between Wesker and Ada, a glimmer of recognition flashing in his eyes. “The Veronica virus... it’s in Antarctica,” he spat, a manic grin playing at the edges of his lips as he saw the glimmer of recognition flicker in Wesker’s eyes. “And, Alexia…”

Wesker’s gaze remained cold, but his mind was working furiously, the implications of Alfred’s words settling into place. Alexia Ashford? She was supposed to be dead. But then again, so was he.

A flicker of thought passed across Wesker’s mind. Should he kill Alfred now, silence him for good and save the trouble of dealing with the chaos that would surely follow Alexia’s awakening? His boot pressed down just a little harder, grinding Alfred’s ribs into the stone floor, his face a portrait of disdain.

But then, Wesker’s expression shifted, a slight curve of his lips that betrayed his amusement. No. Alfred was nothing but a pawn, an irrelevant speck of dust in the grand game Wesker was playing. Killing him would be too quick, too simple. A quick death was a mercy he would not afford to such a pathetic excuse for a man.

Instead, Wesker stepped back, his gaze dark as he regarded Alfred with barely restrained contempt. In the distance, he could hear voices—more survivors? No. It was Claire again, of course. It sounded as though she were with a male, but it was a voice that Wesker didn’t recognize. He briefly motioned to Ada to wrap things up, signaling that they needed to move on.

She holstered her gun, following Wesker as they pressed further into the estate. “Antarctica... I suppose that’s where we’re headed next?” she asked, her voice light, almost casual, despite the gravity of the situation.

Wesker’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “That’s where I’m headed,” he corrected, leading the way through the estate.

Her lips pulled into a frown. “And I’m going with you.”

“You’re not,” he replied quickly. “I’ve had to come to your aid twice tonight, Ada. You’re starting to slow me down.”

Ada’s eyes narrowed slightly at his response, her lips twitching into a frown. “I’m going with you,” she insisted, her voice firm. “We have no idea what’s even happening there.”

Wesker’s gaze remained cold as he met her eyes, unwavering. “I said no,” he said flatly.

Ada’s posture shifted, her arms folding across her chest as she took a step closer, challenging his cold dismissal.

“Slow you down? You’re going to need backup when you’re dealing with the Veronica Virus, Wesker.” She tilted her head, eyes glinting with the sharp edge of her challenge.

Wesker’s lips curled slightly, but there was no warmth behind the gesture. “I work better alone,” he said, his voice even, though there was a dangerous edge to his tone. He turned to face her fully, locking eyes with her in a way that spoke of complete authority. “You’ll lead the other teams back to base to assess the information and samples we’ve gathered. You’ll be more useful to me that way.”

Ada could feel the pull of frustration building inside her, the way his words brushed aside her contributions, her skills, as though they were secondary to his own mission. She stepped forward, looking up at him with a hint of defiance in her gaze. “You’re really going to bench me? Just like that? ”

Wesker didn’t flinch. He simply took another step forward, closing the distance between them, his hand lifting with chilling precision.

In an instant, his fingers were gripping her chin, tilting her face upward. His touch was firm, unyielding. She could feel the slight pressure of his gloved hand as it held her in place. His voice dropped low, the tone barely above a whisper, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

“You have your orders,” he said, his voice smooth but sharp like a blade. “And now you need to be a good girl and follow them.”

Ada’s breath caught for just a moment, the intense, commanding nature of his words sending a ripple of tension through her. She tried to maintain her composure, her mouth setting into a line, but deep down, something stirred within her—something she couldn’t quite place.

For a brief moment, she considered pushing back, challenging him further. But the way his grip tightened, the unspoken finality in his words, told her that this was not a discussion he was willing to entertain any longer. His gaze held hers, unwavering, and for once, she realized that she wouldn’t win this battle.

She pulled in a slow breath, managing to regain some of her usual composure. “Fine,” she hissed quietly, her voice tinged with reluctant acceptance.

Wesker didn’t let go of her chin immediately, his thumb brushing across her skin in a barely perceptible motion. The gesture was almost tender, but there was no warmth to it. He studied her for a moment longer, as though gauging her reaction, before releasing her with one final, lingering look.

“Good,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Now get moving.”

Ada stepped back, finally breaking the brief but charged connection between them. She didn’t bother saying anything more, knowing that her words wouldn’t change his mind. She simply turned on her heel and walked toward an exit, but the thoughts swirling in her head left a gnawing feeling behind.

Wesker watched her leave, his posture rigid, before he turned back toward the task at hand. There was no room for distraction. He had a mission to complete, and no matter what, nothing—no one—was going to stand in his way.

Chapter Text

Ada’s heels echoed through the pristine halls of the HCF facility, a stark contrast to the filth and destruction of Rockfort Island. The mission there had been a success—at least for Wesker. He had gone off to Antarctica alone, just as he had ordered, leaving her behind to oversee the data retrieval and containment efforts. It grated on her. She had done her part, ensured everything ran smoothly in his absence, but it wasn’t enough. She knew it. He’d benched her, sidelined her like she was some disposable asset rather than the best operative he had.

I should have been there with him. We had no intel on that Antarctic facility and I should have been there.

Instead, she had been running things in his absence, working tirelessly to ensure every scrap of data from Rockfort was secured, sorted, and analyzed. The samples retrieved had been cataloged with precision, and any useful intelligence was already being synthesized into actionable plans. Ada had personally reviewed every report before sending them up the chain—she wanted Wesker to see that things had functioned flawlessly without him, that she was more than capable of handling whatever came her way.

And yet, it wasn’t enough to simply do her job well. She needed to prove herself in a way that he couldn’t ignore.

The moment word came of Wesker’s impending arrival, she set everything into motion. The containment teams had been briefed, the labs were prepped, and the medical personnel were on standby. Steve Burnside’s body was the key to the Veronica virus, and Ada had ensured that the research teams were ready to begin their work the second Wesker stepped off that transport.

But this wasn’t just about logistics. It was about him.

Ada had spent enough time around Wesker to understand how his mind worked. Efficiency, control, and strength—those were the things he respected. If she was going to make sure he never sidelined her again, she needed to show him that she was an irreplaceable asset. That she wasn’t just another agent under his command but someone he needed by his side.

She adjusted her gloves, her gaze flicking toward the security monitors displaying the incoming transport. He would be here any minute now.

Ada took a slow breath, steadying herself.

Let’s see you try and bench me after this, Wesker.

Ada’s arms folded as she leaned against the console, watching the live feed of the transport team's movements. Steve Burnside’s body was being carefully moved into the facility, a series of technicians and containment specialists ensuring the precious sample was handled with the utmost care. Everything was going according to plan, exactly as she had arranged.

Her gaze, however, drifted past the body to the man stepping off the chopper.

Wesker’s movements were as precise as ever, but something was off. The way he carried himself, the almost imperceptible stiffness in his posture—it wasn’t the same unwavering confidence she was used to. The video quality wasn’t good enough to confirm her suspicion, but something told her he was injured.

That was… unusual.

Ada grabbed a bottle of water from the nearest desk, thinking she’d do him a favor by bringing it to him. If nothing else, she wanted to get a closer look and confirm her suspicions. As she moved swiftly through the corridors, her mind raced. What had happened in Antarctica? Had Alexia been more of a challenge than he anticipated? She had her doubts—Wesker was nothing if not prepared.

The double doors slid open as she reached the hangar bay. The moment she saw him in person, she had to stop herself from staring.

The left side of his face was burned.

It wasn’t grotesque—his regenerative abilities were already at work—but the damage was fresh, his skin marred by a deep, angry wound that extended from his temple down toward his jawline. His sunglasses remained in place, obscuring his expression, but Ada didn’t need to see his eyes to know he was barely holding back his frustration.

Without thinking, she spoke. “What the hell happened?” Her usual composed tone faltered slightly. “You need to go to med bay and get checked out.”

She stepped in front of him, offering the bottle of water, but Wesker barely spared her a glance. He simply pushed past her, his voice low and dismissive.

“All I need is a shower.”

Ada turned on her heel, watching him as he strode away, her fingers tightening around the bottle.

This wasn’t just frustration—this was personal. Whatever had happened out there had gotten under his skin in a way nothing else had. And she intended to find out why.

Ada didn’t hesitate to follow. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor as she caught up to him, stepping into stride beside him.

“You’re not getting off that easy,” she said, her voice firm but smooth. “What happened out there?”

“I don’t have time for this, Ada,” Wesker replied, his tone clipped as he continued down the hallway.

She huffed, rolling her eyes at his blatant evasiveness. “You never have time, do you?”

His pace didn’t slow, his posture rigid with irritation. Ada’s patience, however, was wearing thin.

In a swift motion, she reached out, gripping the sleeve of his coat in an attempt to stop him. “Enough. Tell me what happened.”

The moment he halted, a cold tension settled between them. Slowly, he turned his head toward her, and even through his sunglasses, she saw it—the faint but unmistakable glow of his irises, burning with restrained fury.

“Chris Redfield happened,” he bit out.

Ada’s fingers twitched against the fabric of his sleeve before she let go, her expression momentarily unreadable.

Chris.

Of course.

Her lips parted, but she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say. She had seen Wesker angry before—calculated, irritated, even vengeful. But this… this was something else. Something raw.

Ada lingered just a step behind him as they neared his quarters, her arms crossed as she studied his stiff posture.

“So,” she started, her voice deceptively light, “did you at least manage to kill him?”

The silence that followed was more telling than any answer he could have given.

She smirked, though there was little amusement behind it. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Wesker’s jaw tightened. He keyed in the code to his door with more force than necessary, stepping inside without so much as glancing her way.

Ada followed, standing in the doorway as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it onto a chair. “How did he get away?”

His fingers hovered over the buttons of his shirt, pausing for the briefest second before he grumbled, “Explosion. The place was crumbling thanks to the self-destruct sequence.”

She leaned against the doorframe, one brow arched. “How convenient.”

Wesker ignored her, undoing the last button before slipping the shirt from his shoulders. Ada took in the sight of him—his physique as flawless as ever, save for the fresh burns marring the side of his face and upper torso. The skin was raw, angry, stark against his usual pallor.

She barely hesitated before pushing off the doorframe. “I’ll go get some supplies. We should dress that before it—”

“I don’t need your help,” he snapped, his voice cutting through the thickening steam as he turned on the shower.

Ada stilled. For a moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them palpable.

Then, she smiled. A slow, knowing thing.

“Of course you don’t.” She leaned back against the doorway, watching as he turned away from her. “But I’ll bring the supplies anyway.”

With that, she turned and left, her heels clicking against the floor. He didn’t need her help—but she wasn’t about to give him a choice.

—

Ada returned precisely half an hour later, carrying a small tray with medical supplies—sterile dressings, burn ointment, gauze. She had taken her time gathering only the best, knowing full well that if she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. If Wesker wanted to be a stubborn ass about it, she’d simply kill him with kindness.

As she stepped inside, the quiet hum of the ventilation system was the only sound that greeted her. The air was thick with residual steam, a faint warmth still clinging to the space from his shower. Her gaze flicked toward the open bathroom door, where he stood, clad in nothing but a towel.

He was facing the mirror, his fingers lightly tracing the burns on his face as he inspected the damage. His usual unshakable confidence had returned, but for once, there was a flicker of something else beneath it—contemplation, perhaps even frustration.

Ada, on the other hand, found herself momentarily distracted. Water still clung to his skin, droplets trailing down the defined ridges of his back, over his shoulders, disappearing beneath the towel slung low on his hips. His muscles flexed slightly as he ran a hand through his damp blond hair.

She mentally kicked herself. This is your boss, she reminded herself. Your arrogant, controlling, pain-in-the-ass boss.

Shaking off the thought, she cleared her throat and took a few confident steps closer. “Admiring your battle scars?” she asked, setting the supplies down on the bathroom counter.

Wesker’s gaze met hers in the mirror. The sharp amber glow of his irises were clearly visible without his shades. It wasn’t often that she caught him without them.

“I was assessing the extent of the damage,” he corrected coolly, turning slightly toward her. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

Ada hummed, unfazed by his dismissive tone. “Well, lucky for you, I am concerned.” She picked up the ointment and gestured toward him. “Now, are you going to let me help, or are you planning to brood in front of the mirror all night?”

Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching for a moment before he gestured toward the supplies in silent acquiescence. He could have easily done this himself, of course—he had endured far worse, and his body would recover quickly regardless—but he was also tired. More than that, he was irritated, and arguing with Ada Wong any further felt like an unnecessary waste of energy.

She smirked faintly at his wordless surrender but said nothing. Instead, she picked up the burn ointment and dipped her fingers into the cool gel before stepping closer to him.

The silence between them was almost heavy, filled only by the subtle sounds of her movements—the crinkle of the gauze wrapper, the quiet breath she took as she focused on her task.

Ada’s touch was careful as she smoothed the ointment over the burn on his cheek, her fingertips barely grazing his skin. Despite the lingering sting of the wound, her hands were surprisingly gentle, methodical in their movements.

Wesker found himself watching her.

She was meticulous—he had always known that. But now, standing this close, he noticed things he hadn’t before. The way her lips pressed together slightly in concentration, her tongue peeking out just the tiniest bit as she worked. The way her pulse seemed to quicken every time her fingers brushed against his skin.

She wasn’t nervous. No, Ada Wong was never nervous. But there was something else there, something just beneath the surface.

He tilted his head slightly as she moved down to his chest, spreading the ointment across the reddened skin before carefully beginning to wrap the gauze around his torso.

Her scent was subtle but unmistakable—something faintly floral beneath the sterile tang of antiseptic. The warmth of her body was closer than it should have been, her movements precise yet unhurried.

“Are you always this thorough?” Wesker finally asked, his voice quiet, measured.

Ada didn’t look up, but he caught the faintest quirk of her lips. “Only with people who nearly get themselves killed,” she murmured, securing the gauze in place.

His mouth twitched. “You’re one to talk.”

She gave a light pat to his chest—just enough to be teasing, not enough to hurt—before stepping back slightly, tilting her head to examine her work.

“There,” she said. “All patched up. Try not to go charging into any more explosions for a while, hm?”

Wesker huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his shoulders slightly to test the bandages. “I’ll stick to bashing my own head against the wall.”

Ada simply shook her head, her smirk returning. “I’ll make sure Miles doesn’t sign off on any worker’s comp for that.”

Ada took a step back, satisfied with her work but keenly aware of the weight of Wesker’s gaze still lingering on her. His sharp, calculating eyes—redder than usual, likely from exhaustion—studied her, as if trying to predict what she would say next.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “You should get some rest. We can catch up later.”

Wesker’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker of something unreadable in his features before he responded. “I still need to check on the research team’s progress with Steve.” He moved as if to leave, but Ada immediately stepped in front of him, blocking his path with ease.

She let out a soft sigh, shaking her head. “You can barely keep your damn eyes open, Wesker.” Her tone was light, but there was an edge of genuine concern beneath it. “Steve’s not going anywhere. I’ll check in with the research team and shoot you a quick update.”

His lips parted as if to argue, but for once, he seemed to reconsider. His eyes flickered over her face before he finally exhaled, rubbing his fingers against his temple.

“Fine.” The single word came out as more of a grumble than an admission, but Ada took it as a victory nonetheless.

She grinned. “Knew you’d see reason eventually.” With that, she turned on her heel and made her way to the door. Just before stepping out, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Try not to overthink it, will you?”

Wesker didn’t respond, merely watching as she disappeared down the hall, her footsteps fading into the distance.

Now alone, he let out a long, tired breath. He was annoyed that she had been right. His body still ached—not unbearably, but enough to remind him that the mission in Antarctica had pushed him further than he cared to admit.

Sighing, he stepped back into his quarters, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward his closet. He changed into something more comfortable—black lounge pants and a loose-fitting long-sleeve shirt—before running a hand through his damp hair.

Then, something unexpected happened.

The moment he sat on the edge of his bed, his body felt heavier than it had in years. His enhanced physiology meant he rarely needed more than a few hours of sleep at a time—if that. But as he leaned back against the mattress, an unfamiliar weight settled over him.

His mind fought it at first, lingering on the mission, on the Veronica virus, on Redfield—on Ada.

But the exhaustion was relentless. His muscles relaxed, his breaths grew steady, and for the first time since becoming what he was, Albert Wesker fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep.

Neither one of them brought up how Ada had taken care of him after his return. True to her word, she had checked on the research team, sent Wesker a quick email update—to which he never responded to—and continued to oversee his operations until he was fully rested.

Wesker was back on his feet in under 24 hours. As Albert and Miles walked through the sterile halls of the facility, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps echoed against the pristine tile floors. The labs were bustling with researchers and technicians, all hard at work analyzing the wealth of data recovered from Rockfort Island. Screens flickered with streams of code and biological readouts, while various containment units housed the samples brought back—including Steve Burnside’s body, resting in cryogenic suspension.

Wesker barely spared a glance at the research surrounding him, his attention focused entirely on the conversation at hand.

“The data retrieval was nearly flawless,” Miles was saying, his hands tucked neatly behind his back as they moved past another laboratory. “Not only did we secure the necessary samples of the Veronica virus, but we also gathered extensive records on Ashford’s research—including years of development notes that were previously thought to be lost.”

Wesker gave a small nod, his crimson eyes scanning the various reports displayed on digital tablets as they passed. “And the debriefings?”

“Handled.”

“The Rockfort personnel who were captured?”

“Processed and either terminated or recruited, depending on their usefulness.”

“The status of HCF’s involvement being kept under wraps?”

“Tightly sealed. As far as the world is concerned, the attack on Rockfort was nothing more than another tragic incident caused by Umbrella’s negligence.”

For every inquiry, Miles had a swift and precise answer—something that would have been admirable, if not for the fact that he wasn’t the one responsible for it.

Wesker finally turned his head toward him, his voice low and measured. “I assume you didn’t take care of all of this yourself.”

Miles let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Of course not.” He cast a knowing glance at Wesker before stopping near a terminal, tapping a few keys to bring up a list of completed assignments. “You have one person to thank for all of this, Albert.”

Wesker’s eyes flickered over the screen, the same name appearing over and over again on reports, logs, and internal messages.

Ada Wong.

She had handled every single aspect of the mission’s aftermath. While he had been in Antarctica, tearing his way through Ashford’s facility and barely escaping with his prize, she had been here—benched and cleaning up the mess, keeping everything running, ensuring HCF’s continued success without skipping a beat.

Wesker remained silent for a moment, his gaze narrowing slightly as he processed this information.

Miles, sensing his thoughts, exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. “So?”

Wesker turned his head slightly, arching a brow. “So what?”

Miles scoffed. “So when are you going to give her the recognition she deserves?”

Wesker’s expression remained unreadable, his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t respond immediately, instead returning his attention to the reports in front of him.

Miles let out a small laugh. “You know, for someone who prides himself on being the smartest man in the room, you sure can be dense when it comes to things like this.” He shook his head, stepping away from the terminal. “She didn’t do all of this for HCF, Albert. She did it for you.”

Wesker finally looked up, his red eyes gleaming slightly from behind his shades. His expression remained neutral, but there was something else beneath the surface—something even Miles couldn’t quite read.

“I suppose I’ll have to find a way to repay her,” Wesker finally said, his voice smooth, deliberate.

Miles smirked. “You can thank her properly at the party tonight. Oh, and don’t forget to let her know about her big upcoming raise, Director.” Wesker cursed under his breath, barely audible, but enough for Miles to hear and grin in amusement. Of course, there was a party. A celebration of their success, as if the mission hadn’t been a calculated operation but some grand spectacle worth reveling in. He had no intention of attending—what use did he have for idle chatter and self-congratulations? Time spent drinking with colleagues would be better used analyzing the data they’d acquired, refining his plans, and preparing for the responsibilities his new role demanded.

But then Miles had to mention her.

Ada would be there.

His jaw tightened slightly. It was only logical to attend now. Strictly for the purpose of informing her of her upcoming raise, of course. If she had gone through the trouble of ensuring the mission’s aftermath was handled flawlessly, then he supposed she deserved to hear the news from him directly.

Miles clapped him on the shoulder as he started walking away. “Better find something to wear, Director. You wouldn’t want to be under-dressed for your own party.”

Wesker scoffed. “This is hardly my party.”

Miles only chuckled. “Oh, but it is. Whether you like it or not.”

As the older man disappeared around the corner, Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose. He turned back toward the glowing monitors, his fingers tapping once against the edge of the nearest console before he turned on his heel and strode away.

He had a few hours before the event. Enough time to shower, change into something suitably formal, and—if he could manage it—mentally prepare himself to endure an evening of pointless socializing.

And yet, as he made his way toward his quarters, his mind remained fixed on one thing.

Ada.

A raise was one thing. Recognition for her work was deserved.

But it surprised and irritated him—more than it should—that she had handled everything so well in his absence. That she had anticipated his role, taken command in ways few others could. She had made herself indispensable. And while it was convenient, it also meant she had maneuvered herself into a position of influence within his ranks.

He was no stranger to ambition, nor the ways in which people sought power through proximity. It was how the game was played. But Ada Wong was different. Competent, even.

And that was what excited him most.

Chapter Text

The establishment chosen for the party was nothing short of extravagant. A private venue nestled deep within the city, its interior was a perfect blend of luxury and indulgence. Dark, polished floors reflected the flashing neon lights, and a thrum of deep bass pulsed through the walls. The open bar stretched along the length of the main floor, where top-shelf liquor flowed freely into crystal glasses. Dancers, dressed in sleek, barely-there attire, twisted and swayed on illuminated platforms while patrons lost themselves in the heavy, intoxicating atmosphere.

For a corporate event, it was a far cry from the sterile halls of the HCF facility. But that was the point, wasn’t it? A chance for people to forget, if only for one night, that their work often dealt in death and destruction.

Ada had to admit—it wasn’t half bad.

She wasn’t exactly the social type when it came to her colleagues, but after spending days buried in logistics, making sure everything ran smoothly in Wesker’s absence, she found herself… enjoying the moment. The drinks, the music, the easy conversation—while she hadn’t made many friends during her time overseeing parts of the operation, there was a newfound respect among the ranks. Agents and researchers alike had taken to raising their glasses in her honor, commending her for keeping things together.

If Wesker had been there, he would have scoffed at the sentiment. She had simply done her job, nothing more. But for once, Ada allowed herself to bask in the attention.

And then there was him.

Director Roland Landry.

The man had been hovering at the edges of her conversations all night, slowly inching closer each time their gazes met. Tall, well-dressed, and just charming enough to make himself tolerable this evening, Roland was a man who loved to hear himself talk. Ada knew Wesker wouldn’t appreciate her entertaining the man. But…Wesker wasn’t here.

So what the hell?

She let Roland slide into the seat next to her at the bar, let him flash his easy grin as he ordered them both another round. His fingers brushed against hers when he passed her the glass, his touch lingering just a second too long.

“Quite the party, isn’t it?” Roland mused, tilting his glass toward her in a mock toast.

Ada smirked, swirling the dark liquor in her glass. “It’s a little much for a work function, don’t you think?”

Roland chuckled. “Oh, come on. After the success at Rockfort, I’d say we deserve to cut loose a little. You, especially.” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel personal. “Everyone’s been talking about how well you handled things. Maybe it’s time you finally considered a position that isn’t under Wesker.”

She arched a brow. “Still trying to get me to transfer, Director?”

“Just an observation.” His eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “Wesker’s brilliant, but let’s be honest—he doesn’t care about anyone else’s opinion. He never has. A woman with your skills? You could go much further, if you weren’t constantly in his shadow.”

Ada let out a quiet hum, taking a slow sip of her drink. She wasn’t stupid. Roland wasn’t just making conversation—he was trying to plant seeds, testing the waters to see if she’d turn on Wesker in any way. It was a tempting notion. But the idea of leaving Wesker’s team?

The devil you know, or the devil you don’t? Which is which…

Still, she played along, offering a coy smile as she set her drink down. “You certainly know how to make a girl feel wanted, Roland.”

Roland’s smirk widened at her words, his confidence growing as he took another sip of his drink. “What can I say? I have a talent for recognizing value where others overlook it.” His free hand brushed along her forearm, his touch deliberate, lingering just long enough to test her reaction.

Ada didn’t pull away.

Instead, she smirked and tilted her head slightly, playing the game as she always did. Roland wasn’t exactly her type—too polished, too eager to prove himself—but he was entertaining, and more importantly, he wasn’t her boss.

So when he extended a hand, motioning toward the dance floor, she took it without hesitation.

The music pulsed through the club, deep and rhythmic, something slow enough to press close but fast enough to keep things interesting. The crowd on the dance floor swayed under the dim lights, bodies moving together in a haze of liquor and adrenaline. Roland pulled her in easily, his movements smooth, practiced. One hand held his drink lazily at his side, the other resting against the small of her back, guiding her in time with the beat.

“You move well,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear as he dipped his head slightly.

Ada smirked, her hands resting lightly against his chest. “You sound surprised.”

He chuckled, fingers pressing a fraction deeper into the fabric of her blouse. “Not at all. Just appreciating the moment.”

And to her own surprise, Ada found herself doing the same.

It had been a long time since she let herself simply be—since she entertained the idea of enjoying someone’s attention without ulterior motives, without strategy. Roland wasn’t a bad dancer, and the way he held her—possessive, but not suffocating—stirred something within her that she hadn’t expected. She let him pull her in closer, let his fingers trail lightly along the curve of her hip. The scent of expensive cologne and whiskey clung to him, mixing with the heady atmosphere of the club.

Ada was still riding the high of the dance floor, her pulse thrumming as Roland led her through the dimly lit club and into one of the private lounges. The room was secluded, shrouded in deep red lighting, and furnished with a sleek leather sofa, a glass table, and a fully stocked bar against the far wall. The bass of the music still pulsed faintly from outside, but here, it was quieter, more intimate.

Roland turned to her with that ever-present smirk, his confidence practically radiating off of him. His hands, warm and firm, slid along her waist as he pulled her in, capturing her lips with his own.

Ada let herself sink into the couch, reveling in the heat, the attention, the sheer thrill of indulging in something—someone—that allowed her to let loose a little. Roland wasn’t her boss. He wasn’t some untouchable figure with rules and expectations. He was just a man who wanted her. His hands wandered, gliding over the curve of her hips before slipping beneath the hem of her leather mini skirt. He groaned against her mouth, his fingers pressing into bare skin as he deepened the kiss.

And she let him.

Fingers deftly slid inside of her, slowly finding a rhythm that Ada appreciated. She moaned softly against his mouth, slightly arching her back off the sofa as she yearned for more. But just as Ada was beginning to lose herself in the moment, the soft click of a door opening and closing caught her attention.

Roland, still above her, didn’t even glance back. “Occupied,” he muttered, his tone dismissive, as if whoever had entered was nothing more than an inconvenience.

Silence.

Ada felt something in the air shift—an unspoken tension, the kind that made her instincts flare.

Roland, irritated by the lack of response, broke their kiss before giving an annoyed sigh. He sat up from his place on the couch, turning to lean against the backrest to see who their uninvited guest was.

In that moment, a gloved hand shot out, gripping his wrist with inhuman speed and force. Roland barely had time to react before the bones in his hand were crushed in a single, merciless motion. A sickening crack filled the room, the sound cutting through the heavy bass of the club like a blade. His strangled cry of pain barely had time to escape before they twisted their grip, rendering Roland's second hand just as useless as the first.

The Director fell from his place on the sofa, his body convulsing from the sheer shock of it. But before he could even attempt to scramble away, Roland was struck with a swift kick across the face, sending him crashing into the nearby bar. The force of it was enough to send glass bottles shattering to the floor. The entire exchange had lasted mere seconds. And Ada… she sat frozen on the couch, her breath caught in her throat as she registered what had just happened. Roland lay unconscious on the ground, his hands bent at unnatural angles, his face slack and unmoving.

And standing above him, adjusting the cuff of his glove with casual precision, was Wesker.

His head turned slightly in her direction, his crimson eyes gleaming from behind his shades.

Her pulse hammered. Internally, she was furious for having her night ruined. Externally, she would do everything in her power to not let Wesker have such satisfaction.

Ada merely tilted her head in response, exhaling slowly through her nose. If anything, she looked bored, as if a man hadn’t just had his hands shattered mere seconds ago, as if she hadn’t been dragged out of her moment of indulgence by Wesker’s violent tendencies.

Across from her, Albert dusted invisible dirt from his shoulders, his movements slow, deliberate. Roland lay slumped against the floor, his unconscious form utterly motionless. Blood dripped onto the polished surface beneath him from a busted lip, and his hands… well, those wouldn’t be useful again for a long time.

The only sound in the room was the deep, steady breathing of Wesker as he flexed his fingers, as if ridding himself of any lingering sensation of the man he had just brutalized.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she asked, still pretending to be unbothered as she sat up from her place on the couch.

Wesker remained eerily calm, taking a slow step toward her. “I should be asking you the same thing.”

Ada scoffed, folding her arms. “I fail to see what I’ve done wrong here,” she countered.

Wesker exhaled sharply, as if she were trying his patience. “I told you to stay away from him.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, give me a break, Wesker. You might be my boss but you don’t own me.”

Albert slowly turned his head toward her, the red gleam of his eyes just visible behind his shades. “He was unworthy,” he said simply, as if that was explanation enough for his actions.

She let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Unworthy? Of what, exactly?” She gestured to the unconscious Roland with a flick of her wrist. “Of me?”

His silence spoke volumes.

She felt something sharp coil in her chest, but she kept her expression smooth, unreadable. She had always known Wesker was possessive—not in a traditional sense, but in a way that made it very clear when something belonged to him and no one else.

She had seen it in the way he handled power. How he kept everything—missions, resources, information—under his control. And now, apparently, that included her personal life.

Leaning forward slightly, Ada rested her elbow on her knee, her chin propped in her palm as she stared at him. “I should be thanking you, then?” she asked dryly. “For saving me from the big, bad Director?”

Wesker didn’t react, merely studied her with that same unreadable expression.

Ada smirked. “Funny. I don’t feel very rescued.”

There was a flicker of something in his posture—something sharp, something dangerous.

Ada stood slowly, taking her time as she adjusted the hem of her leather mini skirt, smoothing it back into place over the curve of her thighs. Her blouse, however, remained untouched, the lace of her bra still teasingly visible from under her red blouse. If Wesker wanted to make a spectacle of this, then she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. She stepped toward the door with the same poise she carried in every moment, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. But just as she reached for the handle, a gloved hand pressed against the doorframe, blocking her exit.

Her smirk grew as she looked up at him, tilting her head just slightly. “Oh? Are we imprisoning people now, Director?” she asked, voice dripping with amusement.

Wesker didn’t move, his body positioned in a way that made it clear he had no intention of letting her pass. His expression remained unreadable, but there was something simmering beneath the surface. Irritation? Possessiveness? Perhaps both.

“You won’t leave looking like that,” he stated, his voice as even as ever.

Ada raised a delicate brow. “Like what, exactly?”

His jaw tensed, his eyes hidden behind his ever-present shades, but she could feel his gaze roaming over her—the way the open blouse left the smooth line of her collarbones exposed, the way the black lace contrasted against her skin, the way her skirt barely covered what it needed to.

She stepped in closer, standing just within his personal space, her tone shifting into something softer, something silkier. “Is there something about my outfit that offends you, Wesker?” she teased, her fingers ghosting along the edge of her blouse as if she were about to unfasten it further.

His nostrils flared ever so slightly, but his voice remained perfectly controlled. “I won’t repeat myself, Ada.”

She feigned a pout, letting her gaze wander up to his. “And if I decide I like leaving like this?”

The air between them grew heavier, the tension coiling like a tightly wound wire. Wesker’s fingers twitched at his side, as if debating whether to physically stop her. He had already asserted his dominance tonight—breaking Roland’s hands just to make a point. But this was different.

Ada wasn’t some fool who cowered under displays of power. She enjoyed testing boundaries.

And, if she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed testing his boundaries most of all.

For a brief moment, she swore she saw his lips part—just a fraction, just enough to almost speak—but instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose, reeling himself back in.

Ada let the silence stretch, allowing the tension between them to coil ever tighter. The way Wesker clenched his jaw, the way his fingers twitched at his sides—she knew she was getting to him.

Slowly, deliberately, she shifted her weight, letting her thighs press together in a movement that was equal parts innocent and provocative. The leather of her skirt, already short, inched further up her legs with the motion, revealing just a little too much skin. She hummed as if oblivious to the effect, tilting her head slightly as she peered up at him from beneath dark lashes.

Wesker’s gaze flickered downward—so fast that if she hadn’t been watching for it, she might’ve missed it entirely. His expression remained unreadable, but he reached out instinctively, gloved fingers hooking onto the hem of her skirt to tug it back into place.

That was his mistake.

With a swift, fluid motion, Ada grasped the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in close, forcing him to brace himself against the wall behind her. His arms landed on either side of her, trapping her between the hard surface and the even harder presence of Albert Wesker.

The moment stretched between them, thick and charged.

Ada could feel his breath, steady but controlled, just inches from her lips. His expression remained maddeningly neutral, but there was something tense about him now—like a beast kept just barely leashed.

“You’re slipping, Director,” she murmured, her fingers still loosely curled around his lapels. “Touching me so freely, cornering me like this… Someone might start to think you actually care.”

Wesker didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch.

If anything, he seemed entirely unaffected by her proximity, his sunglasses remaining firmly in place as he regarded her with an unreadable expression.

Then, in a tone so low and smooth it nearly sent a shiver down her spine, he said, “I only care about maintaining order, Miss Wong.”

Ada’s smirk deepened. “Is that what this is?” She arched a brow, letting her body lean just a fraction closer to his. “Because it feels like something else entirely.”

His lips parted—just slightly, just for a breath of a second—before he caught himself, inhaling deeply as if to ground himself.

Ada could practically taste his restraint.

The fact that he hadn’t yet moved away, hadn’t yet torn himself from this compromising position, only proved that she was getting to him.

Good.

She lifted a hand from his jacket and trailed a single finger down the front of his chest, slow, featherlight, stopping just at the hem of his shirt. “Tell me something,” she purred, tilting her head. “If it had been anyone else with me in here, would you have reacted the same way?”

There was the barest flicker of something in his posture—so minuscule that it would’ve been imperceptible to anyone but Ada.

She had him.

And yet, before she could push him further, Wesker finally moved.

Not away. But forward. Just enough to press her more firmly against the wall, just enough that their bodies aligned in a way that sent a sharp spike of awareness through her.

Then, voice dark, smooth, and cutting, he murmured, “If it had been anyone else…they wouldn’t even be alive.”

A thrill ran down Ada’s spine.

Her lips curled into something sultry, her voice a whisper of amusement. “Would you kill for me, Wesker?”

“Yes.” The certainty in his voice, the absolute conviction, sent another ripple of something dark and thrilling through her veins. He said it as though it was an indisputable fact, as though the act of taking a life for her was no different than breathing.

She let that linger between them for a moment, savoring the weight of his admission before she leaned in just a little closer, her breath warm against his jaw. “You do realize if we get caught in here together, there will be rumors.”

His head tilted ever so slightly, intrigued despite himself. “Rumors?”

“Mmhm.” Her fingers lazily toyed with the lapel of his jacket, keeping him close as she spoke. “You know how people talk. The great Albert Wesker, getting caught with someone nearly half his age… scandalous.”

His lips quirked—barely noticeable, but there. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow. “Because of the rumor?”

“Because of the math,” he said flatly.

Ada laughed, shaking her head. “You do realize there’s nearly a fifteen-year difference between us, don’t you?”

Wesker scoffed. “And? You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

She leaned back slightly, studying him with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and provocation. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t want to admit he’s pushing forty.”

His gaze darkened ever so slightly behind his shades. “I’m not that old.”

“No,” she agreed, tilting her head. “But you’re close.”

His lips parted as if to retort, but she cut him off by trailing a single nail down the front of his chest, stopping just at the seam of his shirt.

“Which means,” she continued, voice lilting, teasing, “if anyone were to walk in right now, they’d assume I was your mistress—And let’s face it, Dr. Hart might be devastated to hear the news.”

Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience visibly thinning. “Is that what you want, Ada? To be my mistress?”

She hummed in consideration, fingers still toying at his shirt. “I suppose that depends…” She let her gaze flick up, locking onto his. “Would it bother you if people thought that?”

Wesker remained still, the only giveaway of his thoughts being the slightest flex of his fingers against the wall beside her head.

A reaction.

A small one, but a reaction nonetheless.

Ada smiled. “Oh, Wesker,” she cooed, her tone saccharine-sweet as she trailed her fingers just a little lower, barely grazing under his shirt. “I think it would bother you.”

Albert’s hand shot out and gripped her tightly just around her wrist, his thumb pressing into the delicate bones beneath her skin. His patience—already dangerously thin—was fraying with each passing second, each teasing remark, each deliberately slow movement of hers.

And worse, he could smell her.

The remnants of her arousal clung to her like perfume, a lingering ghost of whatever heat had stirred between her and Roland. The scent was maddening, primal, awakening something dark and possessive within him that he wasn’t quite prepared to confront.

It would be so easy.

All he had to do was press her back against the wall, lift her up, and take what she so carelessly played with. The party outside, the rumors, the consequences—none of it would matter. Ada’s dark lashes lowered as she watched him, taking note of the hesitation in his movements, the tension in his jaw.

Oh, he wanted her.

The realization made a delicious heat curl through her, and just to test him—just to see if she could finally snap the unshakable Albert Wesker—she caught her lower lip between her teeth, worrying it slightly in feigned innocence.

His grip tightened further. A sharp, quiet breath left her lips, though whether it was from pleasure or pain, even she wasn’t sure.

His jaw clenched. “You’re heading into dangerous territory.”

Her lips curled, her pulse thrumming against his fingertips. “I like danger, Wesker. I thought you knew that about me?” She shifted her weight, just enough that her thigh brushed against his, just enough that she could feel the coiled strength beneath his restrained exterior.

He didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Didn’t pull her closer. But he didn’t push her away, either. The air between them was thick, charged, teetering on the edge of something irrevocable. Ada tilted her head, her voice soft, taunting. “What’s the matter, Wesker? Losing your resolve?”

Fuck, was he ever. The virus in his veins was practically humming with anticipation, as if commanding him to take. Take. Take. Make her yours. She’s practically demanding you to, so why don’t you?!

He could feel it clawing at his control, whispering dark, primal urges straight into his bloodstream. His fingers twitched against her wrist, his body rigid as he fought against the overwhelming instinct to act, to indulge.

Ada knew.

Oh, she fucking knew.

Her smirk was infuriatingly smug, her pulse quickening beneath his touch. She wasn’t afraid—not of him, not of what he could do. If anything, she was thrilled by it. Inviting it. His lips parted slightly, his breath just the slightest bit uneven. His restraint was cracking by the second.

“I think,” Ada purred, leaning in until her lips barely brushed his ear, “you like this game, Wesker.”

His grip tightened before he could stop himself, the scent of her, the warmth of her, setting his nerves ablaze.

He could end this. Right now.

He could claim her lips, push her against the wall, let his hands finally roam—

Instead, he exhaled sharply, stepping back, shoving down the need clawing at his chest like a caged beast. Not even Evelyn made him feel this way, which was dangerous.

Ada’s smirk deepened as she straightened her blouse, seemingly unfazed by the way she had almost unraveled him.

“Shame,” she teased, trailing her fingers along his jacket one last time as she turned toward the door. “I was almost convinced you could keep up. Guess it really is all business with you.”

Wesker said nothing.

Did nothing.

But as she disappeared through the door and down the hallway towards the party, he flexed his fingers at his sides, jaw tight.

Damn her.

Chapter Text

Evelyn had barely gotten the door shut before Wesker’s hands were on her. She gasped, but not out of fear—she had long since grown accustomed to his particular brand of dominance, to the way he took what he wanted with little concern for softness. But tonight… tonight was different.

His grip was harder. His touch, more desperate. Wesker shoved her against the nearest bedroom wall, his gloved fingers digging into her waist, his body pressing into hers with a force that was almost unlike him. Almost too much. Not that she would complain.

“Eager tonight, aren’t we?” she breathed, hands instinctively finding purchase against his chest. Beneath the fabric of his shirt, she could feel the tension coiled beneath his skin, the sheer heat radiating off of him.

Wesker didn’t answer.

Didn’t speak.

He merely grabbed her waist, spinning her around so her palms hit the cold surface of the wall. She barely had time to react before he was against her again, his breath hot against her ear, his fingers rough as they slid along her thigh.

Evelyn shivered. He wasn’t usually like this. He was always in control—precise, methodical, never a hair out of place. But tonight? Tonight, he was restless. Something was definitely off.

“Bad day?” she tried to joke, though her voice came out more breathless than intended.

His only response was a low, rumbling hum from deep in his chest.

And then she felt it—the way his fingers trembled against her skin, the way his grip wavered just slightly before he forced it to remain steady. Evelyn frowned, twisting slightly to glance at him over her shoulder.

She had never seen him like this. Never felt this kind of unrestrained energy radiating from him. Something had gotten to him…And whatever it was had shaken him. Evelyn barely had time to process the sharp click of a zipper before the cool air hit her back. The fabric of her dress slid from her shoulders in a slow descent, the deliberate pace at odds with the way his hands had gripped her moments ago.

His coat, shirt and pants hit the floor with an unceremonious thud.

Evelyn swallowed, watching him through half-lidded eyes as she let the dress fall to the floor, pooling at her feet. She had been with Wesker enough times to know he didn’t do rushed. He was methodical, composed. Even in the moments where he took control, there was always a calculated rhythm to it. She could feel the difference in the way he hovered behind her, his breath just a little too heavy, his fingers grazing the small of her back before curling into a fist.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you all wound up, Director?” she mused, her voice light despite the heavy tension between them.

He stilled. Just for a moment. Then—

“Shut. Up.”

The words were sharp, slicing through the air with an intensity that sent a chill up her spine.

Evelyn’s lips parted slightly, the flicker of something dangerous in his tone making her pulse quicken. Wesker was always composed, even in bed. It was like he was fighting something inside himself and barely keeping it leashed now.

She wet her lips, tilting her head slightly, as if debating whether to push him further. “That bad, huh?” In the next moment, they were on top of her bed. The way he grabbed her then—one hand tightening around her wrist, the other pressing into her lower back—was answer enough.

Wesker had told himself this would help.

He had convinced himself that if he buried himself in someone else—in Evelyn—he could drown out the scent of Ada that still clung to his senses, the phantom feeling of her body pressing against his. It should have worked.

Yet tonight, every time his hands traced over Evelyn’s skin, his mind conjured up silk-red fabric, the teasing brush of dark hair against his cheek, the way Ada had dared to pull him close, to play with fire just to see if he would burn. Well, he was undeniably attracted to her but couldn’t figure out how or why.

Wesker’s jaw clenched as Evelyn shifted beneath him, a satisfied hum escaping her lips as he traced down the curve of her spine with his palm. It was all wrong. Too easy. Too available. She melted into him without resistance, without that sharp-edged defiance that made his blood run hotter.

When Evelyn turned her head slightly, peering at him through lidded eyes, her lips curved with amusement. “You’re awfully tense tonight.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, willing himself to focus. Evelyn wasn’t the problem—he was. His body knew what it wanted, and no amount of self-discipline was going to change that.

Wesker slid a hand into her hair, gripping just enough to make her gasp. Maybe if he took her harder—pushed her further—he could override the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. But as he leaned down, lips barely ghosting over her shoulder, the scent of her perfume—sweet, floral, and nothing like Ada’s—only soured his mood further.

He hated this.

Hated that his control was slipping.

Hated that for the first time since taking the virus, he was truly distracted.

Evelyn shifted again, trying to press herself closer. Taking her from behind had been strategic—to look upon Evelyn’s face and not see who he needed… to hell with finishing. He should just take his things and leave. But instead, he tightened his jaw, forcing himself to stay, to see things through. Leaving now would be an admission of weakness, of failure. If he walked out that door, he knew exactly where he would go—straight to her.

And that was unacceptable. For a multitude of reasons, of course.

He doubled down. With renewed determination, he grasped Evelyn’s waist, tugging her back with enough force that she gasped, eyes widening just slightly before amusement curved her lips.

“Almost thought you were getting tired,” she mused, tilting her head back to look at him.

Wesker didn’t answer. Instead, hands moved her exactly where he wanted her. Evelyn wasn’t about to complain—if anything, she thrived off his newfound aggression, relishing in the way his fingers dug into her skin, the raw hunger he barely bothered to mask.

And yet, it wasn’t her he was thinking about.

It never was her. His behavior tonight only confirmed it.

His hands traced over Evelyn’s body, but in his mind, it was Ada’s curves beneath his fingertips. The heat of her skin, the teasing smirk she would flash at him just to see how far she could push before she was punished for it.

The way she would moan his name—breathy, wicked, daring.

He wanted that.

Not this.

Not her.

Evelyn moaned beneath him, nails digging into the sheets, and for a fleeting second, the illusion almost worked. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend.

Pretend that the body beneath him was Ada’s. That it was her legs he was nestled between. That it was Ada who wanted him just as much as he wanted her. But when Evelyn breathed his name, voice filled with satisfaction, it shattered the illusion entirely.

Because it wasn’t Ada.

And it never could be.

Wesker’s pace faltered, his control slipping as frustration and something dangerously close to desperation curled in his gut. He was losing this battle. So he pushed harder, forcing every ounce of his willpower into forgetting. Into taking what was in front of him, even if it would never be enough.

Even if all it did was leave him hollow and unsatisfied.

Evelyn took a slow drag of the cigarette, the embers glowing in the dimly lit room before she exhaled, letting the smoke curl lazily toward the ceiling. She looked utterly content, a sheen of sweat still clinging to her bare skin, her long, wavy brown hair fanned out across the pillows. But there was something distant in her expression, a contemplative weight in her gaze as she stared at the ceiling.

Beside her, Wesker lay still, one arm behind his head, the other resting loosely at his side. The sheets draped over his lower half, his bare chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. He wasn’t tense, not outwardly, but beneath the surface, his mind was still elsewhere.

Ada.

The taste of her name lingered in his thoughts, bitter and infuriating.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus on the moment—the warmth of Evelyn’s body beside him, the scent of sex and smoke still thick in the air. This was supposed to be enough. So why wasn’t it now?

Evelyn’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost lazy as she handed the cigarette back to him.

“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”

Wesker turned his head slightly, red eyes flickering toward her, his expression unreadable. He took a slow drag before responding, his voice smooth, measured.

“And what, exactly, are you going on about?”

Evelyn stretched, the motion languid, unfazed. She turned onto her side, propping her head up on one hand as she studied him, bright eyes knowing and sharp.

“This,” she said, gesturing vaguely between them. “You. Me. The sex. The pretending.”

Wesker didn’t react. He simply exhaled, handing the cigarette back to her. “I wasn’t aware there was any pretending involved.”

Evelyn let out a soft, amused laugh, taking another drag before stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand.

“Please,” she murmured, rolling onto her back again. “I might not be Ada Wong, but I’m not blind either.”

The name hung in the air like a loaded gun.

“You called out her name, Albert.”

For the first time in years—perhaps even decades—Albert Wesker didn’t know what to say.

He lay there, silent, his mind a calculated machine running through every moment of the last few hours, dissecting each touch, each breath, each sound that had passed his lips. Had he said her name? He didn’t remember doing so. Surely, Evelyn was mistaken.

But as his mind combed through it, a flicker of uncertainty gnawed at him. Evelyn, still lying on her side, let out a quiet, dry laugh.

“Don’t give me that look,” she muttered. “It’s not like I care.”

His gaze snapped to her. “You’re mistaken.”

Evelyn’s lips twitched in something that was almost pity, almost amusement. She reached for a new cigarette and lit it up. “Oh, sure,” she drawled, inhaling deeply before blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. “I imagined the part where you groaned her name while you were inside me.” She flicked her gaze back to him. “Real flattering, by the way.”

Wesker’s jaw clenched. No. That wasn’t possible. He would’ve noticed.

But the look in Evelyn’s eyes told him that she wasn’t bluffing. She was sharp, perceptive—not one to make careless claims. And that made something dark coil in his gut.

“I don’t—” He stopped himself, hands balling into fists.

Evelyn let out a quiet chuckle. “You don’t remember,” she finished for him. “But I do. And don’t worry, I won’t lose any sleep over it.” She exhaled smoke through her nose, then gave a small smirk. “Though I bet you might.”

Wesker let out a slow, measured breath, fingers flexing against the sheet before he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His sunglasses were on the nightstand, but he made no move to put them on. Instead, he stared straight ahead, running a hand through his tousled blonde hair.

“I don’t sleep with subordinates,” he finally said, voice flat.

Evelyn snorted as she took another drag from the cigarette. “You must be the only Director that doesn’t, then.” Her tone was casual, but the amusement in her eyes was sharp.

He didn’t respond. She exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching him carefully. “And besides that,” she continued, “I don’t exactly take you for the marrying type.”

That made his lip curl slightly. “You would be correct.”

“Thought so.” Evelyn smirked, shifting to sit up fully, the sheet pooling around her waist. “And thinking long-term? We just wouldn’t be a good fit. No offense, of course.”

He finally glanced at her, expression unreadable. “None taken.”

She tapped her cigarette against the ashtray on the nightstand. “But let’s get one thing straight.” She tilted her head, scrutinizing him. “There’s something between you and Wong.”

Wesker’s jaw ticked, but his voice remained cold and controlled. “There isn’t.”

Evelyn’s smirk widened. “Even better.” She leaned back on one hand, watching him with that same sharp amusement. “Then just get whatever’s wrong with you out of your system and move on.”

He exhaled slowly, but didn’t speak. He had tried that already. “Because let’s be real, Albert—she’s bad news.”

Wesker seemed to mull over Evelyn’s words, tapping his fingers on his thigh before fully turning around to face her.

“I fail to see how that makes her any different from the rest of us,” he finally said, voice smooth, measured. “We’re all opportunists, Evelyn. You, me, everyone in this organization. Are you going to sit there and tell me you’re a loyal employee?”

Evelyn let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “Oh, Albert,” she purred, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Loyalty is a myth. But I’m predictable. You’ve probably got me all figured out. Can you say the same for her?”

Wesker’s silence was telling.

She smirked, tilting her head slightly. “Let me ask you something,” she continued, her voice casual. “What happened to her last boyfriend?”

“John? He died.”

Evelyn arched a brow and gave him a pointed look. “Uh-huh,” she drawled. “And what about any of her previous affairs? Anyone she’s been involved with before or since?”

Wesker frowned slightly, but the truth was, aside from whatever was between her and Director Roland, he had no idea.

Evelyn took his continued silence as confirmation, clicking her tongue as she shook her head. “And who was Ada Wong before HCF?” she pressed, eyes dark with knowing amusement.

He didn’t answer. That, it seemed, was all the proof she needed. With a lazy smirk, Evelyn lifted her hand, forming her fingers into a mock gun. She aimed it at his head, cocked an imaginary hammer, and pulled the trigger.

“Bing-o,” she sing-songed, her lips curling into a grin. “She could be a double agent for all you know—secretly plotting your demise.”

Evelyn let out a breathy laugh as Wesker suddenly pushed her back onto the mattress. His body hovered over hers, the weight of his presence alone pinning her in place. He wasn’t angry—if anything, there was something darkly amused about the way he loomed above her, his golden eyes gleaming faintly.

“What do you suggest I do about her then, hmm?” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, almost teasing.

Evelyn hummed, stretching languidly beneath him, her hands moving up to lazily trace his chest before resting behind her head. She pursed her lips in thought, then shrugged.

“Honestly?” she said, tilting her head as if considering her own words. “Sleep with her and be done with it. Whatever weird hold she has on you, get it out of your system. Then place her with another director and wipe your hands clean. She’ll move on to someone else eventually.”

He merely stared down at her, unblinking, unmoving. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his body betrayed him. The mere idea of another man touching Ada—it made his jaw clench, his fingers curl slightly against the sheets beneath them.

Evelyn caught the flicker of something in his gaze and smirked. “Ohhh,” she murmured, dragging the sound out, her amusement growing. “That’s interesting.”

Wesker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What is?”

“You hate that idea,” she purred. “The thought of someone else having her. I can see it all over your face. I didn’t take you for that type.”

He scoffed, shifting slightly, but Evelyn only pressed further, enjoying the rare opportunity to chip at his carefully controlled exterior.

“You think you’re so in control, so above this,” she mused, waving a hand in the air. “But you’re just like every other man with a pulse. You don’t just want her, Albert. You want her for yourself.”

Wesker’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as his grip on the sheets tensed. He could dismiss Evelyn’s taunts, wave them away as nothing more than cheap psychoanalysis—but deep down, beneath the layers of control and logic, he knew she wasn’t entirely wrong.

And that?

That was infuriating.

“Tch. Women.”

“Admit it,” Evelyn chuckled. “I could sleep with someone else tomorrow and you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

Wesker exhaled slowly before rolling onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Evelyn was right about one thing—he couldn’t care less about who she fucked tomorrow, next week, or ever again. She was a convenient outlet, nothing more. But Ada?

That was a different matter entirely.

He knew himself well enough to understand the danger of indulging in something he couldn’t control. If he even allowed himself a taste, he’d find himself addicted. And that was the problem.

Ada Wong was not something to be had—she was something to be chased, something that could slip through his fingers just as easily as she stepped into his grasp. If he let his guard down, if he gave in to whatever this was, he knew she would linger in his thoughts, clouding his judgment.

And he didn’t need that. He had plans. Ideas. Things he would accomplish with or without Ada’s help.

But still…

His fingers twitched. The ghost of her touch still lingered from earlier that night—the way she had grabbed his lapels, the way her lips had parted as if daring him to close the distance. The scent of her perfume, the heat radiating off her skin.

She knew what she was doing. She had felt his restraint, had seen the cracks forming in his control. And yet, it was all a game to her.

Beside him, Evelyn exhaled a slow, satisfied breath, as if content with whatever conclusions he was coming to. She turned onto her side, propping her head up with her hand, smirking down at him.

“You’re thinking about her right now, aren’t you?”

Wesker stubbornly rolled away from her. “Go to sleep, Evelyn.”

She snickered. “Touchy.”

He closed his eyes, attempting to drown out the world around him. This was nothing.

Nothing at all.

Chapter Text

It had been a month.

A month since he left Roland crumpled on the floor like discarded trash. A month since he last touched Evelyn, since she tried to drag something out of him that he refused to acknowledge. A month since Ada Wong had slipped between his thoughts like a damn parasite, burrowing deeper no matter how hard he tried to excise her from his mind.

Wesker hadn’t sought Evelyn out again. He hadn’t needed to.

Instead, he focused on his work, on fine-tuning his plans, on controlling every aspect of his environment.

And Ada?

He had put her back in the field.

Every assignment that came up, whether outside of their division or not—she was on it. Espionage, intelligence retrieval, even the occasional high-risk infiltration. If he couldn’t get space from her mentally, he could at least put physical distance between them.

She hadn’t complained. Not once. If anything, she had thrived.

Her mission reports were flawless, her results spoke for themselves, and her name carried weight among the ranks in a way it hadn’t before Rockfort Island. She had climbed higher, faster than most in her position ever could.

And yet, despite all of that, despite the weeks of separation, the relentless assignments, the countless distractions—

She was still in his head.

Still under his damn skin.

Wesker sat behind his desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he scrolled through the latest debriefing. Another success. Another clean execution, another perfectly tied loose end. HCF had yet to produce a more capable agent.

He should have been pleased. So why did it make his jaw clench? Why did it feel like she was slipping further and further away? Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers pressing harder together as he leaned back in his chair. Deep down, he already knew where this road led.

Ada’s success meant recognition. Recognition meant visibility. Visibility meant pressure to promote her—or worse, the Chairman pulling her from his grasp altogether.

That wasn’t an option.

Not yet.

His eye twitched behind his shades as he clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to slam his head against the desk. Damn it all. He had only just become director, and now he was already seeing the next battle on the horizon. Would it ever end? Would he ever get a moment to breathe without clawing his way up another rung of the ladder?

The knock at the door was soft, but it yanked him from his thoughts like a gunshot. Before he could grant permission, the door cracked open, and there she was—Ada Wong, standing in his office as if she belonged there. Because of course she did.

She always had a way of slipping past his defenses.

Wesker didn’t let his surprise show. Instead, he feigned irritation, tilting his head as he regarded her over the rim of his shades.

“I thought I sent you to Costa Rica this week,” he said flatly.

Ada smirked, stepping inside and shutting the door behind her. “Pura vida!” she quipped, spreading her arms slightly as if to show off the fact that she was very much not in Costa Rica.

Wesker resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Relax, boss. The mission was a breeze,” she said, sauntering over to one of the chairs across from his desk. She didn’t wait for an invitation to sit. “Costa Rica was lovely, but I got what I needed, tied up all the loose ends, and hopped on the first flight back.”

He stared at her for a long moment, studying her body language. She was smug, self-satisfied—thriving. And why wouldn’t she be? He had practically thrown her into the deep end, and instead of drowning, she had carved her own current.

His fingers tapped once against the surface of his desk. “I don’t recall authorizing an early return either.”

Ada crossed one leg over the other, tilting her head with a slow, feline smile. “What, you didn’t miss me?”

Wesker sat perfectly still. His gaze remained fixed on Ada, unreadable behind his ever-present shades.

Did he miss her?

Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely he did.

But not in the way she likely assumed. It wasn’t the absence of her skill or efficiency in the office. It wasn’t even the weight she pulled in his operations. It was just her. Her presence, the way she wormed herself into his thoughts even when he actively tried to drown her out.

And now here she was, in his office, sitting across from him like she hadn’t upended his world and walked away unscathed. But then, something unusual happened.

Ada hesitated.

It was subtle, but he caught it—the way she shifted, the quick glance away before she cleared her throat. Sheepishly. That was what threw him first. Ada Wong was never shy about anything.

Her fingers dipped into her jacket pocket, pulling out a neatly folded piece of paper. She smoothed it between her hands as she spoke, her tone casual, yet laced with something almost uncertain.

“Look, I’m not here to complain, but I think there’s been a mistake…”

Wesker’s brows furrowed slightly. “What are you talking about?”

She held the paper up between two fingers. “Well… the last few payments I got… They’re above my contract rate.”

Ah. That.

Wesker exhaled slowly, feeling relief wash over him as he leaned back in his chair. In the midst of his preoccupation with crushing Roland Landry’s body, he had neglected to inform Ada of her raise. It was a considerable one too—one that had been justified regardless of Miles’ intrusion on the matter.

And yet, she thought it was a mistake?

Interesting…

He could have played dumb, asked her what she was insinuating, but he didn’t see the point. Instead, he simply clasped his hands together and met her gaze.

“It’s not a mistake,” he said smoothly.

Ada blinked. “So you did approve it?”

“I don’t recall saying that either,” he countered.

Her lips parted, as if ready to argue, before she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Then what are you saying?”

Wesker let the silence stretch just long enough to make her shift in her seat. Then, finally, he spoke. “I’m saying that you earned it.”

"Same thing," she countered. "This is more than what I made when we were with Miles. Are you saying that you beat more funds out of Roland just to keep me quiet?"

For a fleeting moment, Wesker actually considered it. The thought of squeezing more funds out of Landry just to keep Ada exactly where he wanted her had a certain appeal.

But no, that wasn’t what this was about. Not entirely, anyway. His lips quirked into something that might have been amusement. “If that were the case, I’d be paying you triple that amount.”

Ada chuckled, shaking her head. “Flattering. But seriously, Wesker, what’s the catch?”

Her fingers toyed with the edges of the paper, tapping it lightly against her palm. That same hesitance lingered in her expression, though she masked it well. She wasn’t used to getting something without really fighting for it—without having the tiresome, bureaucratic arguments about budgets, reallocations, and the works.

Wesker drummed his fingers once against his desk, considering his next words carefully.

“No catch,” he finally said. “Consider it overdue recognition.”

Ada narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced. “And here I thought you didn’t believe in things like recognition.”

“I don’t.” He smirked. “Which should tell you just how exceptional your performance was.”

That seemed to catch her off guard.

For the second time since she walked in, Ada hesitated. It was subtle, but he saw it—the slight parting of her lips, the way her grip on the paper tightened just slightly. Then, in the next instant, she recovered, uncrossing her legs as if she hadn’t missed a beat.

“Well,” she mused, tucking the paper back into her pocket. “Guess I should go celebrate. Maybe I’ll head back to Costa Rica after all.”

Wesker cocked a brow. “Already looking for an excuse to spend your earnings?”

“Something like that.” She smirked. “Unless you have another assignment for me?”

He did. There was always another assignment. Always another mission he could throw her into, another excuse to keep her occupied. But for the first time in weeks, Wesker found himself hesitating. Sending her away had been strategic—a necessary measure to create space, to regain control of himself.

And yet, now that she was back in front of him, he wasn’t sure how eager he was to send her away again. A dangerous realization.

“I’ll have something for you soon,” he said. “Enjoy your celebration while you can.”

“Oh, I will.” Ada stood, giving a little stretch before turning toward the door. “See you later, Director.”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving behind the faintest trace of perfume in her wake. Wesker leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. This was going to be a problem. Fuck. Who was he kidding? This had been a problem longer than he cared to admit. What happened to the days where they couldn’t stand the sight of each other? Now he yearned for that fiery attitude with an occasional mean streak.

Then, a more dangerous, curious thought crossed his mind—

Who was she going to go celebrate with?

Wesker cursed under his breath as he pulled up the active roster, flipping through the available missions with more urgency than he’d care to admit.

Damn her.

Damn the way she got under his skin. Damn the way she lingered in his mind like a toxin he couldn’t purge. And damn the thought that she might go out there and celebrate with someone who wasn’t him.

His fingers tapped impatiently against the desk as he scanned through potential assignments. Eastern Europe? No, too far. South Africa? Not worth the resources. Iraq… no, wrong skill set. He needed something close, something quick, something that would keep her too busy to entertain anyone else.

Then, his eyes landed on an infiltration op in Istanbul. High risk, minimal oversight—just the kind of thing she thrived in.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, he signed off on the itinerary, authorizing the mission before shifting his attention to the rest of his day’s schedule. Move the executive briefing to tomorrow, reschedule the training evaluation, cancel the late meeting with Miles—none of it mattered now. Not until he found Ada and made sure she wasn’t spending her evening getting cozy with someone she shouldn’t be.

Wesker rose from his chair, his movements sharp, calculated. He grabbed his coat and exited his office, his long strides echoing down the halls as he made his way toward the residential wing. If she was still on-site, he’d find her.

And if not?

He would track her down.

—

For a man who prided himself on self-control, Wesker found himself teetering dangerously close to losing it.

He hadn’t even thought—hadn’t hesitated—before punching in her code and striding into her quarters like he owned the place. Perhaps, in some twisted way, he did. She was under his command. She answered to him. And right now, she was—

His thoughts came to a screeching halt at the sound of water shifting, the faint melody of a radio playing in the background. His head turned toward the cracked bathroom door, her voice floating through the steam-laden air.

"Get in here—I’ll need your help finishing."

Wesker froze.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew damn well what it sounded like.

His fingers twitched at his sides, brows knitting together as he stepped forward without thinking, his mind already conjuring up a thousand scenarios—none of them rational. Had she really invited him to—?

No. No. He pushed the door open.

Ada was lounging in the bath, bubbles obscuring her most intimate curves, her dark hair pinned up with damp strands clinging to the sides of her face. Steam curled around her in lazy tendrils, the scent of jasmine and vanilla heavy in the air.

She blinked up at him, expression caught somewhere between amused and genuinely surprised.

“…You’re not Vivianne.”

The statement hung between them, and Wesker didn’t know how to respond. His brain had temporarily short-circuited, every single thought derailed by the sheer absurdity of the situation.

Ada smirked, shifting slightly in the water, the bubbles rippling around her. “Unless you suddenly took up the habit of painting your nails red and gossiping about boys, I’m going to assume you let yourself in.”

Wesker’s jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides. “You should lock your door.”

“Oh, please.” She leaned back against the edge of the tub, resting an arm lazily over the side. “If someone really wanted to get in, a code wouldn’t stop them.” Her smirk widened, teasing. “Case in point.”

Wesker wasn’t amused. Not in the slightest. His pulse thrummed violently beneath his skin, and yet, outwardly, he remained the epitome of control.

“This is not what I came here for,” he bit out.

Ada’s brow quirked. “Oh?” She tilted her head, studying him with those dark, knowing eyes. “Then why did you come here, Wesker? Didn’t I just leave your office like less than an hour ago?”

Careful, something in his mind warned. Be very, very careful. Because the real answer—the one that had driven him to storm into her quarters like a man possessed—wasn’t something he was ready to admit. Not to her. Not to himself.

He cleared his throat before handing out the file he had brought with him. “A mission,” he replied. “High priority it seems.”

Ada reached out for the papers, careful to not get them wet lest she get a verbal lashing from her boss. Her eyes quickly scanned the documents, flipping them from front to back to get an adequate picture of her assignment. Wesker stood quietly nearby, watching. Waiting. Waiting for her to say anything about the matter.

"Something wrong?" Ada asked, voice dripping with amusement as she leaned against the edge of the tub, watching him over the rim of the documents.

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Not at all.”

She hummed, unconvinced. "Strange, though. You don’t usually assign yourself to the field. Unless this mission is that important?"

The papers had left her hand faster than she had anticipated. For a brief moment, all he could do was stare. Wesker wasn’t a man prone to making mistakes—certainly not this kind. Yet, as he flipped through the pages he had snatched from her very hands, there it was, in crisp black text:

Mission: Istanbul

Assigned Operatives: A. Wong, A. Wesker

His own damn name. Right there.

He inhaled slowly, jaw tightening as the realization settled in.

He had been so preoccupied with getting Ada away from potential distractions that he had hastily pulled the first viable assignment from the roster and approved it without so much as a second glance. And because the mission parameters required a two-person team, the system had automatically assigned the next available operative within her division.

Him.

Of course it was.

Ada, still lounging in the bath, propped an elbow against the porcelain edge and rested her chin on her palm, watching him with a slow-spreading smirk. “Problem, Director?”

Wesker exhaled sharply before snapping the file shut. “It’s a minor clerical error,” he stated coolly. “I’ll have it reassigned.”

Ada made a thoughtful hum, running a single finger along the surface of the water, tracing idle patterns. “Hate to break it to you, but that might be difficult.”

His gaze flicked back to her. “Explain.”

She tilted her head, clearly enjoying herself. “Well, considering the mission parameters, there aren’t many viable candidates who can pull this off on such short notice. The infiltration requires high-level clearance, specialized skill sets, and fluency in at least two languages. That list?” She gestured vaguely toward the file. “Pretty short. And seeing as how you’ve already signed off on it…”

She let the words linger, allowing them to settle between them like a loaded gun.

Wesker knew she was right.

The rational part of him told him to march straight to Operations and demand an override. But the other part—the part that had him standing in her quarters, in her bathroom, while she was soaking in a tub—was already spinning the scenario forward, already envisioning exactly what it would mean to be alone with Ada in a foreign country.

He could control himself, right?

…Right?

Ada exhaled, stretching her arms above her head in a lazy, feline motion, completely unbothered as the tops of her breasts were exposed to the steamy air. “Look on the bright side,” she teased. “At least you don’t have to worry about me celebrating with Viv now.”

His fingers curled tightly around the file.

This was going to be a long fucking mission.

Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose, snapping the mission file shut with a little more force than necessary. He had every intention of leaving before this situation became any more ridiculous, but just as he turned, the sound of Ada’s front door opening stopped him in his tracks.

“Ada?”

The voice was unmistakably female, light and lilting but carrying an edge of curiosity. He didn’t recognize it immediately, but the hurried shuffle of feet and the rustle of plastic bags suggested someone was making themselves at home.

A second later, the bathroom door was pushed open wider, and standing there, arms full of beauty products and an overnight bag slung over her shoulder, was a young woman with chestnut-brown hair tied back in a loose bun.

She stopped dead when she saw Wesker.

Vivianne's blue eyes went wide, her easy confidence momentarily faltering. She blinked once, then again, gaze darting between Ada—still reclining in her bath, smirking—and Wesker, looming near the door in his usual all-black attire. The air was thick with steam, the scent of Ada’s bath products mixing with the faintest trace of something darker, more primal.

“…Uh.”

Vivianne’s brows furrowed in clear suspicion as she took a cautious step forward, gripping the bag strap on her shoulder as if she had just walked into enemy territory.

Ada let out a dramatic sigh, swirling her hand in the water as if to wave away the tension. “Well, there goes our plans for the night,” she drawled. “Looks like our dear Director has other ideas.”

Vivianne’s gaze flicked between them once more before landing firmly on Wesker, her wariness growing into something almost accusatory.

“You Directors always have the worst timing,” she muttered, setting her bags down by the sink. “Seriously, do you guys ever let anyone have a little fun around here?”

Wesker’s expression remained unreadable, but internally, his irritation was mounting. This—whatever this was—felt like an intrusion, like something he wasn’t meant to be witnessing. Ada and Vivianne weren’t just colleagues; they were friends. The easy banter, the familiarity, the way Ada had so casually invited Vivianne into her space for an evening of relaxation—

It was a stark contrast to how she treated him.

Ada smirked at Vivianne, amusement flickering in her dark eyes. “Oh, don’t blame him too much. This was just bad luck.”

Wesker clenched his jaw. Bad luck, was it?

Viv, still skeptical, eyed him up and down before rolling her shoulders. “Whatever. Just don’t hog her too long, Director,” she said with a shrug, pulling out a few items from her bag and placing them on the counter. “She actually deserves to unwind every once in a while.”

Ada chuckled, reaching for a loofah with an air of indulgence. “I’ll be out in a minute,” she assured her friend.

Wesker didn’t respond. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out, the door clicking shut behind him. He didn’t know why that interaction left a bitter taste in his mouth.

But he sure as hell didn’t like it.

Chapter Text

The warm breeze carried the scent of spice and sea salt as it swept across the tarmac, ruffling the edges of Wesker’s coat. His golden hair lifted slightly with the wind, though his shades remained firmly in place, shielding his gaze as he watched Ada descend the steps of the private jet.

The heat in Istanbul wasn’t oppressive, but it was a far cry from the cool, sterile atmosphere of their usual headquarters. The sky stretched wide and clear, painted in shades of deep blue that reflected in the shimmering waters of the Bosphorus beyond the airport perimeter. From here, Wesker could already make out the sprawling skyline of the ancient city—minarets piercing the horizon, domes glinting under the midday sun, and clusters of terracotta rooftops that stretched for miles.

It was a city where East met West, where history and modernity clashed and coexisted in the same breath. From the airport, the distant call to prayer could be heard faintly over the hum of engines and chatter of ground crews. The streets beyond would be bustling—markets overflowing with colorful textiles and fragrant spices, the air thick with the scent of sizzling meats and fresh-baked bread.

Wesker extended a hand without thinking as Ada stepped down, and she, just as wordlessly, accepted.

Her grip was firm but effortless, her fingers cool against his palm despite the heat of the sun overhead. She moved with practiced ease, her heels clicking lightly against the metal stairs before meeting solid ground.

Ada let out a breath, tilting her head slightly, dark locks shifting with the breeze.

“Not bad,” she murmured, surveying their surroundings. Not bad indeed.

Wesker released her hand as soon as she was steady, tucking both hands into his pockets as he cast a glance toward the awaiting car. He remained silent as they made their way to the black sedan, its polished exterior reflecting the sun overhead. The driver, a local contact, dipped his head in greeting before opening the back door for them. Ada slid in first without hesitation. Wesker followed, settling into the cool leather seat beside her.

He had used his director clearance to ensure they traveled in comfort—nothing excessive, nothing that could be misconstrued as indulgent. A private jet had been necessary; he couldn’t have them tangled in the usual red tape of international travel. Their mission required efficiency, and efficiency required control.

Still, there was a fine line between necessary accommodations and spoiling her.

He had upgraded their living arrangements, securing a suite in one of the more discreet high-end hotels. Not a five-star luxury resort, but leagues above the cramped, dingy safehouses and budget lodgings that Ada was typically assigned. He had made sure of that. Larger beds, a balcony view of the Bosphorus, a private entrance—comfort, but not luxury. They were here for work, after all—

Three days. Two to scout and execute the mission. One to depart without a trace. It was a simple plan, meticulously structured, but already he could feel the undercurrents of something else creeping in. Something unplanned.

He could still feel the ghost of her fingers in his palm, the way she had accepted his silent offer of assistance without hesitation. It was a small, insignificant moment. And yet, it clung to him.

Wesker held back a sigh. He had pushed her out into the field for a reason. Forced the necessary distance, occupied his mind with work, strategies, contingency plans—anything to refocus his priorities. But now?

Now he had willingly trapped himself alone with her for three days.

What the hell was he thinking?

As the car pulled away from the airport, the city unfolded before them in a blur of motion. Narrow streets weaved through towering stone buildings, centuries-old architecture standing alongside modern glass structures. Vibrant markets spilled onto sidewalks, shopkeepers haggled with tourists, and the scent of spiced meats and fresh bread wafted through the open car window.

Ada exhaled softly, taking in the sights with an amused little smirk. “I have to say, Director, this is a bit of an upgrade from the last shithole you sent me to.”

Wesker’s fingers twitched against his knee.

“Don’t get used to it.”

The car slowed to a smooth stop in front of their hotel, an elegant yet unassuming building nestled among the historic architecture of Istanbul. It was the kind of place that catered to high-profile guests who valued discretion—exactly what he needed.

Wesker stepped out first, scanning the area with instinctive precision before turning toward Ada, who was already taking in the exterior with an amused smirk. She adjusted her sunglasses, tilting her head toward him.

“Well, well. A private jet, a luxury sedan, and now this?” Her red lips curled into something playfully accusatory. “You really are spoiling me, Director.”

He didn’t dignify her remark with a response. Instead, he walked ahead, leading them inside.

The lobby was bathed in warm lighting, the decor a tasteful blend of Ottoman elegance and modern minimalism. A few other guests lingered near the seating area, engaged in hushed conversations over Turkish coffee. The scent of orange blossom and polished wood lingered in the air.

Approaching the front desk, Wesker pulled out his ID. “Checking in. Wesker.”

The receptionist, a young woman with dark eyes and a professional demeanor, smiled politely and tapped at her computer. “Ah, yes. Welcome, Mr. Wesker.” She retrieved a keycard, placing it neatly on the counter. “Your suite is ready—one king bed, as requested.”

He stilled.

“…Excuse me?”

Ada, standing beside him, let out a quiet, amused hum.

The receptionist hesitated. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“There should be two rooms.” His voice was even, but there was an edge to it. “That is what I booked.”

The woman’s fingers flew across the keyboard, eyes scanning the screen. “I see that two rooms were requested, however—” She frowned. “It seems there was a system error, and we only have one available at the moment. I sincerely apologize for the mix-up.”

Wesker exhaled slowly through his nose, irritation rising. He could have them find another room. He could demand they rectify the mistake. Hell, he could even find another hotel altogether.

But before he could speak, a hand reached forward and plucked the keycard from the counter.

Ada.

She slipped it into her palm, twirling it between her fingers with a casual shrug. “It’s no big deal.”

He turned to her, expression unreadable. “Is that so?”

She smirked. “Unless you’re afraid of a little proximity, Director? It’s only a couple of days.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. She was enjoying this far too much.

The receptionist, clearly relieved the issue wasn’t escalating, offered a small smile. “Your suite is on the top floor. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Wesker gave a slow nod before turning on his heel, striding toward the elevator with Ada following close behind. As they stepped inside, she leaned against the wall, tapping the keycard against her palm.

“So,” she drawled, watching him with unmistakable amusement. “How do you feel about sharing?”

His fingers flexed at his sides. This was going to be a long three days.

The elevator ride was tense, though for entirely different reasons than a botched check-in.

Wesker stood rigidly on one side, arms crossed, glaring at the glowing floor numbers like they had personally offended him. Ada, on the other hand, was completely at ease, twirling the keycard between her fingers as if this was all some grand joke.

“I’ll take the sofa,” he muttered, finally breaking the silence.

Ada hummed. “That’s adorable, really.”

His brow twitched. “Excuse me?”

She tilted her head, her smile teasing. “The whole ‘gentleman’ act. I didn’t think you were the type to be shy about sharing a bed. It’s not the first mixup I’ve had in my career—believe me.”

Albert stared at her with a mixture of frustration and confusion. This wasn’t the first time Ada had gone through this? Some stupid, unworthy agent got to share a bed with Ada Wong?

“I’m not shy,” he said, the corner of his lips pulling into a frown.

“Then why the hesitation?”

His fingers curled into a fist. “Because I prefer to sleep undisturbed.”

Ada’s smirk widened. She stepped closer, invading his space, gaze flickering over him in a way that made something coil low in his stomach.

“Oh, Wesker,” she sighed, voice dripping with amusement. “Don’t be silly! We won’t be doing much sleeping.”

His mind blanked for half a second.

What?

Ada laughed softly at his expression. “Relax. I meant we’re doing the mission tonight.”

His composure snapped back into place, a scowl replacing his temporary lapse in control. “That’s against the directive itinerary.”

“Since when do I follow your stupid rules or anyone else’s?”

Before he could argue, she reached up, trailing her fingers along his jaw before dragging her thumb over his bottom lip. It was a simple touch, barely there, but it was enough to make his entire body go rigid. The scent of her, the warmth of her skin—it was infuriating.

His pulse thundered in his ears.

Ada smirked knowingly. “Better start getting ready, partner.”

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped out first, swaying her hips just enough to remind him of the unfortunate circumstances he had placed himself in. Wesker remained in the elevator for a few seconds longer than necessary, jaw tight.

—

He stood by the window, eyes locked onto the sprawling cityscape of Istanbul, its golden lights glittering against the Bosphorus like stars fallen to earth. It was a breathtaking view, truly—one that, under different circumstances, he might have taken the time to appreciate.

But behind him, Ada was stripping down without a second thought, and he was forcing himself to ignore the soft rustling of fabric hitting the floor. This was a problem.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to relax as he studied the skyline. If he let his gaze wander, if he turned his head even slightly, he’d catch the reflection of her bare skin in the window’s glass. He clenched his hands behind his back. Focus.

He tried to shift his mind towards more serious things. But then, her earlier words clicked.

That’s how she finished assignments so quickly. Skipping itineraries. Skipping protocols. Doing whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, because no one could stop her.

It was reckless. It was insubordinate. It was… effective.

“You ignore mission directives,” he stated flatly.

There was a soft chuckle behind him. “Not all of them,” Ada said. “Just the ones that slow me down.”

He turned slightly—not too much—just enough to see her in his peripheral vision. She had pulled on a sleek black bodysuit, the fabric hugging every dangerous curve, a utility belt slung low on her hips. She smoothed her gloves over her hands, amused by the scrutiny.

Wesker exhaled sharply. “And no one has reprimanded you for this?”

Ada shrugged, fastening the clasps on her gear. “Do you know what kills agents in the field, Wesker?”

“Carelessness,” he replied confidently, not missing a beat.

“Close,” she smirked, briefly looking up at him. “It’s the carelessness of management. It could be sending the wrong person in for the job. More often than not, it’s bad information. Either given to the agent, or worse, good information given to the enemy.”

“Is that so?” he asked, feeling that her words were leading them to some other point.

“So which was it that killed Director Greaves and his team?”

His fingers twitched. Wesker’s expression remained impassive, but internally, he felt the slightest flicker of irritation. She had baited him—and he had taken it.

The sun was setting behind him, casting the room in a dim, golden hue. The fading light caught the sharp angles of his face, glinting off his sunglasses as he slowly reached out and cupped Ada’s chin between his fingers. His grip was firm, but not bruising—just enough to hold her there, to make her feel his presence, to remind her who she was playing with.

His golden eyes searched hers, piercing, methodical. Was she bluffing? Had she truly figured it out, or was this another one of her little games?

“What gave me away?” His voice was low, edged with something dangerous.

Ada didn’t flinch. If anything, her smirk deepened. Damn her.

“Nothing,” she admitted smoothly. “But I’m glad to know my suspicions were still correct.”

A sharp breath flared in Wesker’s nostrils as his fingers twitched against her skin.

Clever girl.

For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the tension between them a tightrope neither was willing to break. The hum of the city outside barely reached them, swallowed by the heavy air pressing between their bodies.

“You should be more careful, Ada,” he murmured finally, his thumb tracing along the edge of her jaw. “That kind of curiosity tends to get people… killed.”

She tilted her head slightly, leaning just enough into his touch to let him know she wasn’t intimidated. “Good thing I have such a capable Director to protect me, then.”

But who would protect her from himself? His hand dropped away from her face as he turned sharply on his heel, stepping toward the window.

Ada watched him carefully, her dark eyes studying the rigid lines of his back as he stood before the window, silhouetted against the deepening hues of Istanbul’s twilight. She had seen the moment of hesitation, the slip in his composure before he had turned away.

So, it was true then. He wasn’t just playing along. He had done it.

She hadn’t expected confirmation. The whole thing had been a shot in the dark—a well-calculated one, but a guess nonetheless. She had expected him to scoff, to brush off the accusation with a smirk or some dry retort. Instead, he had given her the truth.

If he could get away with wiping out a whole team, what else can he do? Better yet, what else has he already done?

She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders before crossing the room to lean against the desk, her arms loosely folded. The power shift within HCF was more than evident now. Wesker wasn’t just another ambitious worker clawing his way to the top—he was carving his own path, and not by waiting for orders or playing politics. He was eliminating obstacles, molding the organization to fit his needs.

Ada tilted her head slightly, letting the tension settle before speaking, her voice softer this time. “I don’t care about Greaves.”

Wesker didn’t move.

She continued, watching him carefully, “And I have no plans to go around whispering your little secret.”

A quiet snort. The faintest quirk of his lip, visible even in the window’s reflection. “Without proof, no one would believe you anyway.”

Ada smirked, crossing one leg over the other. “Maybe.”

He turned slightly then, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder. His expression was cold and she could feel the weight of his scrutiny. Was he testing her? Trying to decide whether she was a liability or not?

She met his gaze, unwavering. “If it makes you feel better, I’m not really the type to bite the hand that feeds me.”

“Hm.” He finally turned fully, arms crossed over his chest, still studying her. “So that’s what I am? A hand that feeds you?”

“Well,” Ada’s smirk deepened, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, “I can think of worse things.” She took a playful bite of the air between them, keeping her nose scrunched in mock-humor.

Wesker exhaled sharply through his nose—something between amusement and exasperation. “You really are exhausting.”

“And yet,” she purred, sliding off the desk and moving toward him with slow, deliberate steps, “you just can’t seem to get rid of me.”

She stopped just shy of touching him, looking up at him with that coy smile. Wesker didn’t move, didn’t step back, but she could sense the tension in him, coiled beneath the surface.

That was the other problem, wasn’t it? No matter how much he tried to distance himself, to play the role of the cold, calculating Director, he kept her close. Too close. Ada’s smile widened ever so slightly. Wesker might have been the one pulling strings, but she was far from being tangled in them. And then, a wicked idea crossed her mind before her fingers found the lapels of his jacket, her touch light, teasing. "Your turn," she murmured, pushing the jacket from his shoulders with deliberate slowness. It slipped down his arms and pooled at his elbows, the soft rustling of fabric the only sound between them.

Wesker didn’t move. He simply stood there, watching her, letting her take the lead.

She dragged her nails down the front of his shirt, slow enough for him to feel the scrape through the fabric, her eyes flickering over his frame with feigned consideration. “Hm…” Ada tapped a finger against her chin, her lips curling in thought. “You should wear something a little more casual tonight. Maybe something dark, something that says ‘I’m important, but not too important.’”

His lips twitched, barely, at the mockery in her tone.

Ada let her hand drop lower, tracing the defined lines of his belt, her movements still slow, painfully slow, as she flicked open the buckle with a quiet metallic click. All the while, she never broke eye contact, her dark gaze locked onto his as if daring him to stop her.

But Wesker still didn’t move. She could feel the heat radiating off him, the tension in his stance. He wasn’t unaffected—not in the slightest. And yet, he remained completely composed, letting her toy with him as if he were merely indulging some passing amusement.

Ada smirked, fingers toying with the undone buckle, her nails grazing his waistband just enough to feel the heat of his skin beneath. "Or…" she mused, her voice dipping into something sultry, "you could just wear… nothing."

She tugged at the belt just enough to shift it, just enough to see if he would finally react. Ada let the moment stretch, reveling in the tension she was coaxing from him. Her fingers traced over the undone belt, her touch featherlight as she looped it between her fingers and gave the faintest tug. A test. A challenge.

He still hadn’t moved, but she saw it—the clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark behind his golden eyes. His self-restraint was a carefully maintained wall, one she was very tempted to dismantle, brick by brick, just to see if she could.

Her lips parted in a soft hum. “So disciplined,” she mused, pressing the tip of her nail just above the waistband of his pants. "I have to wonder, though—how much of that is real, and how much is just for show?"

With a swift, decisive motion, he stepped back, shrugging off the last of his jacket and tossing it onto the nearby chair. His hands went to his belt, undoing the rest of it with precise efficiency, before rolling it up and setting it aside without sparing her so much as a glance. “I can dress myself for our mission. I don’t need your opinions getting in the way.”

She arched a brow, but there was nothing surprised about it—if anything, she looked amused. “That’s a shame,” she sighed dramatically, crossing her arms. “I was really starting to enjoy myself.”

Wesker exhaled sharply, already moving to undo the top buttons of his shirt. His patience was thinning, but it wasn’t from irritation—it was her. Her presence, her games, the way she never let up. Even now, she stood there, head tilted, eyes gleaming with mischief, waiting to see if he’d snap.

But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not on the first day, at least.

Chapter Text

The roar of the engine split through the night as Wesker wove the motorcycle through the streets of Istanbul, the city lights flashing in streaks of gold and neon around them. The wind howled past them, tearing at Ada’s loose strands of hair as she clung to his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Their mission had gone smoother than expected—until it hadn’t. The moment they’d secured the data, an unseen failsafe had triggered an alarm, setting off a chain reaction of security measures. Their extraction point had been compromised in minutes, and now, rather than slipping away unnoticed, they were being pursued through the labyrinthine streets of Istanbul by armed men who were very much not the police.

“Turn left!” Ada yelled, voice cutting through the noise.

Wesker barely hesitated, yanking the handlebars to the side. The motorcycle leaned at a dangerous angle, tires skidding over slick cobblestone before catching traction. They barreled into a tight side street, barely avoiding a stack of crates that sent startled bystanders scattering.

Gunfire cracked through the night. Sparks erupted from the wall beside them as bullets ricocheted dangerously close.

Ada twisted in her seat, firing two shots over her shoulder. The sound of screeching tires and a sharp curse in Turkish told them she’d hit something—or someone.

“They just don’t know when to quit,” she muttered.

Wesker felt Ada shift behind him, but before he could question it, she was moving—swift, deliberate. In one fluid motion, she swung her leg around, twisting her body so that she was now in front of him, facing backward. Her thighs locked tightly around his waist, keeping her anchored as she adjusted her grip on her firearm.

The abrupt change in position momentarily threw him off. He’d been prepared for her to keep shooting over her shoulder—not for her to move into his space like this, pressing flush against him. The heat of her body, the flex of her muscles around him, and the scent of her mixing with gunpowder and night air—it stirred something within him.

But Ada was entirely focused, her lips slightly parted as she lined up her next shot. A burst of gunfire erupted from their pursuers, the bullets whizzing past them, some striking the pavement with sharp sparks. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she smirked, raising her gun with a practiced ease.

“Hold it steady, would you?” she teased, her voice velvety despite the chaos around them.

Wesker forced himself to push past the unwanted distraction and focus on driving. His grip tightened on the handlebars as he throttled forward, weaving through the narrow streets. But that was easier said than done with her practically molded against him, her breath brushing against his jaw each time she exhaled.

He felt it every time her core tightened around his waist for balance, every shift in weight as she adjusted her aim. The way her thighs gripped him—it sent another frustrating spark of something primal through him.

Ada fired again. A direct hit. One of their pursuers veered off-course, their vehicle smashing into a fruit stand in a colorful explosion of produce and splintered wood.

“One down,” she hummed, tilting her head toward him playfully.

Wesker tore his gaze away from her, cursing internally as he focused back on the road ahead. This was ridiculous. This was a high-speed chase—not an opportunity for distraction. But, goddamn it, Ada Wong had always had to be a distraction.

In the next moment, Wesker found himself skidding to a stop, realizing he had taken a wrong turn earlier in the chase. The alley ahead was nothing but a wall, a dead end. The roar of engines behind them confirmed what he already knew—their pursuers were closing in, and fast.

“Shit,” Ada said, trying to think of a means for escape.

He didn’t waste a second. Reaching for the small pack strapped to his leg, he yanked out Ada’s hookshot and shoved it into her hands. “Go,” he ordered sharply.

Ada blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Get out of here before they show up,” he growled, already dismounting as she remained seated on the tank.

She frowned, tightening her grip on the device. “I’m not just going to leave you behind—”

“I said go.” His voice was like steel, brooking no room for debate. “That’s an order, Ada.”

She stared at him for a moment, clearly torn, but the sound of screeching tires and approaching headlights made the choice for her. With a quiet curse, Ada aimed the hookshot toward the rooftop above and fired. The mechanism whirred, the hook latching onto the edge of the building.

“You better catch up to me,” she said, just before pressing the retract button.

Wesker watched as she shot upward, disappearing onto the rooftops. He turned just in time to see their pursuers arrive, two vehicles skidding to a stop at the alley entrance. The lead car surged forward, using its bulk to block off any possible escape route.

A half dozen men poured out, armed to the teeth. Wesker straightened, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted his gloves. “Well then,” he muttered, cracking his neck. “Let’s make this quick.”

The gunfire erupted all at once, a deafening cacophony that echoed off the narrow alley walls. Wesker was already moving. His body blurred into action, twisting and sidestepping between bullets like an untouchable specter. Muzzle flashes painted brief silhouettes against the darkness, but the soldiers weren’t fast enough to track him.

Not all of them, anyway.

A sharp impact slammed into his left shoulder, another grazing his side—hot, biting pain that barely slowed him down. If anything, the sensation only sent a molten surge of fury through him, the virus in his veins reacting like gasoline to an open flame. His vision sharpened, his mind zeroing in on every detail: the trembling fingers reloading magazines, the scent of gunpowder thick in the air, the rhythmic pounding of hearts beating too fast. Weakness.

The first man barely had time to register the shift before Wesker was on him, moving so fast he may as well have materialized out of thin air. A single, brutal punch shattered his jaw, sent him crashing into the brick wall with a wet crunch. Wesker caught his body before it hit the ground and swung him like a ragdoll, using him as a shield as the others continued firing.

Bullets tore through their own man, his pained screams cutting short as Wesker threw the corpse into the nearest soldier, sending them both toppling like dominoes.

Another lunged at him with a knife—a foolish mistake. Wesker caught the man’s wrist mid-swipe, twisting until bone snapped like dry wood. The scream barely had time to form before Wesker wrenched the blade from his hand and buried it into his throat. Blood sprayed, hot and sticky, as he shoved the body aside.

Three left.

One made the mistake of trying to retreat, scrambling for the safety of the car. Wesker was on him in an instant, seizing him by the collar and lifting him off the ground with one hand. The soldier kicked wildly, eyes wide with terror.

“Please—”

Wesker tightened his grip. A sickening crack. Silence.

He tossed the lifeless body aside just as the last two opened fire. More bullets struck his torso, one embedding itself near his ribs. His fingers twitched at the fresh wave of pain—pain that only served to feed the beast inside him.

Fine. He’d play it their way.

With inhuman speed, he lunged. His knee collided with the closest man’s sternum, sending him airborne before he even had the chance to scream. He crashed onto the hood of the car, body caving inward from the impact.

The last soldier dropped his gun, backing away in horror.

“Monster,” he breathed.

Wesker smirked. “I know.” And then he finished the job.

Ada crouched low on the rooftop, her breath even despite the adrenaline still thrumming in her veins. The city stretched out below her, Istanbul alive with golden streetlights and distant car horns. It was beautiful—if not for the nagging worry at the back of her mind.

Wesker.

She hadn’t seen exactly what happened after she’d left, but she knew him well enough to assume the worst—for their enemies, at least. Still, she wasn’t sure how long it would take him to clean up, so she stuck to the shadows, taking a rooftop path back toward the hotel to avoid unnecessary attention.

Landing lightly on their balcony, Ada eased the glass door open, careful not to make a sound. The last thing she needed was some overzealous hotel guest calling security because they saw a woman sneaking into a room from the outside.

Slipping inside, she lingered by the curtains, gaze scanning every detail of the suite. Nothing was out of place, no signs of forced entry. But still, something made her hesitate. She watched and waited, keeping to the cover of darkness, her pulse slowing into something steady.

Then—

Footsteps.

She turned sharply, drawing her pistol in one fluid motion, aiming toward the sound. But before she could fire, her wrist was caught, the gun twisting out of her grasp with inhuman precision. A rough yank sent her stumbling forward, colliding against a firm chest, and before she could fully react, she found herself pinned—one of her own arms locked behind her, the other trapped between them.

It all happened in less than a second.

And then she felt it.

The raw heat radiating from him, the way his chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths. His fingers still curled around her wrist, his grip tight—not enough to hurt, but firm enough to let her know he wasn’t letting go just yet.

She tilted her chin up. Even in the dark, she could see it—the glow in his eyes, the predatory edge to his stance. A blood-high.

“Fast reflexes,” she said, barely winded. “Were you expecting me to pull a gun on you at some point this weekend?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “I wouldn’t put it past you, Ada.”

Ada smirked despite herself, shifting against him slightly. She felt the tension in his muscles, the barely restrained energy still coiling under his skin like a live wire. Whatever he had done to those men—it hadn’t been enough to satisfy him. And why did the look in his eyes make her feel like she already knew what he wanted next?

Ada barely had time to react before Wesker pulled her closer, his body flush against hers. The sheer intensity sent a shiver rolling down her spine. He smelled like gunpowder and something distinctly metallic—blood.

It wasn’t until she shifted that she realized just how much of it had seeped into her own clothes. And it wasn’t just blood that pressed against her…

Her breath hitched, her thighs instinctively pressing together. She knew what she felt. But instead of acknowledging it, she focused on the more obvious issue at hand.

“You’re hurt.” She squirmed slightly, tilting her head up to get a better look at him.

“I’m fine,” Wesker dismissed, his voice low and edged with something darker.

He finally released her, but it took more effort than he cared to admit. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to do the opposite—to push her against the nearest surface and take what had been teasing the edges of his control for far too long. His senses were on overdrive, the virus humming in his veins, sharpening everything. The scent of her skin, the quickened beat of her heart, the warmth of her breath against his chest—it was overwhelming.

He clenched his fists at his sides, barely resisting the urge to reach for her again.

He needed to get her out of his system.

Every fantasy, every encounter, every smug little smirk she threw his way only added fuel to the fire. He had spent weeks trying to create distance, sending her out into the field, pretending as if he could put her out of his mind. And yet, here she was, so close, her body heat still lingering against his own.

Would it really be such a mistake?

Just once.

Just enough to silence whatever the hell had been festering between them—Maybe Evelyn was right.

But Ada was watching him now, sharp eyes catching every shift in his demeanor, every crack in his usual composure. She knew.

She always fucking knew.

Ada opened her mouth to argue, but before she could get another word out, he shoved past her in the direction of the bathroom. “We should clean up.”

No fucking kidding, she thought to herself. It’s like he jumped in a pool of blood and then tried to dry off using me.

Wesker didn’t hesitate to flick on the bathroom light. Before she could protest, he was already pulling his black turtleneck over his head, the fabric peeling away from his body like a second skin. She tried not to react, but damn—seeing the sheer number of bullet wounds dotting his back and torso gave her pause. Even more surprising was the way they bled, the flesh attempting to knit itself back together right before her eyes.

For a brief moment, she stood frozen, watching in fascination as the bullets that had been lodged in his body slowly worked their way out, clinking softly against the bathroom tile one by one.

Soft little sounds, like rain hitting glass.

She swallowed.

“What the hell,” she muttered under her breath, reaching for the first aid kit they’d packed. But what the hell was she supposed to do? Bandage wounds that wouldn’t be there much longer? She briefly looked back at him, surprised, and caught the way he was watching her—sharp, expectant, waiting.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sounds in the small bathroom were the steady drip of blood from his body and the occasional soft clink of another bullet casing hitting the tile.

Ada had seen many things in her life—things she probably should have been horrified by—but this? Watching his body mend itself, the skin slowly knitting together as if it had never been torn open in the first place? It was something else entirely. Fascinating. Terrifying.

Wesker stood before her, shirtless, blood-slick, and impossibly still. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling and flexing, as if deciding whether they craved violence or something else entirely. The air between them felt different, charged in a way she wasn’t sure she liked.

Without thinking, Ada reached out to turn the shower on, the rush of warm water filling the silence. “You should go first,” she told him, her voice softer than she’d intended.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

The sound of water hitting tile echoed softly around them, steam already beginning to curl around the edges of the mirror. Ada’s hand lingered near the dial for a moment longer before she stepped back, eyes briefly meeting his.

Wesker still hadn’t moved.

He just stared at her, jaw tight, the muscles in his arms twitching beneath the blood-slicked skin. It wasn’t just tension—it was restraint. The kind that barely held. The kind that trembled beneath the surface like a vine ready to snap.

For a split second, Ada wondered if he was going to do something—finally do something. His eyes had darkened in that way they did when he was about to make a decision he couldn’t walk back from. Her pulse quickened, and her breath caught.

He looked like he was going to pounce. That wasn’t some projection of hers, some trick of dim lighting and proximity. That was real. Raw. Then, in one swift motion, his hands were on her, fingers digging into her arms as he pulled her against him. She barely had time to inhale before his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding, filled with something she wasn’t sure was entirely human.

His lips were hot, almost feverish. The taste of copper still lingered on his tongue, mixing with something deeper, darker. Ada’s fingers curled against his chest, a weak attempt to push him away, but the moment she did, he only pulled her in tighter.

God, she should have seen this coming.

Wesker was still running on pure adrenaline, the high of the virus, the thrill of battle—he needed something to ground him, and she just happened to be here.

But then, why the hell was she kissing him back?

A soft noise escaped her throat as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. His grip on her waist was unrelenting, his body tense, wound tight like a predator barely keeping itself in check.

This wasn’t careful.

This wasn’t calculated.

This was pure need.

And that was more dangerous than anything.

The moment Ada felt the cool press of the shower tiles against her back, reality snapped into focus. Water cascaded down over them, soaking through fabric and diluting the blood smeared across Wesker’s skin. The shower floor quickly turned shades of red as the last remnants of his wounds were washed away, but the man himself remained unrelenting.

His mouth trailed along the curve of her jaw, breath hot against her wet skin, while his hands worked to peel away the slick fabric of her bodysuit. The material, once snug against her form, now clung to her like a second skin, made heavier by the water.

Her fingers found the buckle of his belt, working it loose even as his hands slid down her hips, pushing the bodysuit further, further, until it pooled at her feet. His gloves had been discarded at some point, and she could feel his bare skin now—hot, possessive, tracing the dips and curves of her body with a deliberate slowness that sent a shiver up her spine.

The sound of metal clinking against tile filled the space as she undid his pants, pushing them down with a forcefulness that was almost impatient.

Wesker exhaled sharply, the sound somewhere between amusement and frustration. His golden eyes, now red with need, flickered as he pulled back slightly, watching her, searching her expression for something she wasn’t even sure she could name.

A challenge? Permission? Maybe both. Either way, it didn’t matter. Not when they were already too far gone to stop. Before Ada could fully process the intensity in his gaze, she was airborne.

Wesker lifted her with an ease that was almost insulting, gripping the backs of her thighs as he pressed her against the shower wall. The cold tiles were a sharp contrast to the heat of his body, but the moment was fleeting—his warmth consumed her, overwhelming in a way she hadn’t expected.

She sucked in a breath, surprised at just how easily he handled her, at how he fit against her in ways she hadn’t anticipated. He was big, and she wasn’t just talking about height. The realization made her stomach tighten, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

His hands gripped her thighs firmly, keeping her steady as he moved, his body slotting between hers with a deliberate intensity. No hesitation. No uncertainty. This wasn’t about romance or potential promises. It wasn’t about feelings or regrets. It was all about need. And after the mission they’d had, Ada figured they both needed this.

Her fingers tangled in his damp blond hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as she exhaled against his ear. His grip on her tightened, as if challenging her to do it again. She smirked, accepting that challenge as she bit down softly against the sensitive spot just beneath his jaw.

Wesker growled low in his throat, the sound reverberating through her like a current. His head dipped lower and she felt the sharp scrape of teeth in warning. Ada shivered beneath it, her hands gliding over his bare shoulders, feeling the tension, the tightly coiled strength in his muscles.

He was still running high—blood still simmering in his veins, muscles twitching like he was barely keeping himself restrained. For a split second, a flicker of curiosity crossed her mind. If she pushed him just a little further—what would happen?

But then he moved again, his grip shifting, and whatever thoughts she had before melted into sensation. Wesker was just as caught up in this as she was. He had told himself he wouldn’t. That it was a mistake, a distraction. He had buried himself in work, in mission assignments, in anything to avoid the inevitable.

Yet here he was.

The virus hummed in his blood, hungry, restless, needing. For the first time since taking the virus, he wasn’t sure if it was bloodlust or something else entirely. And he hated that.

He hated that she had done this to him. That he had let her. That he had wanted her for longer than he was willing to admit. But as he looked at her now—flushed, wet, lips slightly parted as she dared to smirk at him like she already knew how this would end—he knew there was no turning back, not now, when he was buried deeply inside of her.

And God did it feel amazing. The way she clenched around him, masterfully taking each stroke only unravelled him further. He swore that she was moving her hips too, attempting to meet him at every thrust just so she could have more.

As the heat of the moment escalated between them, Ada took it a step further. Her breath hitched as she murmured the request against his ear, her fingers curling against his shoulders in desperation.

“Choke me.”

Wesker was a man who prided himself on control, on discipline, on reigning in the more primal urges that the virus stirred within him. And yet—he found himself obeying her command without thinking.

Reaching up, his hand wrapped around her throat, fingers pressing just enough to elicit a reaction but not enough to truly hurt her. Ada’s lips parted, her breath coming in shorter gasps, a shiver running through her body. Wesker watched her intently, analyzing every shift in expression, every flutter of her lashes, every little sound she made.

Evelyn had never asked him to do such a thing. In fact, sex with her had been as standard as it came. But with Ada? Admittedly, he didn’t think she would be so… adventurous. His grip tightened a fraction at the thought—if she was already asking him to do this, what else was she into?

Ada reacted instantly as his grip tightened—a soft, choked sound escaping her lips, her nails digging into his back in a way that told him she wasn’t just tolerating it. She was relishing it. Fascinating.

His movements didn’t falter, didn’t slow. If anything, he moved with more purpose, more intent. He wanted to know everything. What made her gasp, what made her whimper, what made her break.

With his other hand, he adjusted his grip, pulling her closer, deeper, forcing her to take all of him. She shuddered, her body arching beneath him, her lips parting on some unintelligible sound, and fuck, he needed more.

Wesker leaned in, his mouth grazing her ear, his voice a deep, guttural rasp.

“You like that?”

She nodded. His lips curled into something wicked.

Every sharp thrust had her back arching, her fingers digging into Wesker’s shoulders for something, anything, to ground herself. He was relentless, his hold firm, possessive, as if he had something to prove. Maybe he did.

She had slept with men in high-risk situations before—adrenaline had a way of making people desperate, of making good sex even better. But this? This was something else entirely. Wesker wasn’t just good; he was devastating. Precise in every movement, as if he had memorized her reactions before she even made them.

A choked gasp escaped her lips as he adjusted his hold, pushing her further against the tile, deeper into this moment that she never wanted to end. If she could guarantee another night like this, she’d happily forfeit her next bonus. Hell, she might even take a pay cut.

The water continued to pour over them, a hazy steam rising around their tangled limbs. Ada felt herself slipping, not just physically but mentally—her usual detachment unraveling at the seams. She didn’t do this. She didn’t let herself get this caught up in the moment, in the feel of someone else’s body against hers, in the way her partner’s hands gripped her like he never wanted to let go.

She bit her lip, trying to regain some semblance of control. But it was useless.

Because when Wesker's lips ghosted against her ear, his breath hot and ragged, and he murmured her name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality—

She knew she was fucked.

Her eyes began to roll back and pleasure coiled tight within her, a soft, broken sound escaped her lips, and Wesker felt a dangerous thrill surge through him. This was a woman who tested boundaries, who thrived in danger, who sought out the thrill of being on the edge of something perilous. And in that moment, she had placed that trust in him.

He loosened his grip as her body trembled from her orgasm, watching as she gasped for air and clung to him. The satisfaction in her expression, the way she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, sent a new rush of possessiveness through him. He quickly found his own release—something which wracked his body in a way that he hadn’t experienced before.

Ada remained pressed against him, her heartbeat hammering in sync with his own. And for a brief, uncharacteristic moment, he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do.

The haze of pleasure still clung to him, thick and intoxicating, but as the seconds passed, the sharp edge of his mind slowly returned. His grip on her thighs loosened slightly, the urgency in his movements ebbing away. The shower still ran, hot water cascading over them, washing away the blood, the sweat, the evidence of their reckless indulgence.

Reckless.

Wesker had prided himself on his control, on his ability to separate himself from impulsive, baser instincts. Yet here he was, in a foreign city, in a mission hotel, still buried inside of Ada Wong.

And the worst part? He would do it again without hesitation.

Ada shifted slightly against him, purring like a cat in his grasp before she tilted her head up, amusement flickering across her features.

“So…” She dragged the word out, her voice a little hoarse from exertion, but no less teasing. “You wanna go again?”

His eyes narrowed, though the effect was ruined by the way his fingers instinctively flexed against her damp skin.

“You’re serious?” he asked.

Ada smirked, the glint in her eyes unmistakable. “Duh.”

Wesker exhaled sharply, his grip tightening just enough to make her smirk widen. Annoying. Infuriating. Such a strange woman… And God was he ready to oblige.

Chapter Text

The late morning sun poured in through the sheer curtains of the Istanbul hotel room, golden light casting long patterns across the unmade bed. Outside, the sounds of the waking city drifted up — the distant call to prayer, the hum of traffic, the chatter of street vendors setting up shop.

Inside, there was only quiet.

Wesker came to slowly, the familiar alertness creeping back into his senses as he stared at the ceiling. Disorientation prickled at the edges of his mind, as if waking from a dream too vivid to immediately discard.

But this wasn’t a dream. No, this was painfully, irrevocably real. He turned his head.

Ada lay beside him, still asleep. Her dark hair was a tousled mess across the pillow, catching the light in silken strands. One arm was sprawled out above her head, the sheet twisted low around her waist. Her cheek was pressed into the pillow, slightly squished, and her lips were parted just enough to catch his attention in the worst way possible.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced seduction.

It was human. Unarmored. The kind of sight that should have been beneath his notice, a trivial thing to a man like him. But it wasn’t.

His chest felt tight as the memories crept in, unwelcome and vivid. Her body pressed against his in the dimness of this very room. Her breathless laugh, sharp and addictive, like she knew she was playing with fire and relished the burn. The way he had wanted her — needed her — in a way that fractured his carefully maintained control.

His hand curled into a fist against the sheets.

What the hell were you thinking?

The reprimand was sharp in his mind, colder than the morning air brushing over his bare skin. He never should have let it happen. She had always been a complication, but this—this was far beyond a tactical misstep. This was personal. Intimate.

His gaze lingered on her longer than it should have, studying the faint shadow of a bruise blooming at her collarbone, the ghost of his mark. Evidence of the line he had crossed.

Ada shifted slightly in her sleep, brow knitting for a heartbeat before smoothing again. She was still deeply under, her breathing steady and even. No mask. No smirk. No sharp edges.

And for some reason, that made it worse.

Because when she was awake, he could treat her like the threat she was. He could guard himself against her barbed words, her calculated moves. But like this? Like this, she slipped past every defense he had.

His jaw tightened until it ached.

He should get up. Leave. Put distance between himself and this disaster before it festered any further. There were reports to review, operatives to command. Istanbul had been a success, but loose ends needed to be tied.

And yet, he sat there, watching her breathe.

Frustration twisted low in his gut. He should feel relief. Istanbul was finished. She would return to her usual covert channels, and he to his operations. Separate orbits. Clean lines.

But he didn’t feel relief. He felt something much worse. Possession. Obsession. Hunger that had not been sated, only sharpened.

Wesker dragged a hand down his face, as if he could wipe away the taste of her from his memory. But it was too late. She was under his skin now, a splinter he couldn’t remove.

Ada stirred beneath the sheets, her brow pinching as she roused from sleep. A soft breath escaped her lips, barely audible over the distant city sounds. Slowly, languidly, her eyes fluttered open, the dark sweep of her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks.

For a beat, she didn’t move. Her gaze drifted across the ceiling, then down to the tangle of sheets, to the state of disarray she found herself in. And then — as if sensing him even before she saw him — her eyes slid toward where he sat at the edge of the bed.

A slow, knowing smile curled at her lips. Lazy. Dangerous.

“Well,” Ada drawled, her voice rough with sleep but unmistakably amused, “Good morning, Director.”

Wesker hated the way she managed to make it sound like both a compliment and an insult in the same breath. She always had a talent for that.

“You’re awake,” he replied stiffly, his tone clipped to the bone. Neutral. Cold. He willed himself not to look at her mouth again.

“I am now.” She stretched beneath the sheets, unhurried, unapologetic — the movement pulling the linens lower across her chest. Her eyes never left his face, sharp despite the lazy sprawl of her body. “I thought you’d be gone by now.”

“So did I.” The words slipped out harsher than intended.

Ada’s smile deepened, as if she could hear the truth beneath his clipped tone. She tilted her head on the pillow, studying him with infuriating ease. “Couldn’t tear yourself away?” she teased softly, her eyes glinting like molten amber.

“You assume too much.”

“Do I?” she countered, lifting a brow in mock innocence.

His gaze hardened. “Don’t mistake this for something more.”

Ada gave a quiet, almost purring hum. “Of course not,” she said, her voice velvet-smooth. But the spark in her eyes told him she didn’t believe that for a second — or worse, that she knew he didn’t believe it, either.

She stretched once more, deliberately this time, and sat up against the headboard. The sheet slipped further, revealing the line of her collarbone, the faint edge of the bruise he’d left there the night before.

Her fingers brushed over it lazily. “You’re scowling,” she observed.

“Maybe I find this entire situation distasteful.”

“Mm. Pity.” She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, taking a slow sip before setting it back down with delicate precision. “Because I quite enjoyed myself.”

His eyes narrowed to slits behind his shades. Ada simply smiled wider, unbothered. Unafraid.

“So,” she continued, as if commenting on the weather, “when do we head back?”

“Tonight.”

“Shame.” Ada’s gaze drifted to the window, to the bright Istanbul morning outside. “I could have used one more night.”

The image her words conjured came unbidden, unwanted, but ferociously vivid. He forced the thought away like a dying flame, rising abruptly to his feet. The chill of the hotel floor underfoot barely registered.

“This was a lapse in judgment,” he ground out. “It will not happen again.”

Ada’s lips parted — just a hint — before she offered him a slow, unbothered smile. Not mocking. Not sharp. But something far more dangerous: understanding. As if she saw straight through the iron walls he had tried to rebuild in the last five minutes.

She didn’t argue with him. She didn’t need to. Because they both knew the lie had already been told. And it was already unraveling.

The rest of the day unfolded in a way Wesker had not anticipated — and Ada, he suspected, had orchestrated with precision.

She had insisted, under the flimsy guise of cultural appreciation, that they make use of the daylight hours before their evening flight. He might have refused, had her suggestion not been so artfully casual, her tone so disinterested that to deny her would have felt more like conceding defeat than maintaining control.

And so, he found himself trailing beside her through the sun-washed courtyards of Istanbul’s grand mosques, beneath towering domes and intricate mosaics. She moved with an ease that grated at him — snapping photos on a sleek little camera, occasionally brushing too close as they navigated narrow corridors, her perfume mingling with the scent of ancient stone and warm spice.

At one point, she coaxed him into sampling street food: flaky pastries stuffed with savory meats, syrup-soaked sweets that clung to his fingertips longer than he liked. Ada, of course, seemed to revel in it, offering him a piece of something decadent with a glint of mischief in her eyes.

He did not indulge her theatrics—or so he told himself.

But as the golden hour bathed the city in amber light, he caught himself watching her, noting the way she tilted her head to admire the skyline, the way she laughed — light, unguarded — at something a vendor said. She was an enigma, as always, but today she felt dangerously closer to something more familiar. Something almost human. Almost intimate.

By the time they boarded their private flight home, a quiet settled between them. No pointed jabs, no teasing remarks. Just a lingering awareness, sharp as a blade sheathed between them.

As Wesker reclined in his seat, reviewing mission notes on his tablet, his thoughts drifted unbidden to the day’s events. He realized — with growing irritation — that she had effectively maneuvered him into something disturbingly close to a date. Unofficial, unspoken, but unmistakable.

No. He would not allow this to continue. This blurred line, this creeping familiarity — it was a threat to their professional dynamic. Dangerous, indulgent, and utterly unacceptable.

His fingers tightened around the stylus in his hand as he made a silent vow: when they returned to headquarters, he would re-establish the ground rules between them. Because if he didn’t, he feared there might come a day when he would no longer want to.

The descent into the private airstrip was smooth, the dull hum of the engines masking the churn of Wesker’s thoughts. He barely acknowledged Ada as she stretched languidly beside him, the faint arch of her spine beneath her blouse a detail he refused to notice.

Business. Only business.

The moment the plane’s door opened, and the humid dawn air of the States hit his senses, he shed the last remnants of their Istanbul interlude like a second skin.

Inside HQ, the corridors were brisk with efficiency — agents moving with clipped urgency, analysts hunched over terminals. It was grounding, sterile. Wesker welcomed it. He felt the weight of their personal indulgence begin to evaporate under the fluorescent lights and the thrum of purpose.

Their debriefing was brief and clinical. Miles conducted it himself, seated at the head of the glass table, casting sharp-eyed glances between them as they reported the mission’s success. Ada’s tone was cool, professional, but there was an edge of satisfaction beneath her words — as if she, too, knew the power she had wielded these past days.

Wesker ignored it.

The debriefing wrapped with crisp efficiency, the final report sliding across the table as Ada straightened her jacket. She didn't look at Wesker — not directly — but he felt the flicker of her attention, a glancing brush like static against his senses.

She offered Miles a parting nod and exited the room, the quiet click of the door behind her leaving a hollow that seemed to echo in the brief silence that followed.

Miles leaned back in his chair, watching the door a beat longer than necessary before his gaze shifted to Wesker. There was an easy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, something annoyingly knowing.

"You two make an astonishingly good team in the field," Miles remarked, casual but pointed. "Fluid, efficient. Almost like you actually enjoy working together."

Wesker kept his expression impassive, though the words crawled beneath his skin. He slid the mission report into his folder with practiced precision.

"Shame you’re a Director now," Miles went on, drumming his fingers against the table. "A few more operations like Istanbul, and your division’s stats would be untouchable."

There was a pause, heavy but brief.

Wesker’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. "My place is here," he replied coolly. "Field work is for operatives."

Miles gave a low chuckle, leaning forward as he stacked his papers. "If you say so."

But the comment lingered in the air long after the conference room emptied. Wesker told himself Miles was just making conversation. Stirring the pot, as he so often did.

And yet, beneath the quiet hum of his irritation, there was a grudging truth to the man’s words.

They were a good team. Istanbul had been the most successful mission the two of them had yet, aside from Rockfort. If Miles was that impressed, Albert could only imagine how this news would catch the attention of others.

Wesker set his folder down with a measured tap against the table’s edge, his gaze distant in thought.

"Ada does her best work when she stays busy," Wesker remarked coolly, almost to himself.

Miles, still gathering his materials, caught the implication with a sharp glint in his eye. "If you need help with that," he offered, easy as anything, "I've got a long-term assignment that could use her talents."

The suggestion was offhand, almost innocent — but there was weight behind it. An opening, subtle but deliberate.

Wesker’s fingers drummed once against the file before going still. He lifted his gaze, meeting Miles's with that familiar, unreadable intensity. "I’ll think about it."

Miles's smirk deepened, as though he'd expected no less. "Do that."

He left it at that, slinging his folder under one arm and strolling out of the conference room with the same relaxed air he always carried. But Wesker knew better. There was calculation behind that casual stride.

Alone now, Wesker let his eyes fall to the space Ada had occupied not long ago. He could still feel her presence lingering in the room — the ghost of her perfume, the memory of sharp, knowing eyes beneath a deceptively soft exterior.

Yes. She did her best when she was busy.

And if it kept her far from his mind — and far from him — then perhaps he owed it to himself to consider Miles’s offer more seriously than he cared to admit.

The laughter from the television filled the small apartment, flickering light casting playful shadows across the living room. Empty takeout containers were strewn across the coffee table, casualties of a well-earned night off. Ada nursed a glass of wine between her fingers, swirling the crimson liquid lazily while Viv sorted through a collection of old DVDs for their next movie.

“I swear, if you put on Sleepless in Seattle again, I’m going to start rooting for the breakup,” Ada warned, though her tone was warm, teasing.

Viv shot her a wicked grin over her shoulder. “Come on, you love it. Besides, I thought you needed a sappy love story tonight.”

Ada smirked faintly, but her expression softened into something more thoughtful as she took a sip of her wine. “Wesker’s been… distant since we got back.”

Viv paused, fingers hovering over the DVD case. She turned fully toward Ada now, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Distant? How distant?”

“Clipped conversation. Avoids eye contact like it costs him something,” Ada replied, setting her glass down with a quiet clink. “Normally, I’d chalk it up to him being his usual frosty self, but—” she tapped her nails lightly against the glass stem, “—it feels like he’s hiding something.”

Viv dropped onto the couch beside her, pulling her legs up underneath her. “Do you think it’s about that scientist? What’s her name again? Dr. Hart?”

Ada blinked, her posture stiffening. Dr. Hart.

The name hit like a switchblade to the ribs, quick and sharp. She hadn’t thought about the other woman — not once since Istanbul. Not during the mission. Not even after the fact. But now, the thought crawled back into her mind, unwelcome and irritating.

Her lips parted slightly in disbelief. “Oh my God.” She leaned back against the couch, staring at the ceiling in dismay. “I completely forgot about her.”

Viv snorted, shaking her head. “Wow, Ada. Way to keep track.”

Ada tilted her head toward her friend, narrowing her eyes in mock severity. “Does this make me a homewrecker?”

Viv burst into laughter, leaning over to nudge her playfully. “Oh, sweetheart. Maybe?”

Ada couldn’t help but crack a small, wry smile of her own, despite the mild sting in her chest. “Terrific,” she drawled. “Exactly what I need on my résumé.”

Viv grinned, reaching for the wine bottle to refill their glasses. “Eh, it’s not official until you meet the ex at some awkward gala and pretend you didn’t sleep with her man. Besides, you’ve slept with taken guys before.”

“Yeah, but those were mission requirements,” Ada pointed out. “Those same guys wound up with a bullet in the head at some point after.”

“Very blackwidow of you,” Viv teased. “Maybe you should go solo and call yourself the widow-maker. I bet men would literally die for you.”

“Ha-ha,” she mumbled, accepting the fresh pour with a smirk, though her thoughts still lingered on the name Viv had casually dropped like a stone into water. Dr. Hart. Her mind itched, restless. She didn’t like unfinished puzzles. And something about Wesker’s distance felt less like detachment and more like… concealment.

Viv settled back into the couch, wine glass in hand, watching Ada with a playful glint in her eye. "Anyway," she began, swirling her drink lazily, "if you ask me, this Dr. Hart situation? Not worth losing sleep over. Wesker doesn’t strike me as the sentimental type."

Ada let out a quiet breath through her nose, a faint smile curling her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "I’m not losing sleep," she replied coolly. "Whatever happened between them, it’s not my concern."

Not anymore, she told herself.

She had already decided to keep their tryst buried—deep beneath the surface, where no one could dig it up. If Wesker wanted to play it cold, so be it. She could play along. In fact, she preferred it that way. She’d had her fun. And she’d been under no illusions about what it was.

One time, she reminded herself. He made that clear.

Still, no matter how hard she tried to shove the memory aside, Istanbul had carved itself into her thoughts like a mark she couldn’t quite scrub clean.

"Besides," she added, tilting her glass toward Viv, "the fewer people who know, the better."

Viv’s brows lifted with amusement. "Other than me, of course."

Ada’s smile sharpened. "Of course."

Viv grinned, leaning forward to top off their drinks. "Your secret’s safe with me. But I’ll admit, I didn’t think you’d let him off the hook so easily."

Ada’s gaze hardened, dark and unreadable. "I’m not letting anyone off the hook," she said smoothly. "I just know better than to play a losing hand out loud."

Viv gave a low, appreciative laugh. "God, you’re dangerous."

Ada clinked her glass to Viv’s and took a slow sip, savoring the dry bite of the wine. Dangerous, maybe. Careful, absolutely. No one would suspect a thing. And if Wesker thought he could hide behind his walls of protocol and distance, she’d let him. It was probably the only thing that would save both of them in the long run.

Chapter Text

Weeks had passed, and with them, Albert Wesker had expected—no, demanded—that his mind settle back into its natural order.

Routine had a way of eroding distraction. He’d drowned himself in reports, mission briefings, field analysis. Long hours at headquarters, cold morning runs before sunrise. He thought of Ada less with each passing day, the sharp ache of desire dulling to something almost manageable. Almost forgettable.

Perhaps Evelyn had been right after all.

She’d once told him he only needed to "get it out of his system," like a fever that burned itself out after it ran its course. Logical. Predictable. And it seemed, for a time, she was correct. The gnawing hunger that had clouded his judgment, the pull toward something so reckless—it had faded, leaving him clear-headed once more.

At least, that’s what he believed. Until the dream.

It seized him in the quiet hours before dawn, vivid in its clarity, so visceral it lingered like the taste of copper on his tongue. He woke in a rush of heat, breath tight in his chest, as though the dream had been carved directly into his nervous system.

Wesker dragged a hand over his face, then lowered it to stare at his palm, still half-expecting to see droplets of wax clinging to his skin.

The memory of it was too sharp.

In his dream, Ada had been beneath him, a canvas of pale skin stretched out and waiting. He’d held a candle in his gloved hand, tilting it with slow precision. Scarlet wax trickled over her collarbone, down the curve of her breast, pooling at her sternum before hardening into glossy rivulets. Ada had gasped—not in pain, but in pleasure so raw it had made his breath catch.

The sight of her writhing beneath the careful pattern of his design was seared into his brain, more real than the hazy recollections of their night in Istanbul. More intoxicating. More dangerous.

Wesker flexed his hands, his jaw tight.

Control yourself.

He pushed away from the tangled sheets, rising to his feet with a forceful breath. He refused to let his mind wander further. This was nothing more than the echo of a mistake. A residue of impulse. He had flushed her out of his system—he had to believe that.

Yet, as he dressed and prepared for another day at headquarters, the ghost of her voice lingered at the edge of his thoughts.

And despite every ounce of discipline, every wall he had so carefully rebuilt, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder if Istanbul had been just the beginning.

The steam from his morning shower still clung to the bathroom mirror, curling around the edges of his reflection as he fastened the first buttons of his shirt. His mind, however, refused to remain as disciplined as his hands.

The dream replayed in fragments—disjointed but no less vivid.

Ada’s wrists pinned above her head, her dark eyes fluttering half-lidded as she watched him through a veil of lust and surrender. The way her breath had hitched, soft and sharp, when the first line of wax kissed her sternum. She had arched into it, almost greedy for the next.

Pour more, she had whispered in the dream, her voice sultry yet teasing, that familiar challenge lurking beneath her want. Don’t stop.

His hands clenched around the fabric of his tie, dragging it with practiced efficiency around his neck. Yet, as he looped the silk and pulled tight, his grip slipped, jerking the knot higher and harder than intended.

Too tight.

He choked on a short breath, irritation flashing through him as he hastily loosened it.

Foolish.

Careless.

Wesker exhaled through his nose, forcing his mind away from the lingering heat crawling beneath his skin. His pulse still betrayed him, thudding a beat too fast in his throat.

No. This couldn’t continue.

This—whatever this was between them—was a destabilizing variable he could not afford.

If he allowed even a fraction of indulgence, even a single lapse in judgment, he knew precisely where it would lead. Straight back to her. And next time, there would be no pretending it had been an isolated event. No veil of professionalism to shield them from what they both knew simmered beneath the surface.

He couldn’t risk it.

He wouldn’t.

Not for himself, and not for her. Because at this rate, she wouldn’t be safe from him any more than he could be safe from her.

His hands stilled on the tie. Slowly, deliberately, he retightened the knot—correctly this time. Clean. Controlled. Presentable.

And with the final adjustment, he fixed his reflection with a cold, unreadable stare.

Whatever it took, he would reestablish the distance between them. He had to. Before anyone else noticed the cracks beneath his perfect facade.

Before she did.

HQ was abuzz when he arrived. Morning briefings had already begun, agents weaving through corridors with clipped steps and loaded expressions. Yet, for all the routine efficiency around him, Wesker felt like a man apart—calculating, cold, detached from the usual rhythm that once gave him solace.

He welcomed the distance. Needed it.

But it didn’t stop Miles from noticing.

“Albert,” came the familiar drawl from behind him as he crossed into the command floor. Wesker paused, glancing over his shoulder just as Miles fell into step beside him, a folder tucked casually under his arm. His sharp gaze, however, belied his easygoing posture. “You look like hell warmed over.”

Wesker gave him a sidelong glare, brief and sharp, but kept walking. “Hardly.”

“Don’t tell me the stress is finally getting to you,” Miles went on, almost cheerfully, but there was an undertone there. Subtle, curious. “Or is this something to do with your favorite field operative?”

Wesker stopped at the threshold of his office, fingers brushing the access panel but not engaging it yet.

“As a matter of fact,” he said, his voice cool and precise, “I’ve decided to assign Wong to your extended mission. You mentioned you had a long-term operation requiring her skill set.”

Miles blinked, caught off guard. “You serious?”

“I don’t make jokes, Miles.”

“Yeah, no, I know you don’t…” Miles trailed, his easy smirk fading into a more thoughtful frown. He flipped open the folder in his hand and rifled through the pages. “You do understand this would take her out of country for at least eighteen months. Maybe longer, depending on how deep we plant her.”

“She’ll be fine,” Wesker replied curtly, a shade too fast, too firm. He reached out, plucking the folder from Miles’ hands without waiting for consent. “Just give me the paperwork. I’ll sign off on it.”

Miles hesitated. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying Wesker with an old familiarity, the kind you didn’t earn in weeks or months—but in years of knowing a man’s tells.

“You’re sure about this?” Miles pressed, quieter now. “Ada’s one of your best assets. If you send her under, she won’t just be gone. She’ll be untouchable. No check-ins. No direct lines.”

“That is the point,” Wesker said flatly, flipping through the mission brief as if it were nothing more than another requisition form.

Miles watched him for a long beat, the air between them taut with something unsaid. But in the end, he only sighed and shook his head, relenting.

“Alright,” he said, pushing a pen across the desk. “Your call.”

Wesker didn’t hesitate. He signed. With every stroke of ink, it felt like he was severing a vein.

The conference room felt unusually cold.

Ada sat at the end of the table, legs crossed, a sleek black folder open in front of her. Miles stood near the display screen, clicking through briefing slides with his usual laid-back cadence, though the content of this particular mission was anything but casual.

“Luc Delacroix,” Miles began, tapping a profile photo that filled the screen—a man in his mid-forties, sharply dressed, effortlessly charismatic even in still image. Salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven, an easy smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Head of research for an unregulated biotech firm with rumored ties to multiple black-market bioweapons dealers.”

The next slide displayed images of grim laboratories, some with blurred faces of subjects behind glass, and then: medical reports marked with confidential seals and human experimentation logs.

“Specialty is human trials,” Miles continued, his voice hardening. “Prefers live subjects, with a specific interest in neurological manipulation. If you slip, Wong, you don’t just fail the mission. You wind up as a lab rat in one of his goddamn cages.”

Ada’s eyes narrowed on the screen. She absorbed the information coolly, like she always did, but a tightness had settled in her chest.

She flicked her gaze to Wesker, seated across the table, expression carved from granite. He hadn’t said a word since the start of the briefing, only observing with that familiar, unreadable stare.

Miles moved to the next slide, outlining surveillance schedules and target habits, but Ada cut him off.

“Wait.” Her voice was sharp, carrying easily over the hum of the projector. “He signed off on this?”

The room paused.

Miles glanced at Wesker, then back to Ada. “Yes,” he confirmed. “Director Wesker gave full authorization yesterday.”

Her gaze pinned Wesker, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, any flicker of regret. He offered none. His posture was perfect, hands folded neatly in front of him like this was just another operation, another day.

“Of course,” Wesker replied, tone detached. “You’re uniquely qualified for the assignment.”

A prickle crawled up Ada’s spine. She didn’t like this. Not the mission, not the silence hanging between them like invisible wire.

Miles, oblivious to the tension coiling in the air, carried on. “Given the target’s preferences, we’ve authorized the full spectrum of engagement. Including,” he added, almost offhandedly, “romantic entanglement, if necessary.”

The words landed like a crack of thunder.

For the first time, Wesker’s mask faltered. Barely—but it was there. A flicker in his eyes, something sharp and dark flashing behind the pale lenses.

Ada noticed.

Of course she did.

So did Miles, whose brow lifted in mild surprise before he quickly continued, as if to smooth over the moment. “You’ll have a wide berth to play your role, Wong. Whatever it takes to get close to Delacroix.”

Wesker said nothing. Didn’t move. But inwardly, a cold fury began to curl like smoke in his chest. He hadn’t read that far in the damn file. And now, it was too late.

The momentary crack in Wesker’s composure smoothed over as quickly as it had appeared, as if it had never been there at all. Behind his glasses, his eyes cooled to glacial steel. There was no taking it back now—not in front of Miles, not in front of the other analysts who would review the mission briefing later. The authorization was in the system. Final. Irrevocable.

Ada, meanwhile, kept her posture relaxed, but inside, she felt a slow churn of curiosity. She wasn’t naive—she knew exactly what this assignment required. What surprised her was that he had signed off without so much as a hesitation. No warnings, no hidden briefings, no private words beforehand.

So that was how it was going to be. Business. Strictly business.

She let her gaze drift lazily back to Miles. “When do I leave?”

Miles checked his tablet. “You’ll depart at the end of the week. Prep starts immediately. We’ll get you the full dossier on Delacroix’s circle, known weaknesses, and his company’s corporate front. Cover identities, safehouses, all of it.”

Ada nodded once, the smoothness of her movement belying the subtle tension in her jaw. “Good.”

Wesker watched her closely, his mind a tempest beneath the surface. She took this in stride, almost too well. Of course she did. These missions were second nature to her. Seduction, infiltration, assassination—this was Ada Wong’s element. She was built for it.

Still.

There was an irrational burn in his chest, as though someone had lit a fuse and left it smoldering just beneath his ribs.

“You’ll report directly to Miles for this operation,” Wesker said, his voice clipped and authoritative. “He will handle all intel drops and asset movements while you’re embedded.”

Ada’s lips twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “No handholding from you, Director?” she quipped, her tone light, almost playful—but her eyes stayed sharp, watching for the slightest shift in his expression.

“Unnecessary,” Wesker replied coolly, folding his hands on the table. “You don’t need me to guide you through this.”

She tilted her head just a fraction, eyes narrowing. No, she thought, but it wouldn’t have killed you to try.

Miles, sensing the electric undercurrent between the two, cleared his throat awkwardly and flipped to the next slide. “Right. Moving on. This is Delacroix’s head of security. Ex–foreign legionnaire. You’ll want to avoid direct confrontation where possible.”

As Miles droned on about travel routes and extraction contingencies, Wesker’s thoughts drifted—uncharacteristically, frustratingly—back to the dream. Back to the image of her skin under candlelight, gleaming with melted wax. His jaw flexed.

Ada, sharp as ever, noticed the slight clench of his jaw. She filed it away in the mental dossier she kept on him—not for immediate use, but for later. For when the game would inevitably change again. Because it would.

The moment Miles wrapped up and dismissed the meeting, the room cleared out with quiet efficiency. Operatives and analysts filed out, leaving only the heavy hum of the projector cooling down and the soft click of Wesker’s pen as he capped it.

Ada lingered by the table, as though she had no particular hurry to be anywhere else. She watched him with an unreadable expression, arms loosely crossed. When the door finally hissed shut behind Miles, sealing them into a pocket of silence, she spoke first.

“Eighteen months,” she said, her tone even but edged with something deeper. “That’s a long time to be someone else’s plaything.”

Her words were barbed, but not cruel. Testing. Probing. She wanted to see if he’d flinch—if he’d give her even an inch of vulnerability beneath all that clinical detachment.

Wesker rose slowly from his chair, adjusting his cuffs with precise, deliberate movements. He met her gaze head-on, no flicker of emotion visible in his crimson eyes behind the tinted lenses.

“You’ve endured worse,” he replied, his voice smooth as glass but cold as winter steel.

Ada’s lips curved into a slow, dry smile. “True.” She let the word linger in the air before stepping closer, closing just enough distance to feel the weight of his presence. Her eyes flicked briefly to the folder he still held—the very authorization he’d signed that would send her to Delacroix. “I have to admit, though. I didn’t think you’d give me away so easily.”

Wesker’s fingers tightened subtly around the folder, the only outward sign of the storm roiling beneath his veneer.

“You’re not being given away,” he said, his voice a fraction lower, more dangerous. “You’re being deployed, as you should be.”

Ada’s smile widened, sharp and knowing. “Of course. Strictly professional.”

“Exactly.”

They stood there for a breath too long, tension wound tight between them like a wire ready to snap. Ada let her gaze sweep over him slowly, lingering at his collar, at the crisp line of his tie—as if she could still see the phantom mark from where he’d choked himself earlier that morning.

Her eyes gleamed with quiet amusement when she met his gaze again. “Well then,” she said softly, pivoting toward the door. “Don’t miss me too much, Director.”

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving him alone with the fading scent of her perfume and the echo of her words clawing at the inside of his skull.

Wesker’s jaw ticked once. He exhaled a slow, controlled breath, as if to expel whatever lingering fire her presence had ignited.

But no amount of control could fully extinguish it.

The door slid shut with a soft hiss, but the silence that followed was deafening.

Wesker remained still, his gaze fixed on the place where Ada had stood moments before, as though her presence had left an imprint in the air itself. Slowly, deliberately, he set the folder down on the table, his fingertips lingering on the manila surface like it might suddenly burn him.

His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek.

Foolish.

He should not have let her get under his skin like this. He had known what this mission entailed the moment Miles first described it. Seduction was Ada’s arena — her weapons were charm, allure, and danger all laced together like silk-wrapped steel. She had always been meant for operations like this. It was logical. It was tactical. But logic had abandoned him the second Miles mentioned romantic authorization.

The second her eyes cut toward him, sharp and inquisitive, silently demanding an explanation he would never give aloud.

Wesker flexed his fingers at his sides, a quiet release of tension, as though that would somehow ease the pressure building behind his ribs.

You are in control, he reminded himself coldly. You’ve always been in control.

Yet as much as he tried to drive it from his mind, the image persisted—not of the mission, not of Delacroix—but of her. The curve of her smirk, the fire in her eyes when she challenged him, the way her voice dripped with dangerous amusement when she had said, Don’t miss me too much.

He would. And that was the problem.

It made his blood boil—with frustration, with fury at himself, at her, at the circumstances. He had signed the authorization to create distance, to sever temptation at its root. But now, knowing exactly what she would be doing, what roles she would play to complete her mission…

Wesker’s fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. She’s expendable, he told himself. A tool, like any other.

But even he couldn’t fully believe that anymore.

For the briefest of moments, he considered rescinding the authorization. He could still pull her off the mission—claim reassignment, redeploy her elsewhere, far from Delacroix and the games of seduction she was about to play.

But no. He couldn’t afford to. Not without raising suspicion. Not without exposing the very weakness he was desperate to conceal.

He had chosen this course. Now he would have to see it through.

With grim resolve, Wesker straightened his jacket, smoothing down the front as if polishing away invisible flaws. He picked up the folder and tucked it beneath his arm, his expression carved from stone.

There was work to be done. And if he was lucky—or ruthless enough— there would be no time left for thoughts of Ada Wong.

Chapter Text

The morning air in Paris was crisp, but the little café tucked away on Rue des Martyrs was warm with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. Ada sat across from Luc Delacroix, her posture relaxed, her smile casual—crafted. For two months, she had worked her way into his orbit, playing the part of a discreet black market dealer with rare connections in bioweapons trafficking. Today, she’d finally landed the meeting she’d been waiting for.

Luc, dressed in his usual tailored elegance, looked more like an art collector than a former Umbrella scientist. His attention, however, was anything but casual. He poured her coffee like a man pouring wine, slow and deliberate, eyes fixed on hers with the kind of gaze that made women feel seen—or hunted.

“You have a dangerous smile, mademoiselle,” he said with a soft lilt, sliding her plate of pain au chocolat closer. “I can never tell whether you’re pleased… or planning my downfall.”

Ada laughed lightly, reaching for her cup. “Why not both?”

He grinned. “I’d expect nothing less.”

For all his arrogance, she preferred this to suspicion. Luc had taken the bait with more eagerness than she'd anticipated. The promise of a lucrative deal had drawn him out of hiding, but it wasn’t just the business that held his attention. It was her. The expensive breakfasts, the lazy nicknames, the practiced charm—it was all part of his attempt to woo her. Ada let him believe it was working.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs slowly, letting him watch. “So,” she said, voice velvet-smooth, “have you made up your mind about the deal?”

Luc's smile thinned slightly, the weight of the conversation shifting. “That depends,” he said, brushing crumbs from his sleeve. “I don’t trust easily, chérie. But I do reward loyalty.”

Ada tilted her head, pretending to consider the meaning behind his words. In reality, she already knew—every part of him was a game piece. And she was getting ready to flip the board.

Luc dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and set it down with deliberate care. “I’ve reviewed the list you sent,” he said, eyes glinting with curiosity as he leaned forward on his elbows. “Some of the samples you claim to have access to… they’re not exactly common commodities, even in our circles.”

Ada didn’t flinch. “I don’t peddle what’s common.”

A low chuckle rumbled from him, followed by a sip of espresso. “Then you understand why I’m cautious. Anyone can claim to have contacts—former Umbrella scientists, deep-pocketed buyers, elite mercenary crews. But proving it?”

“I’m already proving it,” she said, sliding a sleek black case across the table beneath the cover of the tablecloth. “Consider this a gesture of good faith.”

Luc opened it with a click, quickly thumbing through the contents. The sample vial nestled inside was chilled, marked with the faint residue of a cryo seal—authentic. Miles and the HCF team had delivered it without delay two nights ago, following the schedule to the letter. Wesker’s orders, of course. And for once, Ada hadn’t minded being the face of the operation.

Luc’s brow lifted, visibly impressed. “Is this…?”

“Exactly what you think it is,” she said. “Unstable, unrefined, and a nightmare to synthesize. But it’s real.”

He closed the case slowly, contemplative. “You must have very generous friends.”

“Let’s just say I know where to look,” she said, sipping her coffee. “You said you wanted a deal. This is how it starts.”

He studied her for a beat longer, then nodded once. “I’ll run tests. If it holds up, I’ll take the next step. Payment. Security. Access. And I’ll expect more shipments.”

“You’ll get them,” Ada replied smoothly. “Provided you keep your end just as clean.”

“Of course, chérie,” Luc said, reaching across to touch her hand in a gesture meant to be charming. “In fact… I’d like to keep you close. Business partners should be intimate, non?”

She smiled, withdrawing her hand before it could linger. “Let’s focus on the business first, Monsieur.”

But Luc only chuckled again. “For now.”

He waved off the server with a casual flick of his fingers, settling back into his chair as the last of the dishes were cleared. Only crumbs of fresh croissant and the dregs of their coffee remained, but neither seemed eager to leave just yet.

“You know,” he began, tone conversational but eyes sharp, “I’ve been developing something new. A project outside the usual strains and bidding wars.” He paused, gauging her reaction. “It’s in the early stages, but promising. A serum that accelerates tissue regeneration without the side effects of necrosis or cognitive decay. Imagine what the black market would pay for something that can heal instead of destroy.”

Ada tilted her head just enough to suggest interest, though her expression remained perfectly composed. “Sounds ambitious. And very niche. Healing isn’t exactly the usual endgame in our line of work.”

Luc smirked. “True. But power comes in many forms, ma belle. Destruction draws attention. But a weapon that saves lives—selectively, of course—opens a different kind of door. A quieter, more lucrative one.”

“I assume you’ve had a few test subjects?”

“A few. Promising data, but it still needs refining,” he said, swirling what was left of his espresso as if the liquid held answers. “The formula bonds well to the host, but there’s some… unexpected behavior in the nervous system.”

Ada didn’t press. She let a brief silence linger, letting him think she was digesting the information. Then, like it was nothing, she slowly crossed her legs beneath the table—and let her foot slide forward.

Her shoe brushed lightly against his calf, once, then again, deliberate in its tease.

Luc’s voice faltered, mid-sentence. His eyes flicked to hers, and the corner of her mouth twitched in something just short of a smirk.

“I’d be interested in seeing the data,” she said, as if nothing had changed. “Assuming you trust me with it.”

Luc cleared his throat softly, recovering just enough to lean in. “With pleasure. Though I admit, I might find it difficult to concentrate with you so close.”

“That’s unfortunate,” she murmured, lowering her lashes just enough to give the illusion of softness. “Because I’m just getting comfortable.”

His smile widened, touched with something predatory now—but she could tell he was hooked. More than hooked, actually. He thought he was the one drawing her in. Which made him easier to lead.

Luc’s gaze lingered on her with that unmistakable gleam of male pride—the kind that thought it had already won.

“You know,” he said, fingers idly tracing the rim of his coffee cup, “a woman like you shouldn’t have to work so hard.”

Ada raised an eyebrow, letting a soft chuckle slip past her lips. “No?”

He leaned in a bit more. “Not at all. You're clever, beautiful, and—how do you say—ruthless when needed. Most men would give anything to make your life… easier.”

Ada tilted her head slightly, swirling the last bit of her own drink in the porcelain cup before lifting her gaze to meet his.

“I’ve yet to find a man who doesn’t make me work,” she said coolly. “The ones who promise ease are usually the first to make life more difficult.”

Luc laughed, clearly charmed, though he masked the flicker of unease that passed through his eyes. “Then perhaps you’ve been dealing with the wrong kind of men.”

“Maybe,” Ada said, giving him the kind of smile that could be mistaken for soft if not for the steel behind her eyes. “But they do tend to show me who they are pretty quickly.”

Luc shifted slightly in his chair, folding his hands together on the table. “And what do you see when you look at me?”

She let the question hang, standing slowly to adjust her jacket, graceful as ever.

“I see a man who thinks he already knows the answer,” she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “But I’ve learned it’s better not to spoil the surprise.”

Luc watched her with open admiration as she started toward the café’s exit. “I hope I’m the kind of surprise you enjoy.”

Ada didn’t stop walking, just glanced back once over her shoulder. “Guess we’ll find out.”

The crisp Parisian air met her with a sharp chill, but it did little to cool the burn of thoughts swirling in her chest. As she walked down the narrow cobblestone street, heels clicking steadily, her mind drifted—uninvited—to Wesker.

To his precision. His discipline. The way he looked at her sometimes, like she was both a weapon and a weakness. What kind of man was he really? She wanted to believe there was something more—beneath the hard lines and cold logic. Something human.

But if this mission had been his idea… if he’d willingly sent her into Luc Delacroix’s orbit, knowing exactly what it would require from her—then maybe she was the only one still entertaining illusions.

Maybe he was just another man making her work for what she wanted. And maybe she had no choice but to keep moving forward.

Ada sat at the small desk in the corner of her hotel suite, the pale morning light filtering through gauzy curtains as she flipped open her encrypted comms device. Her breakfast with Luc still lingered in her thoughts—the way he leaned in a little too close when discussing molecular stability, the way he smiled like he already thought he’d won her. She rolled her eyes at the memory and keyed in the sequence to connect with Miles.

The screen flickered to life, a faint beep echoing in the quiet room. It was early for her, but Miles looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His background was filled with monitors, the usual buzz of data moving across them.

“Didn’t think I’d hear from you this soon,” he said, rubbing his face. “Good news or bad?”

“Neither,” Ada replied coolly. “Just checking in. Luc’s more open than I expected. If he keeps talking like this, I’ll have everything you need by the end of the week.”

Miles raised a brow. “That’s optimistic. Is he really that into the deal?”

“He’s into me,” she said flatly. “The deal is just foreplay.”

He gave her a look but didn’t comment.

“Anything I should be aware of?” she asked, leaning back.

“Your next drop is being finalized. I’ll have it sent to a dead drop in Paris by tomorrow. And… Wesker says to keep it clean.”

Ada tilted her head slightly. “Did he really say that?”

Miles didn’t blink. “His exact words were: ‘No unnecessary complications.’ I translated.”

Ada smirked, a ghost of something crossing her face before it disappeared.

“Understood. I’ll keep playing nice.” She paused. “But if Luc gets any ideas, I’m not above getting a little dirty.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less.” Miles’ expression softened a touch. “Stay sharp, Ada.”

She ended the call without another word, her eyes lingering on the now-dark screen. Ada stared at the screen for a few seconds longer, the silence in the room pressing in around her. She finally set the device down and leaned back in the chair, arms crossed over her chest.

Wesker.

No matter how she tried to compartmentalize it, the man lived somewhere between her ribs and her spine—sharp and inescapable. That night in Istanbul still haunted her. The way he touched her, spoke to her, held her like she was something precious. And then just as quickly, he withdrew, as if the entire thing was a mistake.

He had told her it wouldn’t happen again. But words meant nothing when his hands had trembled against her skin. When his lips couldn’t stop seeking hers.

She rose from the chair and walked over to the window, peering out into the quiet Paris morning. She had a job to do—Wesker’s motives couldn’t factor in right now. If he sent her here, it was for a reason. She was good at playing roles. She was exceptional at keeping men like Luc Delacroix wrapped around her finger.

So why did it feel like this time, she was the one being played?

Ada turned from the window and grabbed her burner phone. She had work to do. If Wesker wanted results, then he would get results. Even if he didn’t like her methods in the process.

6 Months Later…

The chandelier light glinted off crystal flutes and polished silver, casting long shadows over velvet drapes and faces painted with civility. Luc’s penthouse in the 7th arrondissement had been transformed for the evening—lit by candlelight, perfumed with expensive tobacco, and filled with the low hum of laughter and lies.

Ada sat to Luc’s left, the place reserved for someone more than a guest. Everyone at the table knew what they were supposed to believe: she was his lover, his confidante, and perhaps, in time, his partner in business. That illusion had taken root so deeply, it hardly needed watering anymore.

She smiled, elegantly bored, swirling her wine as a man from Prague—Danko—recounted the latest "security breach" at an unnamed Eastern European facility. His voice carried the smug cadence of someone who believed he was untouchable.

“Three intruders dead,” Danko said, flicking ash from his cigar into a gilded tray. “The fourth one? A woman. Vanished before our dogs even caught her scent. Makes you wonder who sent her.”

Luc chuckled beside her, his hand resting possessively on the back of her chair. “Someone with ambition, no doubt. Or someone stupid.”

The others laughed. Ada let herself smile with them, tucking a leg over the other and leaning back just enough for Luc’s fingers to graze her shoulder. She tilted her head toward him slightly, playing the part. Eyes half-lidded. Attentive. Dangerous.

“You always say that like it’s mutually exclusive,” she said, voice smooth as the Burgundy in her glass.

That earned a few smirks from around the table.

Luc glanced at her with something between affection and wariness—he liked how sharp she was, how she disarmed with a smile and cut with precision. What he didn’t realize was that every edge he admired was pointed at him.

“We’ve had more breaches lately,” said a woman across the table—Ivana, an Italian geneticist with Umbrella connections so old they were practically heritage. “Rumors of coordination. Someone’s mapping our networks.”

“They’d need very good intelligence to manage that,” Luc replied.

Ada caught the subtle glance he shot her way. Testing. Teasing.

She met it with a sip of wine and a practiced shrug. “That would require someone inside.”

The table quieted for a second longer than it should have.

Then laughter again.

“Good thing we’re all such loyal friends,” Danko said, raising his glass.

“To loyalty,” Luc offered, lifting his.

The others followed suit. Ada did too, the crystal cool in her hand, the toast bitter in her mouth.

“To loyalty,” she echoed softly, and drank.

As the conversation shifted to trade routes and anonymized shipments, Ada let her attention drift—but not really. Every word said at this table was a weapon, and she cataloged them all. She caught pieces of information: a shipment leaving Marseille in two days; a buyer in Macau with a taste for regenerative strains; whispers of a prototype serum nearing completion—Luc’s serum. The one he’d told her about over espresso and flattery months ago.

She hadn’t seen the formula yet. He kept that close. But tonight, she’d seen something better: the fear in Ivana’s eyes when she mentioned “mapping networks.” Luc’s project wasn’t just real—it was valuable enough to threaten empires.

A discreet tap at her knee pulled her out of her thoughts. Luc leaned in under the guise of conversation, murmuring close to her ear.

“You’ve been quiet tonight, ma belle. Bored of my little empire?”

She gave him a slow smile. “I was just thinking about what I might take over when you’re done playing king.”

He laughed, brushing his fingers against hers in a gesture meant to look intimate—but Ada felt nothing.

Later, after dessert and small talk gave way to cigars and cognac, Ada slipped away from the table under the pretense of a phone call. Her heels clicked softly down the hallway to the office—the one room Luc kept locked, even from her. But tonight, he’d left it cracked open. Trust, or arrogance?

She closed the door quietly behind her and pulled out her burner phone, snapping quick photos of the shipment ledger left carelessly on his desk. Her heart didn’t race. It hadn’t in a long time.

By the time she returned to the dining room, Luc was in mid-conversation again, laughing at something Danko had said. He looked up as she approached, his smile quick, possessive, pleased.

“Welcome back,” he said. “We were just discussing the benefits of having an inside woman.”

Ada smiled as she slid back into her seat, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade.

“Careful,” she said, lifting her glass again. “You might already have one.”

The dining room had quieted, the clinking of forks replaced by murmurs and indulgent sighs. One by one, the guests filtered into Luc’s private salon—a room veiled in velvet, golden light, and sin. The air was thicker here, perfumed with expensive cologne, burning resin, and something far more illicit.

On the mirrored tray set out like dessert: thin vials, jeweled pills, neatly packed powder in antique dishes. Recreational medicine, they called it. Euphemisms for oblivion.

Luc passed her a capsule—clear, crystalline, humming faintly with something synthetic and expensive. “Not Umbrella grade,” he said near her ear, a tease curled around pride. “Better.”

She hesitated only for a fraction of a second.

Then she smiled, the same way she had smiled through bullets and interrogations, and took it from him with steady fingers. “Wouldn’t want to insult the host.”

The capsule slid down like nothing. But it was not nothing.

Whatever it was, it moved through her bloodstream like warm fingers. First her skin tingled, then the edges of the room softened, shapes bleeding into one another like watercolors under rain. Laughter turned liquid. Music she'd barely noticed now wrapped around her ribs and pulled tight.

Luc guided her to the low settee, her back against the curve of his arm, his hand splayed low on her waist.

The others were lost to the haze—Ivana stretched out on a chaise, head tipped back; Danko reclining like some decadent Roman emperor, eyes glassy and faraway. It was all soft limbs and parted lips and the kind of laughter that never reached the eyes.

Luc’s fingers traced lazy shapes on her thigh, climbing higher with each pass. He murmured things she couldn’t quite catch, but they were meant to be intimate—possessive. His mouth grazed her temple, the shell of her ear, her jaw. But it wasn’t his touch she felt.

Not really.

She was staring at the wall beyond him, but it wasn’t the gilded frame or the painting she saw.

It was a memory—him.

Wesker.

Cool light in a dark room. The way he looked at her when he thought she couldn’t see it. The faint tension in his jaw whenever she disobeyed orders but still delivered. The silence in his office the night before she left, broken only by the sound of a pen being set down too hard.

He hadn’t touched her then—not like this. But in the aching quiet between them, there had been promise. A promise Luc could never offer. Luc’s touch was performative, desperate to claim.

Wesker’s had felt like devotion. A prayer offered up to a goddess with her name.

Luc’s fingers slipped under the hem of her dress, coaxing a reaction she didn’t give. He leaned in, his breath warm and humid against her neck. “You’re somewhere else,” he whispered, amused, drunk on both power and powder. “Who is he?”

Ada turned her head slowly, blinking through the haze, smiling as if this were a game she could still control.

“No one,” she said.

But her body didn’t believe her. And neither did Luc.

“Then why are you trembling?”

She laughed—a low, velvety sound—and leaned closer, brushing her lips just shy of his. Her hand trailed up his chest, around his throat, fingers light but deliberate.

“Because I’m high,” she murmured. “And you’re not as interesting as you think you are.”

That made his eyes flash. The crowd around them didn’t notice. Lost in their own hazy hedonism. Luc pulled back with a grin, masking the bruise to his ego beneath charm. “You’ll change your mind.”

She wouldn’t. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she reached for her glass again, fingers steady despite the tremble in her heart.

She was still thinking of Wesker.

Luc didn’t speak for a moment, just studied her through the glittering edge of his wineglass. The smile on his lips had cooled—no longer flirtation, but something sharper. Pride with a pulse. Ada had seen it before, in men who liked to believe they owned the rooms they walked into—and everyone in them.

She had pricked his ego.

That wouldn’t go unpunished.

He stood, smoothing a hand down his shirt, fingers pausing at the open collar. “Come,” he said, offering his hand like a gentleman. Like a command dressed in velvet.

The others barely noticed her rise from the settee. Someone had started a new song—slower, heady with longing—and the scent of smoke and perfume had become cloying. Her heels clicked across the tile until they sank into the plush of his bedroom carpet.

Once the door closed, the music muffled. Silence folded over them like a silk sheet.

He didn’t wait.

Luc pushed her gently but firmly toward the bed, his mouth finally claiming hers, hands not asking. Ada let her body move on autopilot—fingers undoing buttons, lips parting, hips shifting to meet his rhythm. She murmured soft things against his skin, words that meant nothing.

But her eyes stayed open. Fixed on the ceiling.

It’s easier this way.

In her mind, she wasn’t here. She was somewhere else. A hotel room in Singapore. A dim corner of a private jet. A sterile lab glowing faintly blue where he’d touched her once without touching her at all.

Wesker.

She let his name fill her like a mantra.

Luc’s hands were rougher now. Greedy. Desperate to reaffirm his place in her world. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t fight.

She just imagined Albert’s voice instead—the calm, clipped tones, the low hum of approval when she did something well. The way he said her name like it wasn’t just a name. Like it was a secret.

Luc groaned against her neck, murmured something possessive in French. Ada bit her lip, and when she gasped, it wasn’t for him.

Ada thought of how Wesker had fucked her against the shower wall in Istanbul. How his fingers had firmly wrapped around her neck, giving her a necklace no one else could. She hated him for it. And wanted him more.

She took Luc’s urgency and folded it into that memory like paper over fire. If she closed her eyes just right, if she kissed back just enough, she could rewrite this scene into something bearable. Into something that it should have been.

She never had this much trouble focussing when she had been with John. But then again, Wesker wasn’t even a consideration back then.

All she knew now was that it was going to be a very long eighteen months in France.

Chapter Text

It had been over a year since she left.

The ache of her absence had dulled with time, smoothed over by routine and the crushing weight of his daily obligations. Ada Wong had become something of a ghost in his life—not fully gone, not entirely present, haunting him in the space between duty and desire.

Miles had taken over all direct communications with her, which Wesker allowed—insisted on, even—for appearances' sake. For the sake of control. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from reading every single one of her reports.

They came on schedule, efficient yet laced with her usual subtle flair, like fingerprints only he could see. She had a way of folding her personality into even the driest mission updates, an invisible signature beneath the ink and protocol.

Until today.

Wesker’s gaze sharpened as he opened the latest transmission. It had arrived earlier than anticipated, and not through the usual encrypted channels. That alone was enough to raise his suspicion.

His eyes flicked over the screen again, narrowing on the text:

—

FIELD REPORT: DELACROIX ASSIGNMENT

Operative: A. Wong

Date: [REDACTED]

Embedded Status: Fully integrated. Subject remains unaware.

Current proximity allows daily monitoring of experimental trials, including human test subjects. Subject confides personal and professional matters.

Notable Developments:

Increased local military presence near compound

Supply shipments delayed without explanation

Heightened security protocols

Final Note: Shifting terrain obscures clear vision. Navigating under unstable conditions.

AW

—

Wesker read the final line again. At first glance, it looked like routine field language. But Ada didn’t waste space on unnecessary metaphors in her reports—unless she wanted him to notice something buried beneath the surface.

His gaze sharpened. He read it again, this time slower.

Shifting terrain obscures clear vision. Unstable conditions.

Hidden in plain sight. A subtle distress call. She had embedded a message, vague enough to pass scrutiny but clear enough for him to see it for what it was: Something’s wrong.

A tension crawled down his spine. As if summoned, Miles entered the office, a tablet under his arm. His face, usually composed to the point of boredom, was marked by a flicker of unease.

“You read it?” Wesker asked without looking up.

“I did.” Miles set the tablet down beside him. “She’s off-pattern.”

“Obviously.”

Miles folded his arms, eyes narrowing on the screen. “Ada’s never early. If anything, she likes to cut it close to deadline. And this?” He tapped the report. “She’s padding her language. Avoiding specifics.”

Wesker’s expression stayed locked in its usual mask of cool detachment, but inside, gears were grinding.

“Could be interference,” Miles offered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Or she’s signaling us the only way she can.”

Wesker didn’t answer immediately. He felt the knot in his chest tighten, his mind racing through possibilities. He had been so certain distance would resolve this—that sending her away had been the correct choice.

Now, that decision felt like a noose tightening around both their necks.

He closed the report. “Get me everything. Her last five transmissions, local handler logs, shadow feeds… I want it all.”

Miles, as his peer, didn’t move immediately. He studied Wesker’s face for a moment, as if weighing how far to press. “You’re worried.”

It wasn’t a question.

Wesker’s jaw tightened. “No more concerned than you are.”

Miles arched a brow but didn’t argue. He gathered his tablet, paused at the door. “She’s good, Wesker. If anyone can handle this, it’s Ada.”

His gaze slid to the closed screen in front of him, to the fading echo of Ada’s hidden message still lingering in his mind like a splinter under skin.

“She’d better,” he said coldly. “Because if she doesn’t, there will be hell to pay.”

Miles left him to his silence. And in that silence, Wesker found himself staring at the empty report window longer than he cared to admit, his pulse drumming steadily beneath his skin. She was alive. He had to believe that.

Sliding his chair closer to the terminal, his fingers flew over the keys, bypassing standard clearance levels with practiced ease. Protocol was designed to keep even the directors honest—but Wesker had long since ensured he could override such inconveniences when necessary.

Ada was always a contingency in his mind, whether he’d admitted it aloud or not.

He dove into the shadow feeds—heavily redacted, as expected, with encrypted layers meant for Miles’ eyes only. Wesker cracked through them in minutes. He brought up the time stamped video logs, a flickering grid of Ada’s activities over the past several weeks.

It was less coverage than he wanted. Damn Delacroix and his paranoia. Many of the cameras had been disabled or rerouted, gaps spanning entire hours. But what footage there was revealed more than words ever could.

He narrowed the feed to the most recent uploads, scrubbing through quickly. There she was. Ada, poised and composed, dressed for the part of Delacroix’s companion—elegant but deliberately underplayed, enough to slip into his world without upstaging him. Her smile, however, didn’t quite reach her eyes. Not lately.

Wesker leaned in, watching closer.

Delacroix sat across from her at a private terrace, half-shadowed by vines and dusk light. In the muted audio feed, their conversation played out in polite, practiced French. Idle talk. Businessmen and socialites around them none the wiser.

But it wasn’t the words that caught Wesker’s attention.

It was the bottle.

Delacroix poured her a drink from an unmarked decanter. Nothing suspicious, at first glance. But then—a subtle movement. He dipped two fingers into his pocket, retrieving a tiny vial, no larger than a breath mint tin. With surgical precision, he tipped its contents into her glass.

Ada’s expression didn’t change. If she noticed, she gave no sign. Professional as ever. Wesker froze the frame. Zoomed in. His blood went cold. He didn’t need to analyze the contents to know what was happening—

He’s drugging her.

Wesker didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. He slammed the terminal closed and rose to his feet, a storm of fury crackling beneath his controlled exterior.

Miles was still in the nearby corridor when Wesker found him, preparing to step into a conference call.

“Miles.” The sharp edge in his tone stopped the other director mid-stride. He turned, eyebrow raised, sensing the shift immediately.

“We’re pulling her out,” Wesker said. His eyes were cold steel. “Now.”

Miles hesitated only a breath, but that breath was too long for Wesker’s patience.

“He’s drugging her,” Wesker bit out, low and lethal. “Whatever plan you had to let her ride this out—forget it. We’re not leaving her there another damn day.”

A shadow crossed Miles’ face. “If Delacroix catches wind of an extraction, we risk losing the entire operation—”

“I don’t give a damn about the operation.” Wesker cut him off, a growl beneath his words. “You move the team. Now.”

Miles’ jaw tightened at Wesker’s demand, but to his credit, he didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze flicked sideways, calculating, then back to Wesker.

“There’s a problem,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Early extraction requires the Chairman’s approval.”

Wesker’s expression darkened. He knew it—of course he knew it. Their operations ran deep, and missions of this classification weren’t so easily aborted, no matter the circumstances.

“I can send the request,” Miles continued, though a trace of doubt crept into his tone. “But based on this alone, I wouldn’t expect approval. Not without more definitive proof of compromise.”

Wesker’s eyes narrowed, sharp as blades. “Send it anyway.”

Miles gave a tight nod but didn’t move right away. “You understand, Wesker,” he added carefully, as if weighing every word, “once I submit this, it goes straight to the Chairman’s desk. He’ll want to know why your name is on the priority line. Why you are pushing for this extraction when it should be me.”

Wesker’s answer was ice-cold and immediate.

“Let him wonder.” His gaze didn’t waver. “But you send that request, and you let me know what he says.”

Miles held his stare for a heartbeat longer, then without further comment, turned briskly down the corridor, already pulling out his secured device to draft the transmission.

As his footsteps faded, Wesker remained rooted to the spot, his jaw clenched, mind already racing three steps ahead. This was no longer just about the mission. Now it was about Ada. And he would not let her rot under Delacroix’s watch for the sake of bureaucratic delay.

Ada stirred, her senses dragging through a thick, syrupy fog as she forced her eyes open. The dim lighting of the lavish room swam into view, distorted at the edges like a warped painting. She blinked hard, fighting to steady her vision.

Her head throbbed—dull and heavy—and as she pushed herself up on the velvet-lined couch, a sharp ache blossomed at her temples. She winced, pressing her fingers to her forehead as the pieces of memory tried to knit themselves together.

I don’t remember lying down.

Her gaze drifted across the room. The space was one of Luc’s ostentatious "gathering" rooms in his countryside estate, decorated like a private salon for select guests. No one else was present. For now. A chill traced down her spine.

Her eyes caught the faint glint of a half-empty glass on the nearby table. It wasn’t hers—at least, she didn’t think it was. She couldn’t recall finishing a drink.

He’s definitely giving me something, Ada realized grimly, stomach twisting. And it’s not just the party drugs…

Her thoughts, once sharp as blades, felt sluggish, like they were wading through molasses. She clenched her fists, grounding herself, fighting through the haze.

Come on, come on. Focus. Her mind flicked to the last report she’d managed to send out. Short, sweet, but deliberately flawed—her hidden message buried beneath the surface.

Ada’s heart kicked a little harder in her chest.

I hope to hell Wesker or Miles picked up on it.

Because if they didn’t… she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep this game going.

Her eyes sharpened, scanning the room again, noting the exits, the camera angles. Planning, as always. Because no matter what state she was in, Ada Wong was never one to wait for rescue. But still. Just this once, she hoped someone was coming.

As she attempted to recover, Ada heard the unmistakable soft click of polished shoes against marble. It caught her attention a heartbeat before the door creaked open. Luc Delacroix stepped inside, his presence as smooth and practiced as ever—charming, disarming, yet underscored with something predatory.

"Ada, ma belle," he greeted in a low, velvety tone, the French curling off his tongue like silk. His eyes swept over her with a smile that didn’t quite reach them. "You startled me, drifting off like that."

She forced herself upright, ignoring the way her muscles protested. Her expression held steady, schooled into something halfway between coy and casual. "Guess I was more tired than I thought," she replied smoothly, though her mouth felt dry. "How long was I out?"

Luc’s smile deepened, but there was a gleam behind his eyes. "Only a little while, mon ange," he assured her, approaching the couch with quiet confidence. He brushed a stray lock of hair from her face with deceptive tenderness, his touch light but claiming. "You fell asleep after our little toast, remember? You said you were feeling warm, perhaps a bit lightheaded. I insisted you rest."

Ada’s mind worked furiously, flipping through hazy fragments of the evening. Toast? She recalled the clink of glasses, maybe a faint bitterness on her tongue, but nothing beyond that. Nothing clear enough to dispute his version of events.

"Right," she said softly, her lips curving into a small smile to play along. "I must be more exhausted than I thought."

"Mm," Luc hummed, watching her with far too much interest. "Perhaps you are working too hard, ma belle. You must allow me to take better care of you. You know how I hate to see you so worn down. You put a man like me to shame."

His fingers traced her jaw, lingering a moment longer than necessary before he turned away, crossing to the table to pour a fresh drink. He offered it to her, the clear liquid catching the low light.

"A little something to clear the fog, oui?"

Ada accepted the glass but kept it poised in her hand, tilting it just enough to avoid suspicion. Her mind was screaming at her to stay sharp, to stall—to buy time until either her window for escape appeared, or someone pulled her out of this deepening trap.

Come on, Wesker. Miles. Anyone.

Her gaze dropped to the drink for just a second longer, her thoughts steeling themselves behind her practiced smile. She wasn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. Luc’s gaze stayed fixed on her, watchful and expectant.

"Drink, ma belle," he coaxed, his voice smooth as ever, but there was no mistaking the command woven beneath the charm.

Ada tilted the glass slightly toward him, as though in silent toast, and took a small, careful sip. Cool, crisp water. No bitter aftertaste, no unusual texture. She allowed herself a breath of shallow relief—but it was short-lived. She knew better than to trust first impressions. If he was slipping something into her drinks, it could just as easily be tasteless.

"See? Better already," Luc said softly, pleased, as though her compliance was a gift meant solely for him. He moved to sit beside her once more, close enough that their knees brushed. His fingers curled around her free hand, lifting it delicately. He brushed his lips against the inside of her wrist, lingering there just a fraction too long.

"You’re warm," he murmured, as if tasting the heat in her pulse.

Ada managed a weak, knowing smile, playing along though her heart hammered beneath her ribs. "Maybe I’m coming down with something," she offered, her voice soft and just a little rough around the edges to sell the performance.

Luc chuckled, low and rich, before straightening just slightly to meet her eyes. "Ah, what a shame," he replied, feigning disappointment. "It seems, ma belle, that we won’t be celebrating tonight after all."

His fingers tightened ever so slightly around hers as he said it, a subtle reminder of his control.

"But that is all right," he continued, releasing her hand at last and leaning back into the plush seat. "We have time. And when you are feeling better…" He let the implication trail off like smoke in the air, a knowing glint in his eyes.

Ada returned his look with practiced ease, though her mind worked furiously behind the mask. Time. Time was the one thing she wasn’t sure she had left. They have to know, she thought grimly. They have to be watching.

She placed the glass down beside her with casual grace, keeping her composure even as her skin prickled with unease. Luc reclined comfortably at her side, perfectly at ease—predator at rest, knowing his prey had nowhere left to run.

The hours had crawled by with excruciating slowness.

Wesker had buried himself in reports, satellite logs, and any fragment of data he could pull from the limited surveillance feeds Miles had scraped together. But it was no use. He could still see Luc's smug expression in his mind, could still see the moment Ada reluctantly lifted the glass to her lips.

He clenched his jaw, tapping his fingers against the desk with a sharp, restless rhythm.

Miles entered without ceremony, a grim line to his mouth as he crossed the room. Wesker didn’t need to ask. The look on Miles' face told him everything—but protocol demanded confirmation.

Miles held up his tablet, turning the screen so Wesker could see the message for himself. It was brutal in its simplicity.

Denied.

One word. No justification, no room for argument.

Wesker’s gaze narrowed behind his shades. "That's it?" His voice was razor-thin, cold.

Miles gave a terse nod. "Mr. Chairman doesn’t see the risk. He thinks it’s natural mission attrition—doesn’t want to compromise a long-term operation over 'suspected stress factors.'" He grimaced. "They’re more interested in Delacroix's network than your agent’s well-being, apparently."

Wesker’s hand flexed once into a fist, then slowly released. Calculated control. "Fool," he muttered. "He underestimates the danger of a compromised asset."

Miles hesitated, but then took a seat opposite him, dropping the tablet onto the desk between them. "Wesker…" His tone was lower, more careful. "If you want to go above the Chairman, there are ways. It'll burn favors—favors you might not get back."

There was no question about whether Wesker wanted to. His mind was already past that point. Burn them all if I have to. Without missing a beat, Albert pushed the tablet back toward Miles. "Do it."

Miles met his eyes, sober and understanding the weight of the command. He gave a sharp nod, already tapping in the request to escalate.

As Miles worked, Wesker allowed himself a fleeting moment of calculation. He thought of the reports—her sharp observations had dulled, her coded distress. He thought of the kiss to her wrist, the subtle tightening of Luc’s hold, the forced compliance.

He had underestimated the danger too.

No more.

If Wesker could get his hands on Luc Delacroix, the man would learn what real power, what real control, looked like. He may not have realized who Ada belonged to, but he was going to find out soon enough.

Chapter Text

The Chairman’s office was a far cry from the utilitarian briefing rooms Miles and Wesker were accustomed to. It was all dark wood and polished steel, an intentional display of power. No clutter. No distractions. Just the cold, suffocating weight of authority.

Wesker sat like a shadow cast over his chair, his gloved hands steepled in front of him, unreadable behind his shades. Miles, seated beside him, took the lead—as they had quietly agreed before stepping inside. He was the more diplomatic of the two, better suited to the delicate balancing act this meeting required.

“Chairman,” Miles began, keeping his voice level but firm. “With all due respect, I believe you’re undervaluing the significance of this asset. If Delacroix’s operation is as extensive as we’ve learned it to be, there is no gain in gambling with our best field agent’s life."

The Chairman—a man in his sixties, lean with sharp, predatory eyes—leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach. His expression was carved from disdainful stone. Everything about him reminded Wesker of Oswell Spencer. And he hated him.

“She knew the risks,” the Chairman said, voice clipped and cold. “She seduced the target, wormed her way into his inner circle—just as was required. If she got sloppy, if she’s compromised, that’s on her. She was a disposable asset from the start. A few noteworthy assignments doesn’t change that.”

Wesker’s jaw ticked, a muscle feathering along the sharp line of his cheek. He said nothing.

Miles pressed on, keeping his cool. "With respect, sir, we’re not talking about some third-rate mercenary. You’ve seen her record. She was the only one capable of getting this close to Delacroix without triggering his paranoia. We pull her now, we save ourselves a full year of setup time for a replacement and can continue to utilize her. It’s a win-win."

The Chairman’s lip curled in a mockery of a smile. “And if she’s already compromised, there’s nothing left to salvage. She’ll either finish the job or die in the process. Either way, the risk to our overall strategy is minimal." He waved a hand dismissively. "Let’s not pretend she’s irreplaceable, gentlemen. There’s always another pretty face willing to get their hands dirty."

Miles visibly clenched his teeth, holding back the impulse to argue harder. He risked a glance at Wesker. Still silent. Still unreadable. But beneath the surface, Wesker’s mind was already racing, calculating alternatives. He had not come here to leave empty-handed. Not when Ada’s life was on the line.

Wesker’s voice cut through the tension like a razor through silk, low and controlled. “You’re failing to see the broader implication,” he said, cold logic threaded through each syllable. “If she’s compromised, we’re one step away from him tracing her back to us—to you.”

The Chairman scoffed, his thin lips pulling into a sneer. “Nonsense. If she’s been compromised, she’s already served her purpose as a decoy. Let Delacroix use her. Plaything, test subject, cadaver. I care not. You’re only reaffirming that she’s a liability.” His gaze narrowed, cruel amusement glittering behind his eyes. “Don’t let your personal entanglements cloud your judgment, Director Wesker. We have high hopes for you.”

There was a dangerous pause. Wesker’s head tilted, a small, near imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. High hopes? Oh, it was personal alright. In a flash of predatory precision, he lunged forward across the desk. Before the Chairman could fully process the movement, Wesker’s gloved hand shot out, forcing its way into the old man’s mouth. Fingers curled against the hinge of his jaw—and pulled.

A sickening crunch-snap filled the office, followed by a wet, tearing sound as the Chairman’s jaw ripped free from his skull, torn from sinew and bone like paper from a bookbinding. The Chairman’s eyes bulged in primal terror, muffled gurgles pouring from his ruined mouth as he thrashed in his seat, blood gushing down his neck and soaking his pristine shirt.

Miles shot to his feet with a sharp, "Christ!"—knocking his chair over in the process. His pulse thundered in his ears as he stumbled back, watching the grisly scene unfold in horror and awe.

The Chairman writhed like a gutted animal, fingers clawing weakly at his ruined face, eyes wide and desperate as blood pattered the surface of the desk. Tongue flapping but incapable of making words.

Wesker, utterly calm, regarded the twitching man with clinical detachment. He held the jaw in his hand as if it were nothing more than a broken tool. Slowly, deliberately, he let it drop to the polished floor with a wet clatter.

The room pulsed with silence, thick as coagulating blood. Without looking at Miles, Wesker’s voice came, cold and absolute: “Submit the extraction order.”

Miles hesitated—but only for a breath. His gaze flicked between the gory ruin of the Chairman and Wesker, still standing like a phantom in the storm, blood splattered along the cuffs of his shirt, his expression carved from ice.

Without a word, Miles stepped around the desk, flipped the Chairman’s terminal toward himself, and quickly logged in under the old man’s credentials. His fingers hovered just a heartbeat before he finished the authorization, pulse hammering in his throat.

Click. The extraction order went through, red-flagged as "Chairman-approved."

As Miles worked, Wesker didn’t stop. He walked around the desk and crouched beside the dying man, tilting his head to observe his final moments like a scientist watching a lab rat expire under chemical influence. He pressed his fingers into the gory cavity of the Chairman’s exposed throat, experimentally tightening, as if searching for remnants of life.

The body jerked once, twice. Then nothing.

Wesker frowned, disappointed by how fast the life drained out of him. His hand withdrew from the corpse, slick with blood up to the wrist.

Miles swallowed hard, eyes darting from the lifeless wreckage of the Chairman to Wesker, who stood calm and poised amidst the blood and ruin. The weight of what they'd just done—what Wesker had done—settled like a stone in his chest.

Before Miles could speak, Wesker broke the silence, his voice smooth and unhurried.

“Don’t look so concerned, Miles,” he said, brushing a smear of crimson from his knuckles onto a pristine corner of the desk. "I’ll be the new Chairman for our division." He said it as though it had already been written into stone, as inevitable as the sunrise. Miles could only stare, his throat tight.

Wesker’s gaze then flicked back to the cooling corpse. “I’ll move the old man’s body myself," he continued. "But I’ll need you to handle some of the finer details—the Chairman, murdered brutally in his own home. Tidy up the narrative and whatnot.”

Miles’s mouth felt dry as sand. "Would anyone actually believe that?" The question had slipped out before he could control himself. Taking a deep breath, Miles gave a brief nod. “I… I can handle it. Consider it done.”

A thin, almost amused smirk crossed Wesker’s lips. He stepped toward Miles, closing the distance between them, and clapped his blood-slicked hand onto the man's shoulder. Miles flinched ever so slightly beneath the touch, though he dared not pull away.

“You’re a good man, Miles,” Wesker said quietly, almost fondly. His golden eyes gleamed with something cold and calculating beneath the praise. "A very good man."

And with that, Albert released him, turning back toward the corpse with casual precision, as though he were simply straightening up after a business meeting. Miles swallowed again, hard, and set to work.

Over the next half day, Miles bore witness to something that defied even his sharpest instincts. He had always known Wesker was ruthless—it was part of what made him so effective. But this? This was something else entirely.

With chilling efficiency, Wesker assumed the mantle of Chairman as though it had been waiting for him all along. Orders were dispatched. Calls made. Security footage quietly scrubbed and overwritten before anyone could ask questions. Wesker handled the communications with the late Chairman’s closest staff himself. No hesitation. No falter. It was as if he belonged there all along.

What stunned Miles wasn’t just the seamless takeover—it was how little resistance Wesker encountered. A few well-placed words, subtle threats, and pointed reminders of unfinished business was all it took. Compliance rippled outward like a wave. Those who might have raised alarms instead nodded along, almost eager to fall in line. It was as though Wesker had flipped a hidden switch in the machinery of their operation, and everything simply… obeyed.

Miles watched from the periphery, an uneasy knot tightening in his gut.

This isn’t his first time.

The thought sank into him like a stone in deep water. Wesker had done this before. Perhaps not here, not in this division, but somewhere. Somewhere with bodies buried so deep no one dared to dig.

And suddenly, the blood that had dried on Miles’s own hands felt colder.

He swallowed hard, keeping his expression neutral as Wesker finished directing a final call. The new Chairman turned toward him, that same slight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t arrogance. It was certainty. Ownership.

And in that moment, Miles knew: if he ever stepped out of line, if he ever so much as thought about opposing Wesker, his end would be swift and brutal—just like the old man’s.

Wesker’s gaze lingered on him for a moment too long, as if he knew exactly what was crossing Miles's mind.

“You see now, don’t you?” Wesker said, his voice smooth yet sharp as a blade. “There’s no need for chaos when the game has already been won.”

Miles managed a tight nod, his throat dry. “No kidding.”

A satisfied glint flashed in Wesker’s eyes, and he turned away once more, his attention already shifting to the next move on his board.

Wesker seated himself behind the Chairman’s desk, as if it had been made for him all along. He rolled his shoulders once before beginning to type, the keys clicking rapidly beneath his fingers as he fired off a string of curt, authoritative emails.

Miles stood off to the side, watching silently as Wesker orchestrated the next phase of their operation like a conductor commanding a symphony of shadows. His hands moved with precision, lines of instruction cascading across the screen—directives for extraction teams, clearance overrides, communications blackout for the target zone. All signed under Wesker’s new title.

Chairman Albert Wesker.

As the final message was sent, Wesker leaned back, stretching his arms out with an almost feline ease. He cracked his knuckles, the sharp pops echoing in the quiet office.

“Have the secretary book me the next flight to France,” Wesker said smoothly, as though it were an afterthought. His amber eyes flicked to Miles, glinting with dangerous purpose. “We’ve wasted enough time.”

Miles blinked, momentarily thrown off by the comment. He’s going personally? It wasn’t the standard play for someone in Wesker’s new position—the Chairman never got his hands dirty. He had people for that. Dozens of them. So it’s personal then… Should have known…

“You’re handling the extraction yourself?” Miles asked, unable to keep the note of surprise from his voice.

Wesker’s mouth pulled into a sharp, knowing smirk.

“She’s my agent,” Wesker replied coolly, his tone carrying something just beneath the surface—not affection, but possession, as if Ada’s fate was a personal matter of pride and principle. “Of course I am.”

Miles stiffened at the casual claim, his thoughts flickering to the brutal efficiency Wesker had displayed just hours earlier. There was no doubt left in his mind—Wesker would tear France apart if it came to that. Whatever it took to retrieve Ada, he would see it done.

“Understood,” Miles said, clearing his throat. He stepped toward the door, eager to carry out the order before Wesker changed his mind and decided to fly the damn plane himself.

As Miles left to alert the secretary, Wesker remained seated, his gaze distant but razor-sharp. He allowed himself a brief moment to savor the anticipation.

Hold on a little longer, Ada…

Ada’s eyelids fluttered open slowly, her vision a bleary haze of white lights and sterile metal. The distinct chill of a lab table seeped into her bones. Cold restraints bit into her wrists and ankles, cruelly unforgiving against her skin. She shifted, testing the bonds instinctively, but there was no give—they’d been fastened well. Her pulse quickened, though she forced her breath to remain steady. Panicking wouldn’t help.

The room around her came into focus by degrees. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a pale glow over her prone body and the table beside her—a grim showcase of instruments. Long, slender needles gleamed under the lights. Scalpel blades, bone saws, serrated knives. Tools designed not for precision, but for cruelty.

Her jaw tightened as she catalogued the items. She didn’t bother to hide her awareness; if Luc was watching, he’d want her to see. He’d enjoy it.

Great, Ada thought bitterly, eyes narrowing. I’m going to be his next test subject.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. All this time spent manipulating Luc Delacroix, edging closer to her objective, and now she was the one laid out like an experiment.

She tilted her head as far as she could to one side, surveying the lab. No windows. No clock. Only walls of glass and steel, a surgical prison designed to dehumanize. Still, Ada Wong was not the type to surrender to fear. Fear was useful—it kept you sharp—but only if you controlled it.

Stay sharp.

Her mind raced back to her last conscious memory—fragments of conversation, Luc’s voice murmuring sweet nothings as he pressed the glass of water into her hand. Whatever sedative he’d been lacing her drinks with, it had worked well. She had no concept of time from when she was last awake and now. Had it been a day? A week? No, probably not that long, but still…

Had her last report gone through? Did Wesker or Miles notice her coded message? She could only hope. If they hadn’t, her chances of survival were dwindling fast. Her gaze slid back to the table of tools, her expression hardening into a mask of cool defiance.

“Looks like you’ve been waiting for this moment,” she murmured under her breath, as if speaking to Luc himself, wherever he was watching from.

Ada didn’t have to wait long. The door slid open with a hiss of hydraulics, and Luc Delacroix strolled inside, his presence commanding the sterile space like a wolf prowling his cage. His white lab coat hung perfectly pressed, the pristine fabric a sharp contrast to the depravity in his eyes.

His gaze swept over her, slow and possessive, like a man admiring the final piece of a collection.

“Ah… Ma belle,” he greeted smoothly, slipping into French as he crossed the floor toward her. "How lovely it is to see you awake. I had been starting to worry you'd sleep through our special time together."

Ada's eyes burned into him, unblinking.

Luc trailed his fingers along the gleaming instruments beside her, selecting a long, slender scalpel and turning it over in his palm thoughtfully. "You know," he continued in that syrupy tone, as though they were merely old lovers reminiscing, "I may have indulged myself during your little naps." He smiled, showing perfect teeth that didn’t reach his eyes. "But surely you understand. The sounds you make in your sleep are simply... divine."

His words curled around her like smoke, suffocating, invasive. Was he lying?

He sighed wistfully, setting the scalpel down with a soft clink. "I should have started lacing your drinks sooner. Mon Dieu, the time we've wasted."

“You motherfucker,” Ada hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Her loathing dripped from every word, but Luc only chuckled, stepping closer, delighting in her defiance. He leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat of his breath, as if savoring the moment.

And then, without hesitation, Ada drew back as far as her restraints allowed—and spat directly in his face. Her saliva struck him cleanly across the cheek, sliding down his skin. For a heartbeat, the air froze between them.

Luc straightened slowly, dabbing at the wet trail with a handkerchief plucked from his pocket. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened, sharp as knives beneath a velvet glove.

"Tsk, tsk," he tutted softly, folding the handkerchief away as though her act of defiance were nothing more than an amusing game. "We’ll have to do something about that spirit of yours. But I do admire it, truly."

He reached out, running a gloved fingertip down the line of her jaw, cold and impersonal as he studied her like a specimen. It was almost hard to believe that this was the same man she had gotten to know over the past year.

"Perhaps I should cut out your tongue before the bidding starts," he said smoothly, his voice as light as if he were discussing the weather. "Then again…" His eyes roamed over her restrained form, dark with something far fouler than curiosity. “Some of the buyers do like their toys to have a working voicebox.”

Ada’s pulse thudded hard against her restraints, but she refused to look away. Bidding?

Her mind raced, sharp despite the fog that lingered from whatever he’d dosed her with. Trafficking. Auction. He wasn’t just experimenting anymore—he was planning to sell her off like cattle to the highest bidder.

She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear.

“Go to hell,” she shot back, her voice steady despite the dry ache in her throat.

Luc hummed to himself—a quiet, pleased sound—as he stepped to the side of the room and retrieved a small case of equipment. He opened it with practiced movements, revealing an array of electrodes and wires.

“Is that all you have to say, ma belle? I used to think of you as eloquent,” he purred, selecting a few of the cold metal nodes and fastening them to her bare skin with clinical efficiency. Collarbone. Ribcage. Hip. Inside of her wrists. Each placement was deliberate, designed for maximum nerve response. His speciality.

Ada’s muscles tensed beneath the chill of the sensors, but she held his gaze, refusing to show even a flicker of fear. She could feel the faint tremble of anticipation in his fingertips as he adjusted the dials on the control unit.

“Did you know…” Luc continued conversationally, as though discussing fine wine, “I find the human nervous system endlessly fascinating? Such delicate mechanisms. And the screams,”he smiled, slow and hungry, “are music to my ears.”

He flipped the switch.

A violent surge of electricity tore through her, seizing every muscle in her body. Pain flared white-hot, arching her spine against the restraints, a raw cry tearing from her throat before she could stop it. Luc’s eyes darkened with delight, his breath quickening as he watched her thrash.

He leaned against a nearby table, licking his lips with an expression that made Ada’s hate for him burn even greater. The bastard was getting off on it. Quite literally. Through flashes of pain, she could see him rub the growing bulge in his pants.

No, her mind roared through the agony. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

Her jaw clamped shut with brutal force, swallowing the next scream that clawed its way up. Her vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing in her sight. Every nerve screamed, but she forced her body to still as much as it could, gritting her teeth against the waves of torment.

Luc’s expression faltered, just a touch. His arousal seemed to dim when her silence persisted, biting back every sound he craved.

“Ohhh,” he crooned mockingly, slightly adjusting the voltage, “so brave. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

The current increased, and Ada found that she could stay silent no longer. The pain ripped through her, stronger now, and unwilling tears slid down her cheeks as she thrashed against her restraints. In the depths of her suffering, she latched onto one grim hope: Wesker would come for her. He had to.

Luc watched her with hungry, fevered eyes as her body strained against the relentless current. A strained, involuntary cry clawed its way from her throat, the agony too sharp, too consuming to be entirely smothered. The sound sent a shiver through him.

His breath quickened, lips parting in something between a moan and a sigh. Slowly, deliberately, he moved to the table beside her, unfastening his belt with one hand while keeping the other on the machine’s dial, adjusting the frequency of her torment to draw out the most delicious responses.

“This,” Luc whispered, his voice thick with desire, “this is far better than any of our evenings together.”

Ada’s blurred gaze shifted to him, filled with revulsion, but she couldn’t fully mask the involuntary twitch of her muscles as another wave of electricity coursed through her. He fed off it. He fed off her. Without shame, without hesitation, he worked himself to climax at the height of her suffering, releasing a guttural groan of pleasure as he watched her writhe beneath the electric lash of the machine.

Ada’s stomach turned violently, bile rising in her throat, but she swallowed it back. She refused to give him anything more.

Finally, as his breathing steadied and a cruel satisfaction played across his flushed features, Luc reached for the control panel and flipped the switch off. The current cut out abruptly, leaving Ada’s body twitching, her chest heaving for breath. Sweat slicked her skin, strands of damp hair clinging to her temples.

Luc tucked himself away, adjusted his belt, and leaned over her trembling frame. His gloved hand cupped her jaw, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Better than any of our nights, ma belle,” he repeated with a smirk, his lips brushing her cheek in a mockery of affection. “I really should have started doing this sooner.”

Ada’s glare never wavered, even as her body betrayed her strength. Her voice was a hoarse rasp, but it carried a blade’s edge.

“You’re… a dead man,” she forced out.

Luc only chuckled, tapping her cheek lightly as though she were a petulant child.

“Perhaps,” he said, straightening his jacket, “but not tonight.”

And with that, he turned away, leaving her bound and aching beneath the cold glare of the overhead lights, her mind burning not with despair—but with defiance. She had dealt with worse. It would take more than this to break her.

The jet touched down in France under the cover of night, its engines snarling before falling silent. Rain misted over the tarmac, shrouding the runway in a silvery haze as Wesker descended the stairs with a purposeful stride, black gloves flexing at his sides.

His eyes, sharp behind dark lenses, cut through the dimness with predatory focus.

No fanfare greeted him. No welcoming party. Good. He preferred it that way.

Miles’ latest update had reached him mid-flight—Ada had not been moved. She was still at Luc Delacroix’s private estate, and likely alive, for now. But what they had seen on the surveillance feeds had ignited something deeper than rage in him. Something cold. Icy. Final.

The car arranged for him—a matte black armored vehicle—waited at the end of the runway. Wesker slid into the back seat, snapping orders to the driver before the man could fumble out a greeting.

“Delacroix estate. Direct route. No stops.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

The rain thickened as they drove, drumming like distant gunfire against the roof of the car. Wesker’s gaze never left the blurred horizon, his mind already laying out the massacre to come.

Luc’s estate was a fortress on paper. High walls. Armed guards. Electronic countermeasures. But they were nothing more than decorations to Wesker. He didn’t need subtlety now. He wanted them to know hell was coming.

By the time the vehicle rolled to a halt outside the estate gates, he was already stepping out, the rain slicking his trench coat to his frame. He tilted his head once at the guards stationed there.

“Identify yourself!” one of them barked, weapon rising.

In a blur of speed, faster than their eyes could follow, he closed the distance. One guard’s neck snapped with a sickening crack beneath his grip. The other didn’t even have time to scream before Wesker crushed his ribcage with a single, brutal palm strike, bone and blood exploding outward.

Alarms erupted. Lights flared to life across the estate grounds. But it didn’t matter. They were already dead. They just didn’t know it yet.

Wesker ripped the iron gate from its hinges and strode forward, weapon fire breaking the silence. Bullets hissed through the rain toward him—but they were too slow, too insignificant. He caught a round mid-flight, examining it with detached amusement before flicking it back at the shooter, embedding it cleanly between the man’s eyes.

Blood painted the cobblestones in widening pools as Wesker advanced, unstoppable, methodical, a harbinger of inevitable slaughter. God help anyone who had a hand in hurting Ada Wong.

Chapter Text

Lightning split the sky as Wesker stepped over the mangled remains of the front guard. Rain washed the blood from his gloves, but nothing could cleanse the stench of fear rising from the estate. It was almost disappointing. Almost.

They had dared to lay a hand on his agent. To defile her, cage her, and torment her like some common lab rat. Wesker’s jaw tightened at the thought, fury seething beneath the surface like magma under black rock. God help anyone who had a hand in hurting Ada Wong.

Because Wesker wouldn’t.

With inhuman grace, he vaulted a low barricade as more guards flooded the courtyard, barking orders in French. Their words barely registered—static noise in his ears. He moved like liquid death, a blur of fists and crushing strength.

A man’s skull collapsed beneath a punch, bone fragmenting into the brain. Another had his spine shattered against a stone pillar, slumping like a puppet with its strings cut. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Inside the manor walls, chaos reigned. Luc’s hired men scrambled to fortify positions, dragging what crude weapons they could to choke points. Wesker was already past them, his senses heightened, his focus singular. He knew that Ada wouldn’t be kept on the upper floors. He pushed deeper, toward the foundations of the estate—where the walls thickened and the air grew sterile with chemical rot.

The lab. His lips curled into a snarl. Of course.

Two more guards rushed him near the eastern stairwell. One lunged with a combat knife, but Wesker caught the man’s wrist and twisted until the bones protruded through the skin in a jagged, ivory bloom. He stabbed the blade into the second guard’s throat without breaking stride, crimson spraying across the wall like paint on canvas.

Security systems triggered too late—steel shutters tried to drop across doorways, locking down the facility. But Wesker tore through them like paper, shredding mechanical barriers with bare hands. Sparks rained down in his wake.

Every obstacle they threw at him only fueled his rage. Footsteps echoed beyond a reinforced corridor—scientists and techs scrambling like rats, clutching precious data pads to their chests. Wesker let them run. He wasn’t here for data. He was here for her.

When he finally paused, it was in front of a heavy lab door sealed with biometric locks. Behind it, even through layers of steel and concrete, he could feel her presence. Weak, but alive. His gloved palm pressed against the cold metal. He could smell Luc’s foul scent all over it.

Disgusting.

With a deafening shriek of tearing metal, Wesker peeled the door from its frame, casting it aside like so much trash.

Inside, sterile lights buzzed overhead. Monitors displayed vital signs and chemical readings—Ada’s. His gaze slid over the strapped-down form on the table, fury hardening in his chest as he took in the sight of her pale skin marked with bruises and punctures, sensors still attached to her trembling body covered with nothing more than a paper gown.

And there, standing beside her like the smug butcher he fancied himself, was Luc Delacroix. Luc didn’t flinch at Wesker’s arrival. If anything, his smirk sharpened, his arrogance swelling like a blister under pressure.

“Well, now it all makes sense,” Luc said smoothly, like a man welcoming an old friend to dinner—never mind the strapped-down, battered woman at his side. His fingers trailed down Ada’s arm, tapping one of the electrodes still adhered to her skin as though testing a piano key. She stirred weakly under his touch, eyelids fluttering against the drugged haze. “I admit, I hadn’t expected her to be working for you, of all people.”

He let his fingers drift over a nearby dial, caressing it like an old lover. A sharp twist, and Ada’s body jolted violently against the restraints. Her hoarse cry punched the air, ragged and raw from hours of torment.

Wesker's eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw ticked beneath his skin.

Luc caught it and seized the moment. "Now, now Doctor," he chided, almost playfully. "I wouldn’t step any closer if I were you."

To punctuate his threat, he twisted the dial again. Electricity tore through Ada, dragging a strangled, breathless cry from her throat. Her back arched, her wrists fighting uselessly against the leather straps. The air crackled with the sound of the electricity coursing through her body—Albert could practically taste it on his tongue.

His fists curled at his sides, knuckles cracking under the pressure of his restraint. His every instinct screamed at him to strike Luc down, to close the distance and snap his neck like a twig. But Luc—the clever, cornered animal that he was—kept the upper hand, using Ada’s agony like a shield.

A shield. Because hurting Ada was the equivalent of hurting Wesker. The bastard had taken a calculated risk in assuming, and was right.

"You see," Luc continued smoothly, though there was a tremor beneath the surface, "every step you take toward me, I’ll make her suffer tenfold." He rotated the dial slowly, deliberately, watching Wesker’s reaction with predatory glee. "Try me. If I can’t sell her, I can at least kill her."

Ada’s eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain and drugs, but she saw Wesker. Even through the haze, she focused on him as if he were her tether to reality. Her lips parted in a shaky breath.

“Do it…” she rasped. Her voice was shredded, barely a whisper. Kill him, she thought, hoping that Wesker would understand her. Forget about me. Fucking obliterate this guy…

Luc chuckled darkly, licking his lips as he leaned over her. "Oh, she’s a tough one, isn’t she? Fighting to the end," he sneered. "But between you and me, Wesker, it’s rather surprising to see you hesitate. I thought you of all people would refrain from having attachments—they are liabilities, you know."

Wesker’s stare sharpened to razors behind his dark lenses. His voice, when it came, was low and lethal. “Get away from her.”

Luc only laughed again, though the sound was tighter now, stretched thin by the growing weight of dread crawling up his spine.

"I don’t think so," Luc replied, forcing a note of calm that wasn’t quite convincing. His fingers hovered over the control, poised for another surge. "You see, I have the advantage here. And I have to admit, I rather enjoy watching you squirm."

Wesker shifted, just the faintest tilt of his head—predatory, assessing. He took a step forward.

The current roared through Ada’s veins once more. Her scream splintered through the room like shrapnel. Wesker’s stride halted, tension crackling off him in palpable waves. Luc exhaled a shallow breath of relief, sensing he’d bought himself another moment of life.

“That’s it,” Luc goaded, voice slick with desperation beneath the mockery. “Stay right where you are. Unless you want to watch her die screaming, that is.”

Something in Wesker’s chest twisted. Not with fear. Not with hesitation.

With rage.

Pure, burning, searing rage that swallowed what little shred of patience he had left.

Enough. Enough of this farce. Enough of this filth breathing his air, speaking her name, touching her. Enough of watching Ada suffer while some pathetic insect played games with her life. Wesker’s head tilted slightly, lips curling into something far too cold to be called a smile. Beneath the glasses, his eyes gleamed with lethal purpose.

Luc opened his mouth to gloat again, but he never got the chance.

Wesker moved.

A blur. A weapon forged of muscle and fury and precision. Luc’s eyes barely had time to widen before Wesker closed the distance in less than a heartbeat.

The machine Luc had been gripping crashed sideways as Wesker’s first strike sent Luc sprawling, the console shorting in a shower of sparks. Ada’s body jolted once more as the circuit broke, then went blessedly still.

Wesker didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

His hand lashed out, catching Luc by the throat with bone-crushing force. He slammed him against the steel wall so hard the surface buckled, a dent spider-webbing out beneath the impact.

Luc’s gasp came wet and ragged, his fingers clawing at Wesker’s wrist like a panicked animal. Albert felt the frantic fluttering of the man’s pulse under his palm and squeezed harder, listening as the trachea bent, then fractured beneath his grip.

His other fist crashed into Luc’s face, once—twice—three brutal times. Blood sprayed across the wall, hot and metallic, speckling Wesker’s skin. Bone split beneath his knuckles. Skin tore like paper. Luc’s head lolled, one eye swollen shut, lips and teeth mashed and bleeding. He tried to sputter something, maybe another taunt, maybe a plea, but Wesker didn’t give him the dignity of a final word.

He dropped Luc to the floor like garbage.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not nearly enough.

Wesker’s boot came down with crushing precision on Luc’s chest. Ribs shattered under the weight, snapping like brittle twigs. He ground his heel in with deliberate cruelty, feeling the man’s body crumple beneath him.

There was no more hesitation. No flicker of restraint. The last vestiges of Albert Wesker’s humanity peeled away like scorched skin, leaving only the predator beneath.

Another blow. Another sickening crunch of bone. Another spray of blood painting the floor.

Luc had long since lost consciousness, but Wesker kept going.

He deserved it.

For every scream he had wrung from Ada’s throat, for every mark left on her skin, for every second of agony she had endured—Luc Delacroix would pay, piece by bloody piece.

Wesker’s breath came rough and ragged, more like an animal than a man now. His vision blurred at the edges, red clouding everything but the rhythmic rise and fall of his fists as they turned Luc into something unrecognizable. Flesh mashed to pulp. Bones ground to splinters. Teeth scattered like ivory pebbles across the floor. When he finally stopped, there was nothing left of the doctor but a twitching, shattered carcass. A wet, mangled ruin that could barely be called human.

Wesker straightened slowly, chest heaving, blood dripping from his hands in crimson streams. He looked down at the mess he had made—his mess—and felt no remorse. Only the burn of satisfaction flickering low and steady in his gut.

For the first time in hours, the room was silent.

Except for Ada’s breathing. Weak. Labored. But alive.

Wesker turned toward her, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. The beast wasn’t fully fed. Not yet.

The hunger for destruction still churned in his veins, humming like a second heartbeat beneath his skin. His fists flexed at his sides, blood and tissue dripping from his knuckles in heavy splatters against the floor. His chest heaved with every breath, fighting to wrestle his mind back from the brink.

Ada.

His eyes snapped to her.

Her body lay crumpled against the lab table, wrists still bound by cold, unforgiving metal. Her breath was shallow, her lips parted just slightly as she fought to pull air into tortured lungs. The paper gown clung to her like a second skin, translucent from sweat and tears.

A flicker of something old and human burned through the smothering haze of rage. Wesker moved to her side, jaw tight, breath still ragged. His blood-slicked fingers worked at the restraints, snapping them open with little effort. The sharp, acrid scent of her scorched skin hit him like a punch to the gut.

His voice came rough, gravel-throated. “I’m here, Ada.”

The words felt hollow in his mouth. He was here, but that didn’t make her any safer. The damage had been done—and it was entirely his fault.

He slid his arms beneath her, cradling her broken body against his chest. She shivered at his touch—whether from cold, pain, or fear, he didn’t know. He only held her tighter, tucking her close as if to shield her from the horrors still coating the walls of the estate. As he carried her from the ruined lab, Wesker stepped over the mangled remains of Luc without a second glance.

The corridors were lined with carnage. Every hall bore the mark of his rampage. Slaughtered guards sprawled across marble floors, their bodies twisted in grotesque shapes. Blood smeared the walls in streaks of violence, drying in dark rivulets. The acrid stench of gunpowder, death, and smoke hung heavy in the air.

Ada’s head lolled against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering as she fought to remain conscious.

“Almost there,” Wesker murmured low, more to himself than her. “Stay with me, Ada.”

The front doors lay shattered, rain spilling in sheets across the steps. Thunder rumbled like the growl of some ancient predator, the storm outside as wild as the one still clawing inside him.

As he stepped into the downpour, the water hit Ada’s fragile form immediately, soaking the thin paper gown until it clung to every curve of her battered body, practically melting from her form. The sight only fueled the simmering violence in his gut.

She didn’t deserve this.

She deserved better than this.

He shielded her as best he could with his frame, striding quickly toward the waiting HCF vehicle idling at the edge of the estate grounds. The operative in the driver’s seat blanched at the sight of Wesker, covered in gore, carrying the half-conscious Ada like something precious.

Without a word, Wesker wrenched open the back door and laid her gently across the seat. He carefully climbed in, sitting beside her and resting her head in his lap.

“Drive,” he barked.

The operative didn’t dare hesitate.

The tires screamed as they tore away from the estate, leaving behind the carnage, the ruins, the nightmare. They weren’t heading back to headquarters. No. Wesker had other plans. More secure. More private.

A property that once belonged to the former Chairman—remote, fortified, and equipped for handling delicate matters far from prying eyes. Fitting, Wesker thought grimly, that the old man’s hidden sanctum would now serve as Ada’s place of recovery.

Rain lashed the windows as they sped through the countryside. Wesker’s gaze drifted to Ada, watching the rise and fall of her chest with every breath. So fragile. So strong.

His bloodstained hand closed gently over hers.

“You’re safe,” he said, voice softer this time. As if by speaking it enough, he could force the universe to obey. And heaven help anyone who tried to prove him wrong.

The storm raged like a living thing, slashing across the French countryside with relentless fury. Wind battered the windows of the remote estate, and rain lashed the stone walls as if trying to claw its way inside. Within, the grand halls were silent save for the low crackling of a fire Wesker had forced to life in the bedroom’s hearth.

Ada drifted between the ragged edges of consciousness, her breaths shallow and uneven. Her skin, slick with rain and fever-sweat, had taken on a dangerous pallor beneath the bruises marring her delicate features. Wesker sat beside her on the bed, methodically working to clean and dress every wound with grim precision.

Each gash and burn told him a story of her suffering—stories that only fanned the slow-burning inferno inside him. His bare hands moved with ruthless efficiency, stripping away the remnants of her sodden gown and replacing it with fresh linen wraps wherever she needed them. Her injuries were worse than he’d first assessed in the chaos of their escape.

“You stubborn thing,” he muttered under his breath, almost a whisper, as he cleaned a deep burn on her side. “You should have screamed louder.”

Thunder boomed overhead as if in answer.

He worked in silence after that, forcing himself to keep control, even as he caught glimpses of her eyes fluttering open only to fall closed moments later. She was fighting—but the fever had its claws in her.

Just as he set aside the last of the bloodied bandages, the lights flickered once—then died completely. The power cut out, plunging the estate into oppressive darkness.

“Damn it,” Wesker growled, his voice low and dangerous.

For a moment, the only illumination came from the dying fire, casting flickering shadows across the room. Wesker’s eyes adjusted almost immediately, courtesy of his enhancements, but the loss of warmth and security gnawed at him.

He checked her temperature again, his palm brushing against her forehead.

Too hot. Her body shivered uncontrollably beneath the covers, wracked by chills, yet at the same time her skin burned with fever. Her lips were parted, breath shallow, as though she was caught between two worlds.

With a quiet sigh, Wesker shed his bloodied coat and clothes, tossing them aside. He slid into the bed beside her, gathering her trembling form against him with care that belied his violent nature.

Her skin felt like fire beneath his touch.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close against his chest, and draped the heavy blankets over both of them. His other hand came to rest at her waist, holding her protectively.

Her head lulled against his collarbone, her breath warm but weak.

For the first time in years, doubt slithered through him like ice water.

Would she make it through the night? Should I have taken her to a hospital?

Wesker narrowed his eyes, jaw clenched against the thought. No. She would survive. He would not allow anything less. Not after all this. Not after him.

His gaze lingered on her face, so pale in the firelight. Even now, even broken and fevered, she was beautiful. Unyielding. Untamed.

“Stay with me, Ada,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise against the storm. “You’re not relieved of duty yet.” Outside, the wind howled through the countryside, but within the shadows of the ruined estate, Wesker held her tighter, as if by force of will alone he could tether her to life.

Sometime in the dead of night, Ada stirred.

The storm had lessened to a quiet drizzle, the thunder now distant echoes rolling over the hills. The fire had burned low, casting only faint, dying embers of warmth into the cold room. But it was not the fire that roused her—it was the heat of another body, solid and strong, wrapped protectively around her trembling form.

Her lashes fluttered weakly. Everything hurt. Her muscles ached, her skin felt like it had been flayed open and doused in acid. But despite it all, she felt the familiar weight of him beside her. His arm still firm around her waist, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek.

She shifted, only slightly, a breath of movement against the pain.

Immediately, Wesker’s voice rumbled from beside her. Low. Rough. Tinged with something she couldn’t place—was he tired?

“Are you awake?”

It took effort—far more than she expected—but she managed to draw in a thin breath and, with cracked lips and a hoarse voice, she rasped out the barest words—

“You came…” Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it carried weight between them heavier than steel.

Albert’s gaze sharpened at the sound, his hand tightening slightly at her side as though to anchor her in place. His expression, normally carved from cold stone, flickered with something else. Relief, perhaps—but laced with something darker. Something deeper.

"Naturally," he answered, his voice low, roughened by fatigue and something far more human than he cared to admit. His eyes roved over her fevered features, memorizing every detail as though afraid she might vanish again into the abyss of unconsciousness.

The corner of her mouth curled, weak but undeniably there. A spark of her usual fire beneath the haze of pain. “Almost thought you wouldn’t,” she managed, her lashes lowering as her strength faltered.

Wesker’s jaw tightened. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, the tips of his fingers gentle—too gentle for a man who had left a trail of corpses in his wake to reach her.

“You underestimate me,” he murmured, a rasp beneath his voice, as if the weight of everything he’d done still clung to the edges of his words.

Ada tried to summon her usual defiance, her bravado dulled by fever but not extinguished. Her lips parted again, cracked and dry, her breath shallow but laced with dark humor.

“Do me a favor…” she rasped, her gaze flickering with a shadow of her old mischief. “If I start… turning into something monstrous—make sure you finish the job.”

Her words were a faint jest, but there was a truth buried beneath the humor. Fear lingered beneath the surface, unspoken yet present.

Wesker’s eyes narrowed at her, something cold and dangerous flashing behind the crimson lenses. "Don’t be absurd."

Ada’s weak smile persisted, despite the fire burning beneath her skin and the ache in every bone of her body. "Come on... you’ve seen what they do to people. I'd rather not wake up with claws."

His grip on her tightened just slightly, an unspoken vow radiating from him.

"Go back to sleep, Ada," he said firmly, low and commanding.

Her eyelids fluttered, but her defiance wasn’t quite spent yet. “Is that an order, Director?” she whispered, barely able to keep her eyes open.

“Yes.”

The word dropped between them like iron. Final. Absolute.

Ada gave the ghost of a chuckle, dry and ragged. She let her eyes slip closed at last, her head resting more fully against his chest as her strength gave out. He felt the tremor in her frame, the fever still waging war in her blood. And still, her trust in him lingered in that final breath of defiance.

Wesker watched her drift off, holding her closer as though proximity alone could keep her tethered to life. He could feel the ragged pull of her breathing against his ribs, each breath a reminder of just how close he had come to losing her.

Chapter Text

Early morning broke over the French countryside, veiled in thick, sullen clouds. The storm had passed, but its shadow lingered in the sodden earth and the weight of the chill that clung to the crumbling estate walls. A pale light filtered through the broken shutters, casting fractured beams across the bedroom where death had nearly claimed her.

Ada stirred, a weak shift beneath the heavy blanket draped over her fragile, naked frame. Her brow knit faintly, as if surfacing from a dream half-remembered, her lips parting with a dry, rasping breath.

Wesker was already awake. He hadn’t slept since the last time she woke up.

He had kept vigil through the dead of night, his predatory senses attuned to every shallow rise and fall of her chest. His gaze had never left her, even as hours stretched long and cold. Now, at the first sign of movement, he straightened from where he laid beside her, his sharp eyes narrowing as they searched her face for awareness.

Ada’s eyes fluttered open, glazed at first, but slowly clearing as she met his gaze. Recognition flickered, followed by something softer. Relief, perhaps. Or the stubborn ember of survival.

"You're still here," she murmured, her voice rough as sandpaper.

Wesker exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile—but close. "You sound disappointed."

"Flattered, actually," she rasped back, though her expression betrayed the pain threading through her body. She shifted slightly beneath the blankets and winced, her breath hitching.

He sat up in an instant, one hand bracing her shoulder to keep her still. "Don’t move," he warned.

Ada let her head fall back against the pillow, closing her eyes for a beat before she dared to speak again. "Feels like I lost a fight with a meat grinder."

"That’s one way to put it," he replied grimly. His gaze swept over her fever-flushed cheeks and chapped lips, cataloging every sign of her body's ongoing battle. "But you’ll recover."

"Because of you," she admitted quietly, her defenses weakened just enough for the words to slip out.

Wesker studied her for a long moment. In the storm-light of the ruined room, there was something stark about him—something almost human beneath the monster he'd embraced.

"You’re mine to protect, remember?" he said, his voice stripped of its usual pretense, roughened by something dangerously close to feeling.

She tried to summon a smirk, to tease him as she always did, but her strength faltered. Instead, she simply let her eyes close once more, her breathing evening out to something steadier, less labored.

Wesker watched her drift back toward sleep, but this time, he allowed himself a fraction of ease. Not rest—never rest. But the storm had passed, and she was still with him. For now, that was enough.

—

A little while later, long after Ada had fallen back asleep, Wesker slipped from the bed without a sound. He moved like a shadow through the dim, early morning light, careful not to disturb her. The fever hadn’t quite yet broken, and her body still trembled occasionally beneath the weight of the blankets.

After finding something suitable to wear, he stepped out onto the narrow stone balcony, the old French doors groaning softly as they opened. The cold air bit against his skin, sharper than it should’ve been. Rain had soaked the countryside, leaving the vineyards and fields below in silver-gray mist. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried—lonely and sharp, like it had survived something it wasn’t meant to.

Wesker lit a cigarette with practiced ease, the tip flaring orange in the haze. He inhaled deep, letting the smoke burn through the tension clenched between his ribs. His temples throbbed, a dull ache radiating behind his eyes. He rubbed at them absently with his thumb and forefinger.

He couldn’t stop seeing it—the red-slick floors, the way Ada had laid on that table as Delacroix tortured her, how he had reduced the man to a pulp. The screams. The walls painted with punishment. He hadn’t felt the usual control. No clinical execution. No measured violence.

That wasn’t just blind fury. That had been personal. And he didn’t care how anyone viewed him after it.

Wesker exhaled smoke slowly, watching it curl and vanish into the grey sky. He leaned against the stone rail, fingers tapping the cigarette as his mind returned—again and again—to the moment he found Ada strapped to that table, helpless, tortured, drugged beyond recognition. Her blood had been drying on her skin when he unhooked her. She hadn’t even cried out, too far gone for fear. That image had fused itself to the inside of his skull.

It should’ve never happened. But he just had to put distance between them.

Albert glanced back through the open doorway, gaze catching on the small figure curled beneath the blankets, her breath barely stirring the silence of the room. She had survived because of him. Because, for once, logic hadn’t won.

He took another long drag, smoke searing his lungs, then crushed the cigarette beneath his heel. The late morning light was brightening, creeping higher across the countryside. There’d be fallout, of course. Questions. Reports. Lies to fabricate. But for now, Ada was safe. And he’d kill again ten times over to keep her that way.

As he entered the room once more, the soft creak of the balcony door was the only sound as he shut it behind him. Ada hadn’t stirred. She remained curled under the heavy quilt, her brow still damp with fever, but her breathing was steadier now—deeper. Less ragged.

He moved toward her, slow and silent, and sat down on the edge of the bed. His eyes scanned her face, committing every detail to memory again. The burns on her wrists. The dark smudge of a bruise just beneath her collarbone. The IV mark at the inside of her elbow where Delacroix had likely drawn blood or administered whatever cocktail he’d laced her with. Every mark on her skin was a story, a crime, a scar that would never fully fade for him.

Wesker reached for the small cloth he’d left soaking in cool water on the nightstand and wrung it out, carefully dabbing it across her forehead, down her temples, and along her jaw. She murmured faintly at the touch but didn’t wake.

I’ve got you, he thought to himself, No one will ever touch you like that again.

He rested the back of his fingers against her cheek, her skin still too warm, but not dangerously so. She’d survive this. She had to. And if she didn’t… He couldn’t even finish the thought.

Wesker leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. His mind, usually so clear and cold in the aftermath of violence, now simmered with something else. Not chaos. Not guilt. But something more dangerous. Conviction.

He’d spent years making decisions through logic. Cold analysis. Calculated outcomes. And yet, what had that earned him? Nothing but watching from a distance as someone else nearly broke the only agent who had ever gotten under his skin. The only person who elicited any sorting of feeling from him.

He glanced at her again, the pale shape of her hand just peeking out from beneath the covers. Delicate. Steady.

His.

The realization settled in his chest like fire and ice all at once. A low, thrumming need to protect. To possess. To tear apart anything that came close to her again. Wesker straightened then, his eyes burning like coals.

Fuck the logic, he thought. Let it go to hell. From now on, he would test everything with her through feeling. And right now? All he could think was ‘Mine’.

Ada had always been good at pretending she didn’t notice things.

During her recovery, she didn’t ask why there were HCF guards stationed around the manor’s perimeter. She didn’t mention the way they stiffened when Wesker entered a room or the way they spoke to him with a new edge of caution in their voices. She didn’t ask why Wesker was taking more phone calls than usual, nor why those calls were followed by rapid strings of encrypted emails and the occasional terse command.

Instead, she sipped her tea and watched him from the chaise near the window, bandages still snug on her ribs and shoulder. A loose cardigan hung off her frame, concealing most of the bruises, but Wesker still seemed to tense every time he looked at her. Like her injuries were some kind of accusation he couldn’t shake off.

The estate’s security had transformed in a matter of days. More guards. More surveillance. Discreet black SUVs parked at the tree lines. All of it carefully curated not to look like a fortress, but Ada knew better.

And Wesker… he was quieter than she remembered. Not distant, not cold—just sharper around the edges. Focused. Like a man who’d been reminded of the fragility of something he once thought untouchable.

Something in the back of her mind kept circling the same thought.

Something’s different now.

But she couldn’t decide if he’d changed… or if she’d simply forgotten how he operated.

“Anything interesting in the tea leaves?” Wesker’s voice broke through her thoughts.

Ada blinked, then turned her head slowly. He stood near the doorway, dressed in black from collar to boots, his hair slicked back like always. He looked immaculate. Powerful. Deadly. But different.

More… established.

“I was just thinking,” she said softly, raising the mug to her lips again. “Either I’ve been out too long… or you’re running an empire now.”

A flicker of something passed over his expression, but it was gone just as quickly.

“You needed a secure place to recover,” he said, stepping into the room, the door clicking shut behind him. “I simply made arrangements.”

“Hmm.” Ada tilted her head. “Funny. The last time I needed to recover, you stuck me in a bunker with a cot and a nurse who didn’t speak English.”

“This situation required… more finesse.”

“And more guns.” She arched a brow at him.

He stopped a few feet away from her, looking her over with a careful eye. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone’s science project,” she replied dryly, though her lips curved at the edges. “But I’m alive. So I guess I should stop complaining, huh?”

His gaze lingered. Ada’s fingers tightened slightly on the mug. There it was again—that look on his face—unreadable yet there was something there. She couldn’t quite put a name to it, couldn’t decode it no matter how hard she tried. Maybe it was protectiveness. Maybe it was guilt. What are you hiding, Director?

She set the mug down and leaned back against the cushions, her voice soft. “So… what exactly did you do, Wesker?”

He met her gaze. Didn’t look away. “I took out the trash.”

A beat of silence.

Ada exhaled slowly through her nose, lips twitching into a small, tired smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

He stepped closer and leaned down, resting one hand on the arm of her chair and brushing a loose strand of hair from her face with the other. His voice dropped, cool and certain.

“No,” he said. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Ada gave a soft hum at his response, her lashes lowering slightly as she let the moment linger. The brush of his fingers, the proximity, the way his voice held that signature gravity—it could’ve meant anything, right? But she wasn’t going to let herself believe it meant something.

“You know,” she said lightly, her tone edged with sleep and mischief, “for a man who claims to be all logic and strategy… you’re surprisingly emotional when I’m hurting.”

Wesker didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just looked at her, like he was weighing the shape of her words. Then he pulled back, straightened, and walked toward the fireplace. “I’ve made a few changes while you’ve been recovering,” he said, his voice all business now. “I’ve taken over as Chairman of HCF’s field operations and research sectors.”

Ada blinked. “Wait. Chairman?”

His hand reached for a file left on the mantel, glancing over its contents with casual precision. “It was overdue.”

She sat up a little straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at her healing wounds. “You don’t say.”

Wesker glanced over at her again, catching the small surprise in her expression despite her best attempt to mask it.

“You knew I wouldn’t remain a director forever,” he said. “I only accelerated the inevitable.”

Ada leaned back again, folding her arms loosely around her middle. “Right. Of course. You just took a little… shortcut to the top.”

He gave the barest smirk. “Let’s call it a necessary reorganization.”

“Reorganization,” she repeated with a faint chuckle. “That’s one word for it.”

The fire crackled in the silence that followed. Ada’s gaze drifted to the window—the afternoon sun peeking beyond the heavy curtains. Somewhere out there, the world was still turning, completely unaware of how much power now sat within these manor walls.

“It was necessary to extract you from the situation.”

Ada’s eyes flicked toward him at the phrasing—clinical, detached. She should’ve expected that. Should’ve known better than to think there’d be anything more personal behind it. Still, a sliver of something cool and bitter sliced through her ribs. She smothered it down.

“Right,” she said, her voice light. “Strictly business.”

“We’ll need to go over your debriefing later today. I want a full report—what you remember, what Luc may have compromised, and anything you left behind.”

Ada raised a brow, half amused and half irritated. “You’re seriously pulling the paperwork comes first card right now?”

“There are protocols,” Wesker said coolly. “And there are consequences for breaking them. We need to determine what he knew—and what he may have taken. It has been a week since we first arrived. Is that not adequate enough for you?”

She watched him for a long moment, noting the tension behind the sharp lines of his composure, the way his jaw ticked, almost imperceptibly. He wasn’t unaffected. But he was burying it beneath a familiar mask of control. A mask she’d seen before. A mask she’d worn herself.

Ada leaned back against the pillows, her smirk lazy but her eyes sharp.

“Fine. Debrief me later. But if you think I’m doing it without something stronger than tea, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Wesker simply turned, walking toward the door. “I’ll see to it.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone with the sound of the fire crackling and her thoughts twisting like smoke.

The room chosen for the debriefing was one of the quieter studies in the countryside estate, far from the hum of HCF personnel and the watchful eyes of stationed guards. Heavy storm clouds still loomed outside, muting the light, casting the room in a moody gray. The only illumination came from the flickering fireplace behind Ada’s chair and the antique desk lamp that sat between her and Wesker.

She sat reclined slightly on the leather settee, a blanket still draped around her shoulders, while Wesker had claimed the wingback across from her, a notebook resting on his knee.

Ada spoke slowly at first, her voice hoarse but steady. “His public-facing work was all routine—pharmaceutical applications, regenerative medicine, some borderline unethical neural mapping. But that was a smokescreen. His real focus was human trials. I couldn’t get to the main lab until near the end, but once I did…”

Her eyes drifted to the fire for a moment. Wesker didn’t speak. He simply wrote, the scratching of graphite filling the silence.

“He preferred live subjects. Kept them in holding rooms beneath the estate. I counted at least twelve... and that was after a recent purge. Miles should have all the photos I was able to get out.”

She continued. Told him about Luc’s clientele. About the high-paying bidders. About the strange codes they used to label subjects. Each account tightened the muscles along Wesker’s shoulders. But he didn’t interrupt, didn’t offer sympathy. He let her speak.

Then came the moment—the part she had dreaded. Ada hesitated. Her fingers curled around the blanket at her lap, knuckles whitening.

“There was a shift,” she said slowly. “It started around three months ago. He began... controlling more of my intake… Food, drinks. I didn’t really notice at first. But then I started waking up in odd places. Disoriented. Gaps in memory.”

Snap.

Ada blinked. Her eyes darted down to his hand.

The pencil—cleanly broken in two. Wesker stared down at the jagged graphite, the pressure in his jaw palpable, but his expression didn’t crack. He silently discarded the broken halves and reached for a fresh one from the stack beside him, continuing as if nothing was amiss.

“I probably should have sent a message to Miles sooner, but we were reaching the end of the mission. I also didn’t want to risk asking for an extraction that would never come.”

Snap.

Another pencil discarded and a fresh one procured. Ada tilted her head some, watching him with curiosity. What was wrong with him today?

“Anyway,” she continued, attempting to focus on the details once more, “I eventually ended up in the lab myself, but as his subject. He said a lot of things… Did a lot of things…” Ada suddenly realized she had never been so vague in her debriefs before.

Wesker leaned forward slightly, as if interested in those suddenly missing details. “What did he do to you, Ada?”

Ada’s mouth parted, but no words came at first. Her eyes dropped to her lap, staring down at the blanket as though it could shield her from the memory.

“He strapped me to a lab table…” she said after a long silence, her voice barely above a whisper. She trailed off again, swallowing hard. Her fingers twitched against the fabric. “I’ve been tortured before. Comes with the territory. But he… enjoyed it.”

Wesker didn’t move, but the air between them grew heavier, thicker. The faint pop of the fire was the only sound for a long moment.

“He liked to talk,” she added, eyes still downcast. “Always in that soft, pleasant tone. Ma belle…” Ada practically spat at the pet name Luc had called her. “Sometimes he’d sit beside me, just… watching. Other times he’d get off on it. Literally.”

Snap.

“Would you knock it off?” she asked, clearly growing irritated. “Can’t you just use a pen or something?”

He exhaled sharply from his nose before effortlessly pulling a pen out of his jacket pocket. “Continue,” he ordered.

“I tried to stay quiet,” she continued. “The more I did, the worse he got. He said I made better sounds when I didn’t want to scream. That it was more real.”

Wesker’s knuckles turned white as he slowly folded the notebook closed. Her voice caught in her throat. She didn’t cry. She never cried. But the way her eyes burned told Wesker enough.

“He would talk about when I was asleep… Said he used that time to take things further—in other ways. Claimed the noises I made were… divine. I don’t know if he was serious or not. Don’t know if he actually…” She trailed off again, her eyes only briefly meeting Wesker’s. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the word.

He didn’t speak. The notebook dropped from his knee to the rug with a dull thud. He rose slowly, a contained, simmering wrath radiating off of him. Not outwardly explosive—but deep, tectonic. Like the pressure that builds beneath the crust before an eruption.

“Wesker,” she said quietly, watching him. Her voice wasn’t afraid—just clear. Grounding. “He’s dead now.”

His jaw flexed. “I should have killed him slower.”

She studied him a moment longer, then added, “But it wasn’t quick either. Or Painless.”

“No,” he confirmed, voice low. “It wasn’t.”

Ada reached for the pen he had intended to use earlier, twirling it absently between her fingers. “So… is this still part of the debriefing?”

Wesker’s eyes lowered to hers—sharp, but unreadable.

“No,” he said at last. “That part wasn’t for the record.”

She nodded slightly and set the pen down. “Then I think I’m done talking…”

When he finally turned away to pick up the notebook and set it back on the table, it was with more control than she expected. “I’ll have the chef prepare something and have it brought up,” he said, voice cool again, returning to its typical clinical detachment. “You’ll need it if we’re going to complete the medical review today.”

Ada leaned her head back against the chair and closed her eyes. “I don’t want it.”

Wesker paused by the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle. The silence that stretched between them now felt different—weighted not by tension, but something far heavier.

“I don’t want it,” Ada repeated, eyes still closed.

He didn’t turn around. “It’s necessary.”

“No,” she said, more forcefully this time. “It’s not. Not right now.”

There was a long pause. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

Her eyes snapped open, fixing on him. “No, I’m thinking very clearly. I know what I don’t want to hear, what I don’t want to see in some damn report or lab result. I don’t want the confirmation, Wesker.”

He turned to face her slowly, brow faintly furrowed. “Ada.”

“If it’s never confirmed, then it didn’t happen,” she said quietly. “Not really. Not the worst of it.”

Wesker studied her—closely, as if trying to dissect her logic piece by piece, but he saw it. The underlying fear. The flicker of something vulnerable and shaken beneath all her usual armor. A rare crack in her unshakeable facade.

“I can live with the pain. I can live with the memory. But if I know for certain that he crossed that line… I don’t think I can carry it like I do everything else.”

He exhaled through his nose—barely a sound. A slight shift in his posture followed, the tension pulling taut across his shoulders like piano wire.

“You think that knowledge will break you,” he said, his voice low, measured. “It won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” she snapped, softer than it should’ve been. “I’m not like you, Wesker. I can’t just… compartmentalize everything.”

He was silent for a beat, then stepped forward—slow, deliberate. “I don’t compartmentalize,” he said. “I bury. And things buried too long tend to rot. I won’t let you do that to yourself.”

She looked away again, her jaw clenched tight.

He crouched slightly, lowering himself enough to catch her eyes again. “This review is not about punishment or humiliation. It’s about you. Your health. Your future. And whatever else you think was taken from you… that still belongs to you.”

Something in her wavered.

“You can postpone it. For a time,” he added. “But not forever. The longer you wait, the less accurate the tests will be.”

Ada swallowed hard and gave the faintest nod, but she didn’t say anything more. Wesker rose and stepped back.

“I’ll tell the med team to just run the standard ones,” he said. “But you will get the rest… eventually. We’ve already wasted enough time. I can’t bend the rules forever, not even for you, Ada.”

She nodded again, more of a reflex than anything else. As he made his way toward the door again, her voice stopped him one last time.

“Albert.”

He turned, eyes catching hers across the room.

“If you do find out something I don’t… Will you tell me?”

Wesker’s expression remained unreadable for a long moment.

“No,” he said, and left the room.

Because in the end, he would rot for the both of them if it meant that she could bloom once more.

Chapter Text

In the estate’s north study, Wesker sat behind an old oak desk, its surface littered with folders, scattered notes, and a half-drunk glass of dark espresso that had long since gone cold. The air was still, save for the soft rustle of his gloved fingers turning another page. A quiet morning for once. No new fires to put out. No reports that couldn’t wait.

And then the chime.

An email.

He clicked it open without much thought, expecting another update from the HCF logistics team. Instead, his eyes caught on the subject:

Medical Report: A. Wong | Final Evaluation Results

Albert stilled. The PDF attachment was brief, clinical, yet thorough. A full evaluation—bloodwork, neurological scans, physical trauma assessment, and more…invasive tests he knew she’d been avoiding for the past two weeks. It all came back clear.

Hmm… No signs of long-term physiological interference, no permanent damage detected. Recommend continued observation for stress-related aftereffects, potential psychological exam prior to reinstatement to the field.

Wesker released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The paper in his hand bent slightly as his grip eased. His gaze hovered on the screen for another beat, as if waiting for something to change. For some cruel red-text amendment to appear. But it didn’t. She was fine. And there was no evidence to suggest that Luc Delacroix had harmed her aside from general torture.

He leaned back in his chair, letting his head tip to the ceiling for a moment. A fragile relief flickered in his chest—the kind that made his skin crawl because of how human it felt. It was still something he was getting used to. Switching it off had been easy, like turning off a breaker. But now? Turning the power back on was making everything else short-circuit.

After a moment, he rubbed the heel of his palm against his brow, exhaling low and slow. The fire that used to drive him, the singular clarity of his ambitions—it had carried him through decades of blood and betrayal. His control was still there, buried under bone and virus and steel. But it was less absolute than it used to be. He had never factored someone else into his equation and adjusting had been difficult.

He found himself staring at her name on the report, jaw tight, stomach twisted in a knot. And if she hadn’t been fine…? Wesker sat forward again, back straightening as he reached for the folder on the edge of his desk. It wasn’t a thought worth finishing. It changed nothing. She was still his.

Before Wesker could bury himself in work once more, he caught the soft creak of the door behind him—a nearly imperceptible sound that still managed to slice clean through the quiet.

He didn’t turn at first. Didn’t have to. Her presence had always carried a gravity all its own—subtle, but unmistakable. The air shifted with her in it.

Ada stood just inside the threshold, her figure framed by the tall door and the dim corridor behind her. She wore something simple—one of the softer knit sets the estate staff had brought up for her during recovery, the color a muted grey that still managed to make her look ethereal. Too delicate for everything she had endured.

Her hair was slightly tousled, her steps bare and quiet against the polished floor. Her expression, however, was a strange mix—uncertainty laced with something sharper. Frustration, maybe. Or defiance, tempered by hesitation.

"I thought I heard you brooding from upstairs," she said lightly, her voice still slightly hoarse but laced with dry amusement. “Guess I was right.”

Wesker turned slowly in his chair, not bothering to mask the way his eyes moved over her—checking, assessing, confirming. There was color in her skin again. The fever had long since broken. Her hands no longer trembled just from holding a glass.

Still, he said nothing. Ada lingered just beyond the safety of the doorway for another breath, her shoulders tense. Then, without waiting for an invitation, she stepped further inside. "Did you read the report?" she murmured, her tone quieter now. “The one they sent you. About me.”

Ada walked to the desk, her gaze flicking across the folders, the glass of water, the glasses he’d left discarded. She reached out and picked up a random report with two fingers—light, careful. Not prying.

“Of course I did.”

“Did you actually read it,” she asked, pretending to flip through a file on his desk. “or did you just… look for the verdict? I wouldn’t be surprised if they labeled it ‘Ada Wong - Damaged Goods’. They probably recommended decommissioning me. To an early retirement I go…”

His jaw tightened at that. He didn’t answer immediately.

“I read every line,” he said at last. “Twice, actually.”

Her lips pressed together, and for a moment, she looked like she might say something sharp. But it passed, melting into a smaller, more fragile thing. She set the folder back down and crossed her arms over her chest.

“That bad? I don’t know what’s worse,” she said softly. “Wondering if something happened—or knowing someone has the power to choose if I ever found out.”

That struck something deeper in him than he expected. He rose from the chair, slowly, deliberately. When he came around the desk, Ada didn’t step back—but she didn’t look at him either. Her gaze was focused on the glass paperweight beside the ledger.

“I don’t want to be a project,” she said suddenly. “Or a report. Or something you have to fix.”

“You’re not.”

“Yeah. Sure.” It was evident she was unconvinced.

Wesker firmly grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His voice was softer, but held the same commanding tone it always did.

“He didn’t rape you, Ada. You can stop worrying about that. It was all talk just to get a reaction out of you.”

Her lips trembled, but not from fear. The air between them stretched taut, a thread drawn tight with everything unspoken. Rage, shame, exhaustion. And buried somewhere beneath it all—relief.

Wesker didn’t let go of her chin, not yet. His thumb brushed just beneath her bottom lip, slow and measured, as though confirming again what the report already had. That she was here. That she was still hers. That he hadn’t been too late.

Ada’s voice came quieter this time. “You’re sure? You’re not lying just to make me feel better?”

He nodded once. “I’m sure.”

She took a shaky breath and finally let herself lean in—not quite collapsing, but no longer fighting the ache in her limbs or the tremor in her resolve. Her forehead rested against his collarbone, her fingers curling into the hem of his shirt as though she needed something—someone—to anchor her.

“I hate him,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“And I hate this.”

“I know.”

His arms wrapped around her without hesitation. Not tight. Not possessive. Just there. Present and grounding, as if he could hold her grief and fury together with his own hands and keep it from breaking her open again. They stood that way for what felt like a long time, breathing the same silence.

Eventually, Ada murmured, “I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

Wesker exhaled a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years.

“You’re not,” he said simply.

When she didn’t respond right away, he pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again. His hand rose to brush a strand of hair behind her ear—less robotic this time, more human. He hadn’t intended to let himself fall this far, but now that he had, he wasn’t sure he could go back. Ada blinked up at him, and despite everything, her voice found that teasing edge again.

“You’re being suspiciously nice,” she murmured.

“I can stop,” he replied dryly, one brow lifting.

A faint smile flickered across her lips. Small. Worn. But real. Then, more seriously, she asked, “So what now? We pretend everything goes back to normal?”

Wesker’s gaze didn’t waver. “It doesn’t go back. But we can go forward.”

She studied him for a long moment. Maybe weighing how much she could trust that. Maybe deciding that—for now—it was enough.

Ada nodded slowly. “Okay. Forward. So when are you gonna put me back in, Coach?”

Wesker’s expression didn’t shift. “Not until you pass a psychological evaluation.”

Ada blinked. For a second, she thought she misheard him. Then she laughed—a short, surprised sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re serious?”

His silence was answer enough. Her brows lifted, humor fading. “Come on. I’ve been through worse and still pulled off missions with half the intel and none of the backup. You’re really going to bench me now?”

“I am.” Wesker’s tone was immovable, calm and cold as steel. “You were tortured, drugged, and imprisoned. This isn’t about capability. It’s about risk. I won’t have you locking up mid-mission because your mind’s still somewhere else.”

Ada folded her arms. “You think I’m a liability.”

“I think you’re human,” he corrected. “And that means you’re prone to react accordingly.”

The words landed like a slap. She’d never heard him say anything like that before—not about her. Certainly not to her. Wesker, who measured people by their utility, by their efficiency, by how replaceable they were. And now he was calling her human.

Ada’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t speak. She wanted to fight him on this—wanted to tell him she’d already survived what most people couldn’t. But something about the way he was watching her… the resolve in his posture… She knew she wouldn’t win this one.

She lowered her arms. “And if I refuse?”

“You will stay grounded.” His voice didn’t waver. “I’m not negotiating on this. Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?”

A tense beat passed. She searched his eyes, looking for the man she remembered from before France—the one who might have let her talk her way out of this.

But he wasn’t there.

This was Chairman Wesker. And he wasn’t backing down.

Ada turned slightly, her voice quiet but firm. “You know, this is starting to feel like a lot more than protocol.”

“It is.”

That answer stopped her. She glanced back at him, brow furrowing.

Wesker held her gaze. “You’re not just another operative. You’re my agent, reassigned to the office of the Chairman. Everything you do is a direct reflection of me. And if that requires some additional protocol—so be it.”

The room fell silent, save for the wind against the windows. Ada didn’t respond right away. She looked at him like she was trying to decide if she hated him for that answer—or if she wanted to kiss him for it.

Maybe both.

Finally, she gave a sigh that sounded far too tired for someone who was still standing. “Fine. I’ll take your damn test.”

“You’ll pass,” Wesker said with quiet certainty.

She smirked, dry. “You sure about that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stepped closer and brushed his thumb once more beneath her chin before turning away to give her space.

“Eventually.”

Lunch was served in one of the estate’s smaller dining rooms—a long table meant for six, though only two seats were occupied. Wesker sat at the head, Ada to his right. Two HCF guards flanked the room at attention, their presence more ceremonial than protective.

Ada picked at her food, the roast chicken and vegetables artfully plated but mostly untouched. She was still in recovery, appetite inconsistent. Wesker, meanwhile, had already started on his meal with the clinical precision he gave to everything else. Between measured bites, he flipped through a thin folder placed beside his plate.

“I thought psych evals were private affairs,” Ada said dryly, stabbing at a green bean like it had personally offended her.

“This is the preliminary portion,” Wesker replied, eyes scanning the first page. “I’m certified to administer it, and you know I prefer to handle these things directly.”

“Of course you do,” she muttered.

He adjusted the paper and looked at her. “Answer honestly.”

“I’ll try not to lie to your face.”

His mouth twitched, but he didn’t smile.

“Question one: Do you experience recurring thoughts or memories of the traumatic event?”

Ada sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Is this before or after I wake up with panic sweats?”

He moved on.

“Question two: Do you experience feelings of detachment or estrangement from others?”

She glanced at him pointedly. “Does being trapped in a lab for weeks with no human contact count?”

His pen didn’t pause.

“Question three: Do you feel a diminished interest in activities you used to enjoy?”

Ada picked up her wine glass and gave it a swirl. “I haven’t had the urge to strangle anyone lately, so maybe.”

Wesker said nothing, only checked a box.

“Question four: Do you have trouble concentrating?”

Ada arched a brow. “You tell me. I’m answering you, after all.”

Wesker calmly set the pen down and gathered the few sheets into a neat stack. Without a word, he reached to his left and placed them beside the salt cellar.

Ada blinked. “Wait, that’s it?”

He didn’t look at her when he replied. “Yes. You failed.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Failed what? The sarcasm test?”

“If you continue,” he said, tone quiet but firm, “you’ll only bury your evaluation deeper.”

Ada stared at him for a long moment, stunned into silence. She’d expected an uphill climb—expected him to push her, question her, maybe even patronize her. But the sudden stop felt worse. Like a door slamming shut.

“I thought you said I’d pass,” she muttered.

“I said you would eventually,” Wesker corrected, lifting his wine glass, voice clipped. “I didn’t think you would on your first try—not without lying anyway.”

He sipped and said nothing more. Ada let the silence stretch, but her foot tapped beneath the linen-covered tablecloth.

“You could’ve at least waited until dessert,” she grumbled.

Wesker didn’t look up. “You’ll retake it in a week. Try not to be clever next time.”

He let the silence settle like dust in the room, undisturbed by Ada’s increasingly visible irritation. Albert didn’t need to look at her to know her arms were crossed, her jaw tight, that telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying the urge to say something she’d regret.

Instead, he focused on slicing through the remaining portion of his lunch. Each motion deliberate. Controlled. Because if he didn’t focus on that, he might start counting how many times her tone had hinted at pain beneath the sarcasm. How often her deflection read more like a shield than a weapon.

The moment he’d heard her answers—heard the cadence of her voice, that forced levity—he knew the outcome. She wasn’t ready. No matter how steady she walked or how straight she sat in that chair, the cracks were visible. She was still bleeding. Just not where anyone could see.

His eyes flicked toward the discarded psych form at his elbow. Ink smudged slightly on the first page. He could’ve pushed her. Could’ve finished the assessment, marked it ‘provisional’ and moved her back into rotation once they were back in the States. He’d done worse with less. But that would be a betrayal.

Not of protocol.

Of her.

Across the table, he caught her watching him. Not defiant now. Just… unsure. As though trying to read something beneath the marble of his face.

"You're angry," she said after a moment.

"No." He took another sip of wine, holding her gaze. “You’re not used to failing tests.”

She scoffed, folding her napkin slowly in her lap. “I’m not used to being told I can’t do something.”

“I’m not saying you can’t.” His voice lowered. “I’m saying you shouldn’t. There’s a difference.”

Ada shook her head and looked away, lips pressing into a thin line. The air between them felt taut, like a wire stretched too far and waiting to snap. He leaned back slightly, letting the glass rest against his knee. His tone dropped further, almost quiet.

“You want to go back into the field with fractured nerves? With gaps in memory? With the chance you’ll hesitate the next time someone like Delacroix gets too close?”

That hit. He watched the flicker in her expression. The way her shoulders straightened—but didn’t relax.

“You think I don’t know that?” she said, voice low.

“I think you know it and you’re trying to outrun it.”

She didn't respond to that. Instead, she toyed with the corner of her plate, turning it just slightly, staring at nothing.

He wanted to reach across the table. Wanted to touch her hand, if only to remind her she wasn’t still strapped to that table in the basement, helpless and drugged and treated like something less than human. But she wasn’t ready—not for the field, and maybe not for the kind of care that didn’t come in the form of bandages and syringes.

So he didn’t move. He let her sit with it. And eventually, when her voice returned, it was softer.

“If I pass it next week,” she asked, “will you be the one to clear me?”

He nodded once. “I will.”

“Even if I don’t answer the way you want?”

“I’ll clear you,” he said, “when I’m sure you’re safe to go back in.”

That was as close to reassurance as he would offer. And in true Ada fashion, she didn’t say thank you. She just picked up her fork again and stabbed a piece of chicken, chewing it unbothered.

But she didn’t joke again. Not for the rest of the meal. And that silence—it settled differently than before. Not sharp or charged, but heavy. A kind of weary quiet that seemed to stretch between them like fog. Wesker didn’t mind silence. It had often been his preferred companion. But this one made him think.

Long after they’d finished their lunch and Ada had retired to her quarters for rest—or solitude—he remained seated, elbow resting on the polished arm of his chair, glass turning slowly in his fingers.

The half-finished psych eval still lay nearby. He found his gaze returning to it, as if the answers written there could change with time. As if her trauma might lessen under a microscope. But there it was: clear, clinical, and unmistakable.

She wasn’t alright.

And what unsettled him most wasn’t the result of the exam, but the fact that she’d needed it at all.

After Raccoon City—hell, even in the aftermath of Rockfort Island—she hadn’t needed this kind of hand-holding. Not her. Ada Wong had walked through fire with heels clicking and a smirk, moving through ruins of flesh and nightmare and death as if she were untouchable.

There had been no psychiatric review. No prolonged observation. Just a subtle nod to what they'd all seen, the monsters she'd dodged, the biohazards she had dismantled with cold precision. She hadn’t blinked at lickers or tyrants or bloodstained corridors.

But this—what Delacroix did—had left its mark. And it proved something that Wesker had long known but rarely voiced aloud: It was never the creatures. Never the mutants or the viruses or the genetically modified horrors Umbrella kept churning out like clockwork.

It was the people. The men and women behind the needles. The ones who smiled while cutting. The ones who made pain into science. Men like himself.

The real monsters wore lab coats.

Wesker took another sip of wine, his jaw tightening as the memory of Luc’s twisted smile passed through his mind. A muscle jumped near his temple. He had broken every bone in that man’s face, but it still wasn’t enough.

Maybe it never would be.

He looked toward the hallway Ada had disappeared down, eyes narrowed in thought. This wasn’t about getting her field-ready anymore. It wasn’t about filling out the right paperwork or ticking the appropriate boxes. It was about her coming back to herself. And maybe, just maybe… if she could, there was a chance that some part of him could, too.

He set the glass down, the quiet clink echoing in the empty dining room. One day at a time. That’s how regular people healed. He just hoped the monster in him didn’t get in the way of it all.

Chapter Text

Ada stood by the window of the guest room—her room, though she hated calling it that—methodically folding a black knit top and sliding it into the open suitcase on the bed. A few pairs of fitted pants, a weatherproof jacket, boots. The motions were automatic. Thoughtless. Almost meditative.

She hadn’t passed her psych eval again. Not that she was surprised.

Wesker hadn’t said as much—not directly. But she’d seen the way his eyes lingered on her longer than usual when she zoned out during conversation, or how he adjusted the questions halfway through their sessions, as if gently poking at the parts of her mind she wasn’t ready to touch.

She was grateful he hadn’t pushed harder. But she also knew he was watching. Her fingers hesitated on the next garment, a soft olive-colored blouse that definitely didn’t belong to her—it had shown up in her closet earlier that week. She could guess it was selected by one of the estate’s staff, maybe even on his orders. Ada smirked faintly and tossed it aside.

The last month had crept by in moments both slow and strange. The pain had dulled. The nightmares hadn’t gone away, but they’d lost their teeth. Her body still ached sometimes, especially on colder mornings, but she could walk without help. Fight again, if she had to.

And Wesker… He hadn’t been the man she remembered from HCF missions or quiet conversations laced with posturing and cool indifference. Something had cracked open in him—just a hairline fracture—but she felt it every time he passed her the tea before pouring his own. Every time he stayed just close enough to touch, but never did. Every time he let silence linger instead of filling it with orders.

She had the faintest memories of the blood on him, after Delacroix. She’d smelled it, soaked into his gloves and shirt, iron in the air like thunder. And still, he had carried her out of that place like she weighed nothing at all.

Ada zipped the suitcase slowly, her gaze drifting to the rain-streaked window. They were leaving in the morning. The quiet estate in the French countryside had served its purpose, and she was well enough now to return home. At least physically. Wesker hadn’t told her what came next. And she hadn’t asked.

Ada moved slowly down the hallway, fingers brushing the cool, paneled walls as she passed. The manor had been too large for one man, too stately for any kind of warmth, but over the past few weeks, it had become something else. Not home—but not hostile, either. Neutral ground. A holding cell with satin sheets and antique crown molding.

The hall opened to the main floor, and she padded across the marble in bare feet, the muted storm outside still casting a silvery wash through the tall windows. She hadn’t gone far before she heard it—his voice, low and clipped, carrying from around the corner.

“No, I don’t care about the storage protocols if the samples are unverified.”

Ada paused by the archway.

“Yes. The full strain. Get me the sequencing file, not just the protein map. And tell Heller he’s on thin ice if he tries to gatekeep data again.”

His voice grew fainter for a moment, and when she turned the corner, she found herself looking at the kitchen. Albert Wesker, in the middle of it, still on the phone with a slim black earpiece, was opening cabinets with growing irritation.

“No. I want that dossier scrubbed and delivered to my office before noon—my time, not yours.” He slammed one cupboard shut, pivoted to the next. Another empty shelf. Another click of his tongue.

There was something almost… human in the frustration with which he peered into a drawer lined with nothing but clean dish towels.

“You looking for something?” Ada asked softly, arms crossing as she leaned against the doorframe.

He didn’t jump. Wesker gave her a brief glance, eyes flicking down to her bare feet and up again, then turned back to the cabinets.

“I’ll call you back,” he said into the bluetooth before tapping the device to end the call. “I was under the impression,” he said evenly, “that this house was stocked with more than saltines and smug ineptitude.”

Another drawer. Empty.

Ada blinked, then bit back a grin. “Are you looking for cookies, Wesker?”

He closed the final cabinet with a little too much force. “Just something sweet.”

A beat passed. She couldn’t help herself. “You sure you’re not projecting? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you…snack before.”

He glanced at her again, and this time, there was something vaguely amused beneath the cold gold of his gaze.

“Cute.”

She gave a theatrical shrug and pushed off the doorframe, moving past him to check the tall pantry he hadn’t opened. She stood on tiptoe, stretching toward the back of the shelf, and after a moment, pulled out a small, forgotten tin.

“Shortbread,” she announced, shaking the metal canister near her ear. “Not much, but—”

Wesker took it from her hand before she could finish, opened it, and popped one into his mouth like it was a necessity.

Ada arched a brow. “That desperate, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he said dryly, brushing a few remaining crumbs from his fingers on his pants. He leaned against the edge of the counter, posture casual in a way it never was around others.

She stood beside him in silence for a moment, arms folded loosely, gaze flicking to the mostly-empty tin in his hand.

“You always this stressed before a trip?” she asked, voice softer now.

His jaw worked as he considered the question.

“No,” he answered, setting the tin down. “Just this one.”

Ada lingered beside him, her shoulder just shy of brushing his arm. The storm outside had softened into a steady drizzle now, tapping faintly against the windowpanes. It felt oddly intimate—like the house was holding its breath.

“Didn’t sound like a vacation call,” she said, nodding toward his earpiece. “More like someone had the audacity to disappoint you before bed.”

Wesker didn’t respond right away. He picked up the tin again, frowned at the broken pieces that remained, then set it back down like it offended him.

“You know,” Ada went on, “if you’re going to start leading entire divisions at HCF, you might want to learn to stock your own pantry.”

His mouth twitched at that. Almost a smile.

“I’ll delegate better next time,” he said. Then, after a pause, “It wasn’t about the trip. It was internal security.”

“Something serious?”

Wesker exhaled through his nose. His hand came up to adjust his shades, more out of habit than necessity.

“One of the teams mishandled a sample acquisition in Belarus. A researcher’s gone dark, two facilities had to be quarantined. Same virus family, thankfully not the same strain.”

Ada leaned her hip against the counter, folding her arms. “Let me guess—the team’s been sitting on that for a while and only just now decided to mention it?”

His silence answered for him.

She tilted her head, watching him. “Must be exhausting.”

“What?”

“Having to be the one who keeps it all from falling apart.”

There was a flicker in his expression—almost imperceptible, but there. The faintest shift behind the sharp lines of his face.

“It’s manageable,” he said. “Compartmentalization helps, as you mentioned before.”

She gave a faint hum of amusement. “Right. Shove it all in a box, then bury it deep. Classic Wesker.”

“You’d know,” he countered.

Her lips quirked upward. “Touché.”

Another beat passed. The hum of the manor filled the silence.

“You could’ve left me behind,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter. “HCF would’ve found a way to clean up. Or at least... gotten what they needed without having to go out of your way.”

“I don’t leave loose ends,” he said simply.

Ada’s gaze drifted to the tin on the counter, then back to him. “That’s not why you came,” she said, testing him. “Is it?”

Wesker didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked at her then—not like a superior, or an operative, or even a man checking in on a recovering asset. Just… looked at her.

“No,” he said finally. “But don’t let it go to your head,” Albert added quickly, his voice softening again. “You’re still benched.”

Ada gave a mock sigh. “Shame. And here I thought I’d earned a promotion.”

“You did. To recovery detail.”

She laughed—quiet, genuine.

The rain outside had begun to pour in earnest again, turning the windows into rippling panes of glass and soft light. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable—but it was full. Heavy in a way that wrapped around her ribs.

Wesker stood close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw, the slow lift and fall of his breath. His hand still rested against the edge of the counter, fingers curled just slightly, as if considering a reach he hadn’t yet made.

Something in her chest pulled taut. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the quiet. Or maybe it was the sheer loneliness that had followed her around like a shadow since Luc’s estate. For a moment, she thought he might cross the invisible line between them. She wanted him to. If only to feel something again—something that wasn’t hollow or sharp or numb.

His eyes dropped to hers. She didn’t look away. But then Wesker took a small step back, straightening his shoulders with that same maddening, controlled precision he applied to everything.

“You should get some rest. Our flight’s tomorrow.”

“And you?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

He shook the tin again. “I think I’ll work a little bit longer.”

Ada watched him for a moment longer, the storm hitting against the kitchen windows as if urging her to break the silence. She shifted her weight, arms still loosely folded across her chest. The glow above them was soft, turning the space warmer than it had any right to be. Wesker remained near the counter, still holding the tin, still pretending he was more focused on logistics than the way she was looking at him.

She turned, starting to leave.

Then his voice, quiet but precise, cut through the hush.

“…Would you like to sit with me while I work?”

It wasn’t said lightly. And it wasn’t a command. Just low, even—something that slipped past his guard before he could dress it up in detachment.

Ada paused, her back still to him. She glanced over her shoulder with a hint of a smirk. “Didn’t realize the paperwork was so riveting.”

“It’s not, hence the ask.”

She gave a mock sigh, as if indulging him. But the act didn’t last. Her steps were quiet as she walked back past him, brushing just close enough for him to catch the faint scent of her—and he found himself yearning to touch her, to hold her like he had their first night there.

“I suppose I can spare a few minutes,” she said lightly.

Albert led the way toward his study. It was quieter in there. Dimmer. The fire in the corner had burned low, casting soft shadows against bookshelves and stone. The desk was tidy—of course it was—but the laptop was on, data already waiting. Ada took her time, eyes drifting over the space like she hadn’t already memorized it during their stay.

Wesker grabbed his laptop and settled on the nearby couch with Ada following suit. She curled one leg beneath her, the hem of his borrowed jacket brushing her thighs as she sank into the cushions.

“I’ll be quiet,” she murmured, tone teasing but soft.

“You rarely are. It’s a good thing I can multitask.”

That earned him a look. But she didn’t argue. Outside, the rain thickened. Inside, the quiet stretched—filled with keystrokes, soft breathing, and that invisible tether between them that neither of them acknowledged but both refused to sever.

She hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Of that, he was certain.

At first, she sat quietly on the couch beside him—her long legs tucked beneath her, the flickering firelight casting soft amber along her cheekbones. For a while, she occupied herself with a random book she had pulled from a shelf. Then, she stilled. Her posture relaxed little by little, head tipping slightly to the side, her breathing shifting to a slower, steadier rhythm.

Wesker kept working. Or at least tried to the best of his ability.

He typed responses to reports from Berlin and combed through summaries from the Belarus quarantine, but with every passing minute, he found himself glancing at her more often than his screen. Watching as the tension bled from her spine. Her hand had fallen from the arm of the sofa to her lap. Her lashes rested against her cheeks. And then—eventually—the book slid from her fingers with a dull thud against the cushion beside her.

She was asleep.

It took him a moment to accept it. Ada rarely allowed herself that kind of surrender in front of anyone—especially given recent events. Even now, even like this, she slept light. Her brow faintly drawn, as if prepared to wake at the first shift of threat in the room.

Wesker sat back in his place on the couch, folding his arms. For a few seconds, he just watched her. The way her breath rose and fell. The way the firelight caught the ends of her hair. The way she looked so achingly human when she wasn’t looking back at him.

With care, he moved his laptop aside and stood. His footsteps were near soundless as he crossed the room to the low cabinet beside the couch. He opened it, drew out a soft, charcoal-colored throw, and returned to her side. For a brief second, he hesitated—then gently draped the blanket over her sleeping form.

His hands lingered for a moment. Not touching—just hovering near her shoulder, near the edge of the blanket. He didn’t know what he expected. A flinch? A stirring? But she didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Satisfied, Wesker turned and moved to his desk. Another hour passed.

He answered the remaining emails. Flagged the sample mishandling report for direct review. Adjusted the timeline for their return stateside and cleared a morning slot for Ada’s next psychological check-in. His typing slowed with each task completed. The study’s shadows deepened. The storm outside continued in gentle pulses against the windows, a rhythm far removed from the chaos he usually commanded.

And then, at last, he closed his laptop.

Ada remained where she’d been—slouched sideways now, one arm curled beneath her cheek. Her chest rose and fell in quiet, measured intervals. The throw had slipped slightly off her shoulder, and he made no move to fix it this time.

Wesker leaned back in his chair and simply watched her.

She wouldn’t remember this. Wouldn’t admit to needing this. But he would remember it. Because in this rare moment—untouched by blood, betrayal, or ambition—she was here. With him. And how could he ever forget something like that?

Chapter Text

The hum of the private jet was constant, low, and numbing—like background static in her head. It filled the silence between her and Wesker, neither of them saying much after boarding, both lost in their own heads. Ada stared out the small oval window, watching clouds drift past like ghosts. France disappeared behind them in the fog, in the sky, in the silence.

She hadn’t realized how much time had passed until the pilot's voice came over the intercom, announcing their descent. Her spine stiffened slightly as the words “Stateside” reached her ears. Back at HCF. Back to the compound.

She’d expected to feel… something. Relief, maybe. Familiarity. But instead, a strange hollowness lingered just beneath her ribs. Being back felt more foreign than the country they had left behind.

The car that picked them up from the airstrip was sleek, black, and familiar. So were the men who flanked either side of it, fully armed and silent as statues. It should’ve comforted her. Instead, it just reminded her that she was still under someone's control. Fragile. Unable to take care of herself.

By the time they arrived at the HCF facility, the haze in her head hadn’t lifted. The building was the same in structure—same sterile walls, same muted lighting, same buzz of machines humming through corridors. But the air felt different.

She could feel the eyes on her. The subtle shift in posture as people noticed her return. Some nodded politely, others looked away quickly, but none of it felt the same. Had they heard what had happened to her? What kind of rumors had spread during her absence? Things like that didn’t normally bother Ada, especially given that most of those paper-pushers wouldn’t last a day in her shoes.

God, even Miles had hesitated when he saw her.

“Glad you’re back,” he said, but his voice held something strange—like uncertainty, or guilt. “The Chairman said he’d be bringing you back today. Your quarters are ready and waiting for you.”

Chairman.

That title still didn’t sit right with her.

She glanced sideways at Wesker as they walked. He moved with the same precision he always had—controlled, focused—but there was a new weight to him now. Like a crown resting just out of sight. Like a throne carved from ice. People moved when he walked by. They didn’t just obey—they avoided.

After finally arriving home, Ada stood for a long time in front of her mirror. The room was the same, untouched since she’d left, yet she hardly recognized the woman staring back. Same dark eyes. Same arched brow. But there was a layer of shadow there now. Something no amount of sleep could fix.

I believe the doctors would call this traumatized…she thought bitterly to herself. I can’t believe I’ve managed to get into my own head—I’m Ada fucking Wong, for Christsake.

She reached into her bag and pulled out one of the shirts she’d stolen from Wesker’s closet before they left the manor. She hadn’t told him, and she didn’t plan to. She just needed something that brought her some semblance of familiarity and comfort.

With a quiet sigh, she pulled it over her head and sank onto the bed.

She didn’t know what this new chapter at HCF meant. For her. For him. But for the first time since escaping that lab, she wasn’t consumed by fear. Just confusion.

A haze she couldn’t quite shake.

The steady hum of packing tape being peeled and torn filled the small quarters, echoing a little too loud in the sterile silence. Ada crouched beside one of the storage containers, folding a few sets of clothes with idle hands. The room hadn’t been home, not really, but it had been hers for years. Her safe spot after missions. Her anchor point.

Now it was getting gutted—orders from the Chairman.

Miles knelt across from her, sorting through some tech gear and tagging anything that required clearance. He worked quickly, silently, and with the kind of mechanical efficiency that meant he didn’t want to talk.

Which made her want to talk even more.

“So,” Ada said lightly, placing a few books into the crate beside her, “have you ever seen an agent relocated to the executive wing before?”

Miles didn’t look up. “You’re the first.”

That gave her pause. “Huh.” She toyed with the corner of the packing tape, watching him from beneath her lashes. “So… next door to the Chairman, huh?”

Miles gave her a sidelong glance, dry as ever. “Just think of it as a promotion, Ada.”

She snorted under her breath. “And here I thought promotions came with a plaque or a pay bump. Not shared walls.”

His smile was faint, brief, gone again in a blink.

She let the silence stretch a beat before breaking it again. “Are you afraid of him? Wesker, I mean.”

That stopped his hands. Miles didn’t answer right away though. He pressed a neatly coiled charging cable into a case, eyes focused on the task—but the tension was there. A subtle stiffness in his shoulders. An undercurrent of something less easy to name.

Finally, he spoke. “Wesker’s not someone you underestimate.”

“Not what I asked.”

He sighed through his nose, shut the lid of the box, and stood. “Afraid isn’t the right word.”

“No?” she pressed. “Then what is?”

Miles gave her a look—something that hovered between warning and empathy. “You don’t get to be Chairman without spilling blood. You know that. The old one made too many enemies. Too many compromises. Wesker didn’t.”

Ada’s brow furrowed slightly. “What happened to him?”

Miles hesitated. And that was enough of an answer. She sat back on her heels, arms resting loosely on her knees. “Let me guess. He took a long vacation and forgot to come back.”

Miles’s hands froze. He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t look amused. Instead, he stood up straight and leaned a little against the nearest box, watching her with something heavier in his eyes.

“No. Wesker ripped his jaw off,” he said flatly.

Ada blinked. Honestly, she was surprised that Miles had come right out and said it. No wonder so many people kept a wide berth between themselves and the Chairman.

Miles went on, voice level, clinical—too calm to be anything but true. “It happened in his own office. Took less than two minutes. And I spent the next three hours cleaning it up and helping spin the official report. God knows why—everyone knows the man’s dead now minus the gorey details.”

She stared at him, but he didn’t flinch. There was no satisfaction in the words. No fear, either. Just the bone-deep fatigue of someone who’d already crossed too many lines and had stopped pretending they were still shocking.

“That’s who he is,” Miles added, softer. “He doesn’t bluff. He doesn’t threaten. He finishes things.”

Ada didn’t know what unnerved her more—that it didn’t surprise her, or that some part of her had already guessed it.

“And you still follow him?” she asked quietly.

“I do.” Miles looked her dead in the eye. “Because I’d rather be on his side than in his way.”

Ada turned to glance toward the hallway again, toward the executive wing—thinking of the door now assigned to her—it felt heavier than before. The weight of proximity. Of consequence. And whatever was waiting behind the door next to hers? It suddenly didn’t feel like the safety she had led herself to believe.

—

Hours later, she had just finished stacking the last of her books on the minimalist shelf by the window when a knock echoed through the room. It wasn’t loud or impatient. Just… inevitable. Ada opened the door to find Wesker standing there, the bottle of red wine in one hand, two crystal glasses in the other.

“Thought I’d stop by,” he said, stepping inside without needing an invitation. “To celebrate your big move.”

She arched a brow but stepped aside, letting the door drift shut behind him. “A little ceremonial, don’t you think? For someone who’s not sentimental.”

“Hardly ceremonial,” he said, already moving to the kitchen counter to uncork the bottle. “You’ll find I’m capable of appreciating progress when it appears in front of me. And this, Ada, is progress.”

Her arms crossed over her chest, and that was when he noticed the black turtleneck. Familiar in its fit, soft in the way it clung to her frame. His eyes narrowed faintly, and he gestured toward it with a tilt of his head. “Is that mine?”

Ada blinked once, then glanced down, lips parting like she might spin something clever. But all that came out was: “No.”

Wesker stared, as if waiting for more.

She sighed. “Okay. Yes.”

He slowly began to pour the wine. “Interesting.”

“I was cold,” she added after a beat, her tone too casual to be convincing. “It was lying around.”

“I’m sure it was,” he said, handing her a glass. If he thought she was lying, he didn’t mention it. Instead, he clinked his glass gently against hers. “To new accommodations.”

She took a sip, eyes holding his over the rim of the glass.

“Feels like I’m just getting moved closer to my master,” she murmured, half-joking.

But Wesker didn’t rise to the bait. He studied her in silence for a second too long, then turned to lean against the counter. “You’re here because I trust you,” he said simply. “Not because I need to keep an eye on you.”

Ada raised her brows and took another sip of wine. “You know, for someone who allegedly trusts me, I seem to recall you assigning me a babysitter to help me pack.”

“You’re welcome. He’s gentle with antiques.”

Ada scoffed. “Oh, that’s rich—calling me delicate while I’m wearing your turtleneck.”

He glanced at her again, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, though the rest of his face remained unreadable. “An admission of guilt? You’re showing a lot of spirit for someone who still can’t pass their psych evaluation.”

Ouch. She narrowed her eyes, her voice syrupy. “Maybe I’m just answering dishonestly to keep your blood pressure up.”

“Unwise,” he murmured, sipping from his glass. “I’d hate to see your test scores marked noncompliant on top of unstable.”

Ada walked a slow circle around the small kitchen island, her fingers trailing lightly along the countertop. “Mmhmm. So is this the part where you tighten the leash or remind me I’m lucky to be breathing?”

Wesker swirled the wine in his glass, watching it catch the light like blood in a beaker. “No,” he said eventually, voice low. “This is the part where I tell you that none of that matters—if you die next time you’re out on a mission.”

Her humor deflated just slightly, like a balloon punctured by a needle. She looked away, toward the hallway that led to her new bedroom. “I’m not planning on dying,” she said softly.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not planning on replacing you.”

That made her pause. She turned back to look at him, some of the sharpness returning to her gaze. “What a romantic sentiment,” she deadpanned.

Wesker shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t say it to be romantic. I said it to be clear.”

Their eyes held for a moment too long—neither challenging, neither retreating.

Then Ada let out a breath and leaned back against the counter beside him, glass still in hand. “Still feels like I’m living in a haze.”

“Then stay close,” he said finally. “Until it clears.”

They didn’t talk much after that. Ada wandered into the other room and set the wine glasses on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch with a sigh. Wesker remained in the kitchen for a moment longer, still and contemplative, before eventually following.

They ended up ordering takeout. Thai, of all things. Wesker didn’t argue. He didn’t ask for anything strange or demand substitutions. He just handed her his phone and let her pick.

By the time the food arrived, the wine had mellowed them both out. The guards in the hall must have been given strict orders not to disturb them. The whole apartment felt like it had slipped into a quiet, self-contained little pocket of the world—one that didn’t answer to orders, schedules, or psych evals.

They currently sat on the floor by the coffee table with takeout cartons spread out between them. Ada poked at a piece of curry chicken before finally glancing at him across the table.

“Do you always eat like this?” she asked. “Having wine and noodles on someone else’s rug?”

“I don’t usually let people keep rugs,” Wesker replied without missing a beat. “Too many opportunities to trip.”

Ada snorted softly. “Of course. No weaknesses allowed.”

“Exactly.” But his tone was light—amused, even. Something about him felt less like the Chairman and more like the man from the manor. The one who smoked on balconies, made dry remarks over breakfast, and held her like she was made of glass without being afraid to break.

It wasn’t love, she told herself. That wasn’t the right word. It was something stranger. Something more dangerous. Like she brought out a fragment of him no one else got to see, something buried so deep it probably had fangs and claws and secrets of its own.

Still, he was… here.

Not just present. But choosing to stay. Choosing to eat takeout with her on the floor instead of retreating back to his walls and work. She reached for the last spring roll and noticed his gaze lingering on her face—brief but unmistakable.

“What?” she asked, her voice low.

Wesker didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Just checking to see if you’re still with me.”

Ada smirked faintly. “Still am.”

The last of the takeout was abandoned on the table, half-empty cartons and wine-stained glasses left like forgotten sentinels of an evening that had slipped into something else. The lights were low now—just the amber glow of a single lamp painting warm shadows across the apartment walls.

Some point after dinner, they had moved back to the couch. Ada stretched her legs out, arms loosely draped over her stomach, watching Wesker finish the last sip of his wine. They had moved there when the floor began to feel too hard. He leaned back slightly, fingers curled around the glass like he’d forgotten it was there. The sharp lines of his face were softened in the dim light, his ever-present tension dulled by the weight of quiet.

“I forgot you could be like this,” she murmured.

Wesker glanced over, one brow arching. “Like what?”

“...Human,” she said, a bit too honest.

He didn’t respond immediately. He simply looked at her for a moment longer, as if studying the word on her lips. Then, almost too soft to catch: “So did I.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel heavy. It felt full—like something meaningful had passed between them without needing explanation. Ada let her gaze drop to her lap, her fingers absently picking at a loose thread in the hem of the oversized turtleneck.

She didn’t want to say goodbye yet. Not to this version of him. Not to this space where nothing had to be earned or proven. Eventually, Wesker stood, setting the glass back on the table with deliberate precision. “You should get some rest.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, but didn’t move.

He didn’t, either—not right away. Instead, he paused behind the couch, gaze steady on the back of her head.

“Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t wrapped in implication. Just an innocent question. Ada turned slightly, her eyes meeting his in the dim glow. “Not tonight,” she said quietly. “But maybe… don’t leave so quickly next time.”

A subtle nod. The smallest shift of muscle at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile but close enough. He moved to the door and let himself out with a soft click. Ada sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty glass on the table. The haze didn’t feel so bad now. But what did it mean now that she wanted to be wrapped up with Albert Wesker of all people?

The apartment felt still again after the door clicked shut.The kind of quiet that clung to the edges of her thoughts long after he was gone. Ada exhaled, slow and deep.

Her fingers tightened briefly around the hem of the turtleneck she wore—his turtleneck. She hadn't even thought when she pulled it from the back of a chair earlier, just slipped it on like muscle memory. It still smelled like him. That faint, clean sharpness beneath something darker. Expensive cologne, maybe. Or just Wesker himself. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Leaving the dishes untouched, she moved through the apartment with bare feet, her steps soft across the tile as she shut off the last lamp. Shadows bloomed in the corners of the room, but she didn’t mind the dark. It was the quiet that was harder.

In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth, then splashed her face with cool water—more out of habit than need. She didn’t look too closely at her reflection in the mirror. She wasn’t ready to confront whatever was in her own eyes.

The bedroom light was already dim when she slipped inside. No tactical gear, no open mission files waiting to be studied—just a bed and silence.

As she pulled back the sheets and slipped beneath them, the cool cotton made her shiver. Instinctively, Ada pulled the oversized turtleneck up over her nose and buried her face in the fabric. It was stupid. Pointless. But her fingers curled tight into the sleeves as she breathed him in like it might tether her to something solid.

Maybe she should have asked him to stay. Would he? Only to disappear the moment she passed out? Maybe if she wrapped herself in the weight of him—his scent, his silence, his infuriating restraint—then the nightmares wouldn’t find her tonight. Maybe if she kept pretending she didn’t care that he left, it wouldn’t matter that she wanted him to stay.

The sheets rustled as she turned over and curled inward. She remembered a time when she didn’t need anyone like that—an occasional lover to warm her sheets and someone to gossip with—that was it. But for now she let herself believe that scent and memory were enough.

And with the faintest ache tucked under her ribs, she finally let herself drift to sleep.

Chapter Text

Ada had improved drastically in the last couple of months. Her sessions with HCF’s on-site therapist had shifted from crisis management to long-term recovery strategies. She’d even passed the first part of her psych evaluation with Wesker. It wasn’t perfect, but she could breathe again without feeling like she was walking on broken glass.

Still, Wesker hadn’t scheduled the second part of her test. And it was starting to get under her skin. He was avoiding it. She could tell. Whether it was intentional or not remained to be seen, but the longer it went unspoken, the more it gnawed at her.

Wearing her lab clearance badge clipped to the hem of her dark blouse, Ada made her way down to the HCF sublevel labs. She knew where he’d be—it was the only place besides his office he actually seemed invested in.

And she found him there.

Behind the reinforced glass of the virology observation deck, Wesker stood with a team of scientists gathered in a semi-circle around him. He was wearing a lab coat—immaculate, white, tailored within an inch of perfection. He leaned over a terminal, inputting calibration data with precision that demanded silence.

The scientists didn’t speak. They didn’t dare. He was lecturing them, not just with his words, but with the sheer presence he exuded. A force that made each syllable stick like a blade in a chalkboard.

“…If you're looking at titer levels without accounting for the protein folding anomalies in Stage Three, then you’re not observing viral degradation—you’re causing it,” Wesker snapped, motioning to the screen. “Start the samples over. And this time, run it with the modified catalyst I outlined in protocol sixteen.”

There was some murmured agreement and quick movements as a few of the researchers shuffled to comply. Wesker didn’t acknowledge them. His golden gaze followed the numbers on the screen, rapid-fire calculations running behind his eyes.

She hadn’t meant to linger, but something about the way Wesker moved—fluid, precise, absolutely assured—had her rooted in place. He was in his element, completely consumed by the work, his attention honed to a razor’s edge. The way his voice cut through the room, the way his subordinates obeyed without hesitation, the clinical detachment in his corrections... It reminded her far too much of Delacroix.

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. With him, there had been sterile labs. Stern commands. Shuffling assistants who didn't dare speak out of turn. Cold, gleaming instruments and the same unsettling air of control. Delacroix had worn a similar expression when he worked—rapt and detached, like nothing else in the world mattered except his data.

A chill swept down her spine, irrational but hard to shake.

No. Wesker wasn’t like him.

Wasn’t he?

He had tested on human subjects before—she knew that. He had killed without remorse. He had orchestrated more than a few disasters and walked away without blinking. There were rumors, of course—stories passed around like urban legends within the darker corners of their world. Some were even true.

But when Wesker looked up from his console and saw her standing there, his expression changed. Just slightly. The hard edge of his mouth eased. His stance shifted—not softened, exactly, but grounded itself. It was subtle, imperceptible to anyone else. But Ada saw it. Felt it.

Luc would’ve ignored her. Or used her as another control in his study. But Wesker…

He tapped something on the screen, finished his instructions, and dismissed the scientists with a single wave. Then he stepped out of the glass enclosure and came straight to her, as if she'd been the most important variable all along. Ada tried not to let her relief show. Tried not to admit that she needed that tiny, flickering sign of difference to remind herself she hadn’t traded one monster for another.

Albert didn’t say anything at first—just held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before stepping past her into the decontamination area. Ada lingered by the doorway, watching through the glass as he began to carefully de-gown, each movement precise, controlled, methodical.

The gloves came off first, peeled back and dropped into a bin lined with biohazard markings. Then the high-necked overcoat, which he unfastened with practiced ease, letting it fall into another chute with an audible hiss of pressure release. It was strange, watching him undress like this—clinical, sterile, but still so inherently him. Like peeling back a second skin to reveal the steel-and-fire core beneath.

He rolled up the sleeves of his black undershirt just before reaching the sink. The sound of water rushing over his hands filled the space. He scrubbed with a kind of militant thoroughness, lathering from elbow to fingertip with surgical precision.

“Didn’t expect to see you down here,” he said finally, voice slightly muffled over the water. “You haven’t come by the labs since...”

Ada leaned a shoulder against the wall, her arms still crossed. “Didn’t exactly have fond memories of labs for a while.”

Wesker shut the water off with his elbow and reached for a towel. “Understandable.”

She watched as he dried his hands, folding the cloth into neat squares before disposing of it. Always so measured. Always in control. Except when he wasn’t—and those moments, rare as they were, were the ones that stuck with her most.

“I passed the first part of my psych eval,” she said casually, letting the words hang.

Wesker glanced at her sideways. “I’m aware–I conducted it, remember?”

“Still waiting on the second part.”

He turned, shaking the last of the water from his hands as he regarded her. “Is that so?”

“I’m ready,” Ada added, arching a brow. “Unless you’re dragging your feet for some reason on getting it scheduled.”

He stepped into the hallway beside her, reaching over to press the code to secure the lab’s doors. “I’m not in the habit of rushing fragile systems back into volatile environments, Miss Wong.”

“I’m not fragile,” she said without missing a beat.

“You’re improving,” he allowed. “That isn’t the same thing.”

Ada tilted her head, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re avoiding it.”

“And you’re trying to force it.”

A beat passed between them—tension sparking quietly in the undercurrent of their voices, a familiar dance between stubbornness and control. But then, Wesker sighed—softly, barely audible—and reached up to adjust the cuff of his sleeve. “Alright. I’ll schedule the second half of the eval.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Really. You’re insufferable when you’re bored.”

Ada smiled, just a little. “You’re not exactly sunshine yourself.”

He started down the hallway, and she fell into step beside him. Despite herself, despite everything—she felt lighter. Like she could breathe again. Maybe the haze was starting to lift.

As they moved through the corridor, the echo of their steps trailed behind them—polished concrete, cold and sterile beneath the soft overhead lights. Wesker said nothing for a while, lost in thought or calculation—Ada could never really tell the difference with him. But when they reached the intersection near the Chairman’s executive offices, he was stopped by one of the secretaries. The older woman mentioned that there was an important call waiting for him.

To her surprise, Wesker didn’t dismiss her. Instead, he motioned for her to follow with a subtle tilt of his head, his pace already resuming down the corridor. She trailed behind him, a step slower but no less curious. Whatever the call was, it wasn’t routine. She could tell by the way his posture shifted—his shoulders a touch tenser, his focus honed to a razor’s edge.

They entered his office. The door slid shut behind them with a pneumatic hiss, sealing the space in that same clinical silence she’d come to associate with him. But as he stepped forward and keyed in a brief command on the central terminal, the lights in the room dimmed automatically—plunging the space into low amber shadow.

Ada didn’t have time to ask what was happening.

A wall of monitors flickered to life before her, bathing the room in cold, blue light. At least six separate video feeds populated the screen, each displaying the face of a different HCF executive. All of them older, sharp-eyed, and utterly devoid of patience.

“Chairman Wesker,” one of them greeted curtly, nodding once.

“Status update,” said another. “You’ve been stalling.”

Wesker remained standing, hands behind his back in that unreadable posture of command. “I’ve provided weekly briefs on the Burnside situation.”

“Briefs,” a third scoffed, “but no progress. Your last report claimed neurological regression was accelerating. Are you containing it or not?”

Ada sat on the edge of the low couch near the side of the room, her presence unacknowledged. She didn’t speak—this wasn’t her battlefield. Not right now. But she studied the way the executives leaned forward, teeth already bared. They weren’t angry. Not exactly.

They were circling.

“Containment is stable,” Wesker said coolly. “But the subject is exhibiting new... anomalies.”

“Then accelerate the trials,” snapped one of the board members. “You said he was a promising specimen. Now you’re letting sentiment interfere with results?”

Ada’s eyes flicked toward Wesker then. There was a slight shift—just in the line of his jaw. Barely visible, but she caught it.

He said nothing for a beat too long.

“Is there a problem, Chairman?” another voice asked, slower, more measured. “You insisted on retaining full authority over the subject’s treatment. If you’re unable to fulfill that role—”

“I said containment is stable,” Wesker cut in, sharp now. “You’ll receive updated data within the next forty-eight hours. I suggest you read it before wasting more of my time.”

The silence that followed was taut. Eventually, a few of the executives relented, offering clipped nods or murmurs of agreement. The screens began to blink off, one by one, until only the low hum of the console remained.

Ada exhaled slowly. Wesker didn’t turn to her. He was still facing the darkened monitors, his reflection caught dimly in the glass—fractured and incomplete.

Only after another moment passed did he finally say, “They’re getting impatient.” His voice was lower now, stripped of the clipped professionalism he'd used moments ago. Something lingered beneath it—fatigue, perhaps.

Ada stepped towards him, arms still loosely crossed. “Is everything alright, Wesker?”

When he finally turned to face her, the sharp planes of his face were drawn in shadow by the dimmed lights, but his eyes—those inhuman, golden eyes—gleamed faintly.

“I’ll be spending more time in the labs,” he said. Not an answer. Not really. But it was something.

Ada tilted her head, letting her lips curl into a wry, teasing smile. “And here I thought we were making progress.”

One of his brows lifted slightly.

She took another step closer, her voice dipping into that familiar, silk-slick register she reserved only for him. “I’ll be lonely without you around, you know.”

A soft, dark chuckle slipped from him—unexpected, like the crack of thunder on a still night. He closed the distance slowly, the shift in his demeanor subtle but undeniable.

“Ada,” he murmured, her name more breath than word.

His hand lifted, and for a moment she thought he might touch her cheek. But his fingers only brushed against the underside of her chin, just enough pressure to tip her gaze up to meet his fully. There was something in his touch—gentle, but tethered to restraint. Something he wasn’t saying. Something he was keeping carefully sealed beneath the layers of steel and fire she’d learned to navigate.

“I’ll find a way to make it up to you,” Wesker said at last, his voice low and promising, the words drawn out with deliberate gravity.

She didn’t look away. Couldn’t look away. Something fluttered in her chest, and it felt as though something was stuck in her throat. The air between them was charged, wound tight with the tension that had been building for months—words unspoken, touches withheld, lines crossed and then uncrossed with painstaking care.

Deep down, she knew—if she just leaned forward, just a fraction—maybe they would…

His thumb ghosted along the edge of her bottom lip, and for the briefest moment, the world felt perfectly still. Her pulse was a silent drumbeat in her ears, her breath caught halfway in her lungs.

But Wesker didn’t move closer. His hand fell away, the warmth of his touch vanishing like mist. He straightened slightly, gaze cooling with practiced ease, though his voice still held the remnants of that quiet promise.

“You’re looking quite… ravenous, Miss Wong,” he murmured.

“You mean ‘ravishing’?” she asked, thinking he had gotten the word wrong.

Albert chuckled again. “While you are ravishing, I meant what I said.”

Ada’s breath caught—not that she’d let him see it. She pulled back with practiced grace, smoothing the front of her blouse as though it would settle the heat he’d left behind.

“Well,” she said, lifting her chin just enough to reclaim some distance, “I’ll see you around, then.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes lingered on him longer than necessary, unwilling to let him have the last word without knowing she wasn’t unaffected.

Wesker didn’t stop her. He only nodded once, slow and deliberate, that faint trace of amusement still touching his lips. Ada turned on her heel, pace measured as she stepped toward the door—too measured, as if trying to shake something loose from her spine. Her heart was beating too fast, and she hated that he knew it.

The lab was too cold, too sterile, even by Wesker’s standards. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead as he stood at the observation window, watching the restrained form of Steve Burnside thrash beneath thick restraints. The Veronica virus was active—far more so than any of the simulations had predicted. His body rejected suppressants within hours. His mental state was deteriorating even faster.

“He’s not stabilizing,” one of the lead virologists murmured beside him. “We’ve tried everything—”

“I didn’t ask for excuses,” Wesker cut in, voice low and dangerously calm. “Find a solution or get out.”

He hadn’t slept in nearly 72 hours. His muscles ached beneath the crisp new suit he’d changed into that morning, and a faint buzz behind his eyes warned of the migraine waiting for its moment to strike. But he didn’t have time for that. Not with Steve spiraling. Not with global surveillance feeds demanding his attention. And certainly not with HCF’s espionage division flooding him with new intel and field updates he had to personally vet.

No one else was capable.

No one else could be trusted.

He hadn’t stepped foot in his apartment in days. Only stopped by once to shower and change, in and out like a ghost. He hadn’t caught more than a few glimpses of Ada—she came by occasionally to deliver updates and to try and take whatever work he was willing to offload onto her.

He didn’t know what to call whatever existed between them—and for now, that was fine. It didn’t need a name. Names implied permanence. Structure. This… thing between them was a carefully contained storm, one that would need to remain hidden. It had to be. No one could know.

Behind the glass, Steve convulsed against his restraints, snarling as the latest sedative kicked in. One of the assistants murmured an update, but Wesker didn’t hear it. He turned away from the glass, spine rigid, mind already pushing Ada to the farthest edges of thought. Albert couldn’t afford any distractions—even if she decided to come in and sit on his lap—Stop it. Focus. Burnside is literally collapsing and you’re going to lose the only chance at capturing the Veronica Virus.

He descended from the observation deck with his usual purpose—precise, silent, exuding enough command to clear the hallway before he even stepped fully into it. The doors to the primary containment lab hissed open, releasing a sterile waft of antiseptic and recycled air. Inside, the Veronica protocols glared red across every screen.

Burnside’s vitals were spiking again.

“Report,” Wesker snapped, already reaching for the nearest tablet as Dr. Hammel, the lead researcher on the Veronica team, stumbled to keep up.

“We’ve tried suppressing the viral cascade with the standard inhibitors, but the T-Veronica strain has mutated again. The subject’s baseline is no longer responding to control markers. If we don’t find a stabilization sequence soon—”

“He’ll break containment,” Wesker finished flatly. “Or die. And we lose our best window into Alexia’s work.”

Hammel nodded, face pale with tension. “Exactly.”

Wesker didn’t acknowledge the man further. His eyes scanned the tablet, fingers swiping through datasets with clinical detachment. The numbers weren’t good. Cellular regeneration was off the charts, bordering on unstable. Neural activity was erratic, bordering on psychotic. If this kept up, Steve Burnside would be little more than a highly volatile corpse.

Wesker muttered under his breath, “She left you like this, didn’t she?”

He remembered Alexia Ashford’s arrogance. Her willingness to burn the world down just to feel godlike for a moment. This was her legacy—a time bomb in the body of a boy who should’ve never made it out of Rockfort alive.

Albert handed the tablet back and crossed to the central terminal, booting up the command interface. The other scientists parted like shadows, watching him work without daring to speak.

“We need to trick the virus into thinking it’s reached equilibrium,” he said. “Create a false stasis—get it to self-regulate just long enough for us to map the genome’s volatility points.”

“You mean let it believe it’s won?” Hammel asked.

Wesker’s eyes narrowed. “I mean make it believe it’s won.”

He pulled up a series of synthetic peptide options, fingers dancing across the keys as he coded. “Design a tailored decoy antigen. Something just reactive enough to trigger a dormant response but not aggressive enough to provoke another mutation. I want a prototype synthesized in the next two hours.”

“That’s cutting it close, sir.”

“Everything about this is close,” Wesker said coldly. “You have your orders.”

He didn’t look up again. Not as Steve thrashed weakly against his bonds, not as his heartbeat flattened into a rhythm that was half-human, half-something else. Not even when the lights above the lab flickered with a pulse that matched the beat of that unnatural heart.

Wesker only leaned closer to the screen, calculating. Thinking. Planning.

If he couldn’t stabilize Steve Burnside… he’d have no choice but to neutralize him. And that would be a waste. An enormous one.

Hours later, the coffee cup appeared at his side like an apparition. He didn’t need to look up to know it was Ada. The scent of her perfume arrived a second later—barely there, but unmistakable. He allowed himself a slow breath, letting the bitter edge of the coffee settle on his tongue as he watched the simulation cycle again. Still unstable. Still fracturing.

“You’re over-caffeinated,” she said lightly, her tone sliding into the sterile silence like silk against steel.

“I’m also overburdened,” Wesker replied without missing a beat, eyes still fixed to the data stream. “And the coffee isn’t helping.”

Ada leaned against the console beside him, her arms loosely crossed, posture casual—too casual. “You look like hell, by the way. No sleep again?”

He finally glanced up at her. “The work doesn’t stop for beauty rest—not that you’d know anything about that.”

She tilted her head, gaze flicking to the monitors. Steve was barely visible beyond the layers of security glass and reinforced restraints, his body jerking now and then with the erratic rhythms of a virus testing the limits of its host.

Ada frowned slightly. “Is he going to make it?”

Wesker didn’t answer right away. He turned back to the screen, where the decoy antigen prototype was being run against dozens of predictive models. “He’s going to survive long enough for me to get what I need. That’s the goal.”

“That’s not what I asked,” she murmured.

“No,” Wesker agreed. “It wasn’t.”

A tense moment passed.

“You always did know how to dodge a question,” she said, almost fondly. “But I suppose that’s part of your charm.”

Wesker looked at her again, this time longer, his gaze sharpening. “And you always show up when I least expect it.”

Ada smiled faintly. “You looked like you needed a break.”

He didn’t smile back, but something in his expression shifted—just slightly. He lifted the cup again, considering her. “What’s in this?”

“Something better than caffeine,” she said with a wink. “Don’t worry. Not poison.”

“That would depend on the dose,” he replied dryly, sipping again.

Ada watched him work for a few more minutes, eyes flicking between the prototype's simulation and the subject behind the glass. “If you figure this out, you’re one step closer to cracking the Ashford model.”

“And if I don’t,” he said, tapping in a new command, “we incinerate what’s left of him and move on.”

Ada let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh—or maybe not. “You make such a good mentor, Albert.”

“Don’t mistake necessity for cruelty,” he replied.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the simulation finally flagged a narrow success margin—just 4.2%, but enough to proceed—Wesker straightened, setting the cup aside.

“Let’s see if we can convince a god complex that it’s mortal,” he muttered.

Ada’s smile returned, this time laced with something darker. “Now that sounds like fun.”