Location: Orheiul Vechi, Moldova
Date: July 28, 2017
Time: 02:47 A.M.
The fog moved like a living thing. It slid along the limestone cliffs in slow, deliberate waves, swallowing the Trebujeni valley below and muffling every sound except for the Răut River far beneath. The ruins of the monastery stood crooked against the night sky. Stone crosses were broken, and walls were hollowed by centuries of wind and prayer.
No lights. No guards. No signs of life.
And yet, the mountain breathed.
Alen stood at the edge of the cliff, unmoving. He pulled his black, wide-brimmed hat low, hiding his eyes. The custom-made duster coat under his climbing harness absorbed the moonlight, making him disappear into the landscape. His pants were reinforced at the knees. His boots were soft-soled for stone rather than concrete.
The Hat Man.
He didn't look like a soldier. He looked like a rumor, a ghost story whispered by criminals in the dark.
He tested the rope once—silent, controlled—then anchored it into a natural limestone fracture behind a fallen stone cross. No pitons. No metal. Nothing that would leave a scar.
"Going dark," Alen whispered.
The wind tugged at his coat as he stepped off the ledge.
The Descent
The cliff face dropped away beneath him—eighty meters of limestone, slick with mist and rain. His boots found purchase where no footholds were supposed to exist. The rope never scraped the stone. His movements were measured and economical. Every descent was practiced, every breath regulated.
Halfway down, the mountain opened its mouth.
A narrow fissure, half-hidden by ivy and shadow. Alen swung gently, guiding himself into the cave. The fog vanished behind him as the rock swallowed sound and light.
Inside, the air was warmer. Damp. Alive.
The Old Veins
The tunnel sloped downward, barely wide enough for his shoulders. Centuries-old chisel marks faded into smooth stone, then returned again—human work layered atop nature.
Faint traces of black mold lined the walls like veins beneath translucent skin. It did not advance. It did not recoil. But it noticed him.
…different…
The sensation brushed against Alen's awareness—not a voice, not a thought. Recognition without language. A hive mind sensing a predator that did not belong.
Alen slowed his breathing, regulating his heartbeat to near-dormancy. He didn't push against the psychic pressure; he settled into it.
"I feel it," Alen murmured, tapping his comms. "The hive is active."
The tunnel ended abruptly at a circular drop. A Soviet-era ventilation shaft, concrete fractured by time. Rust stains marked where a ladder once was. Twenty-two meters straight down into darkness.
Alen clipped his descender, checked his harness, and slipped over the edge.
The shaft swallowed him silently. At the bottom, a rusted service hatch waited, untouched for decades. He pressed the release mechanism. It groaned, then opened inward.
The Dead Corridor
The air beyond was colder, drier, dead.
Alen stepped into a narrow maintenance corridor. The walls were bare metal, not stone. Dust lay undisturbed across the floor. This place had been abandoned on purpose—a buffer zone between the world above and the hell below.
He moved through it like smoke. He stopped at a junction—an old airflow control room with analog gauges frozen in time. He adjusted one valve, then another. Pressure equalized. The facility's sensors believed nothing had changed.
He turned the corner and stopped.
Two figures stood at the far end of the hall. They weren't wearing lab coats. They were clad in high-end black tactical gear, faceless helmets, and carried suppressed carbines. No insignia.
Alen crouched in the shadows. "Ronda. Status."
<< Analysis complete, >> Ronda's voice whispered in his earpiece. << You have bypassed Levels 1 and 2. You are currently inserting directly between Level 3 and 4—the Research Wings and Behavioral Observation. >>
"That explains the heavy hitters," Alen noted. "They aren't guarding a farm. They're guarding a fortress."
<< Behind those men is the Behavioral Observation Room. If you can access the terminal there, I can upload a bypass worm. But I need a hardline connection. Miss Isabella is standing by to crack their encryption. >>
"Understood."
Alen touched his temple.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: REALITY-LENS]
The world stripped away its textures. The corridor became a wireframe grid. The walls turned transparent. He saw the heat signatures of the two guards—their hearts pulsing red, their patrol paths appearing as glowing white lines on the floor. He saw the electrical conduits in the walls and the weak point in the door lock.
He saw five more heat signatures in the room beyond. "Time to glitch," Alen whispered.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: SPATIAL-PHANTOM]
He didn't run. He shuddered forward.
To the guards, he was a blur—a sudden drop in frame rate, a static interference in reality. One moment he was twenty meters away; the next, he was a dissipating afterimage.
SNAP.
Alen materialized behind the first guard, driving a knife into the base of the skull. Before the body hit the floor, Alen phased again—a blur of black coat and motion—appearing in front of the second guard. He grabbed the man's throat, crushing the larynx instantly.
Silently, he dragged the bodies into the shadows and swiped a keycard.
The Observation Room
Alen breached the door.
Inside, three researchers in hazmat suits and two armed guards turned, startled by the sudden opening.
Alen didn't hesitate. He moved with the terrifying speed of a Ruvik-class entity. He pistol-whipped the first guard, threw a researcher through a glass partition, and phased through a hail of panic-fire to neutralize the second guard.
In ten seconds, the room was silent. Alen stuffed the unconscious scientists into a locker and dragged the guards into a walk-in freezer.
He ripped the panel off the main security console and jammed a connection dongle into the port.
"Ronda, you're up."
Connection established. Uploading… Miss Isabella is now watching the camera feeds. You are invisible, Master.
Alen moved on. He passed through the Mold Cultivation Chambers and the Simulation Halls. He was like a shadow. Scientists never saw him coming; guards didn't have time to call for help. The facility was waking up, but it was too late. The ghost was already inside.
Level 5: The Cryogenic Archive
He found the ventilation shaft Ronda had marked. He dropped down, landing in a crouch on a steel grating.
The temperature fell sharply.
A vast, circular chamber opened before him, frost creeping across glass walls. Vertical cryogenic pods stood in rows like coffins, pale blue light shining inside.
Inside were children.
They weren't identical clones. They were variations. Failures.
E-002. E-005. E-009. E-012.
Alen walked down the row. Some were malformed, their skin gray and cracked. Others looked perfect but stared back with dead, black eyes.
"They're trying to brute-force evolution," Alen said, disgust filling his voice. "Ronda, what do I do?"
To the left, Master. The primary kill switch. These subjects represent a global catastrophic threat. They cannot be saved.
Alen's hand hovered over the console. It felt heavy. But he recalled Raccoon City. He remembered the cost of hesitation.
"Forgive me," he whispered.
He pulled the lever.
The hum of the pods stopped. A hiss of gas filled the chamber. The subjects inside convulsed once, then went still as the neuro-agent took effect.
Alen turned to leave, but a sound stopped him.
Sobbing.
It came from the far corner, behind a heavy desk covered in files.
Alen raised his Samurai Edge (AW Model-01). "Come out. If you are a threat, I will end you. If you are innocent, I will not harm you."
Slowly, a small figure rose from behind the desk.
She looked like Eveline—the same dark hair, the same slight build. But her hair was cut short in a sharp, tomboyish style. She was more younger than Eveline maybe age gap 2 or 1 Year. She wore a hospital gown that hung loosely on her frame.
Subject: E-017.
"Please…" her voice shook, human and terrified. "Don't shoot me. I don't want to die. They said I was broken. Please let me live."
Alen kept the gun aimed at her. "Are you manipulating me? Are you pushing into my mind right now?"
"No! I can't!" She held up her hands. "I'm not like her. I'm just me."
Alen stepped closer, scanning her with the Reality-Lens. Her brain activity was normal. No hive mind spikes. No psionic buildup.
He glanced at the terminal next to her pod.
[SUBJECT E-017]
* Status: STABLE
* Mold Output: LOW / NEGLIGIBLE
* Control Radius: MINIMAL (Personal Space Only)
* Psychological: No delusions. No "Family" compulsion.
* Conclusion: Emotionally viable, Operationally useless.
* Order: TERMINATION APPROVED.
"She's a dud," Alen thought. "She's stable, but she has no power. She's just… a girl."
He looked back at E-017. She was shivering.
Flashback.
A warm hand on his shoulder. The smell of lavender and antiseptic. Jessica Richard, kneeling next to him in an orphanage in Eastern Europe, years ago.
"Everyone has a right to live, Alen. It doesn't matter where they come from, or who made them. It matters who they choose to be. When I found you, you were alone. But you were worth saving. Save the people in need. Always."
Alen lowered the gun. The ghost of his father faded; the son of Jessica remained.
"Okay, kid," Alen said, his voice softening. "Listen to me. I'm going to get you out of here. But you have to do exactly what I say. No funny business."
"I promise," E-017 sniffled, wiping her nose.
"I have to put you in the mobile cryo-container," Alen pointed to a transport unit nearby. "It's for your safety. I will come back for you. I promise."
"Don't lie to me," she whispered. "Everyone lies."
"I don't," Alen said firmly. He helped her into the unit. "Sleep. When you wake up, the nightmare will be over."
He sealed the unit and hid it beneath a tarp in the shadows.
"Now," Alen stood up, his eyes glowing blue beneath the brim of his hat. "I have a founder to kill."
Level 6: The Architect
Alen didn't sneak into Level 6. He burst in.
He shattered the reinforced door with a powerful kick. The Command Core was a massive amphitheater filled with servers and screens.
And there, standing on the observation deck, surrounded by twenty elite soldiers, was Brandon Bailey.
The old man clapped slowly. He wore an immaculately tailored suit, his face an arrogant mask that rivaled Oswell Spencer himself.
"Bravo," Bailey called down, his voice echoing. "Bravo! I thought the BSAA had sent a battalion. Imagine my surprise to find a single… man? Or are you something else?"
"I'm the end of your legacy," Alen growled, his voice distorted by his mask.
"You're a specimen!" Bailey laughed. "Kill him."
The soldiers opened fire.
Alen moved.
[COMBAT ENGAGED]
It wasn't just a fight; it was a slaughter. Alen used the server racks as cover, firing the Samurai Edge with robotic precision. Bang. Headshot. Phase. Bang. Heart shot.
He teleported through a barrage of bullets, reappearing in the center of the squad. He moved like smoke, like a glitch in the system. He broke arms, shattered helmets, and redirected enemy fire.
Fourteen minutes. That's all it took.
Alen knelt on the floor, panting. The room was silent except for the groans of the dying. His stamina was spent. The constant phasing took its toll. He cracked open a high-calorie nutrient bar and swallowed it.
He stood up, the black Duster swirling around him, and looked up at the balcony.
Bailey wasn't scared. He was smiling.
"Impressive," Bailey sneered. "But you are biological. And biology has limits."
Bailey pulled a syringe from his jacket pocket. It glowed black.
"I, however, have evolved."
He jabbed the needle into his neck.
The Mutation
Bailey screamed—a sound mixing agony and ecstasy. His skin boiled. Black, viscous sludge erupted from his pores. His suit ripped apart as his body expanded, bones cracking and reforming.
He grew to ten feet tall. Massive, whip-like tendrils of Mold burst from his back. His face stretched into a jarring, featureless maw.
"WHAT THE HELL," Alen swore, backing up.
The Bailey-Thing roared and lashed out. A tendril the size of a tree trunk smashed into Alen, hurling him across the room. He crashed into the concrete wall with a sickening crunch.
Alen gasped, coughing up blood. His ribs were cracked. He rolled as another tendril struck the spot where he had been lying.
He was fast, but Bailey was everywhere. The Mold coated the floor, slowing Alen down. He was getting tossed around like a ragdoll. His ammo was gone. His energy was spent.
Alen lay in the debris, his vision fading.
I can't win, he thought. Not like this.
His hand drifted to a secure pouch on his belt. Inside was a silver injector.
The A-Virus.
Stolen from Glenn Arias during a black ops mission in New York. A virus meant to create the ultimate predator. He had kept it as a trophy, a failsafe he vowed never to use. It was unstable. It was madness.
Master, Ronda's voice was urgent. Do not do it. Survival probability is 40%. Mutation probability is 60%.
"I don't have a choice, Ronda," Alen gritted his teeth, watching the monster approach.
Miss Isabella is crying, Sir. She is begging you to run.
"Tell her… I'm sorry."
Alen jammed the injector into his neck.
The Ascension
Fire.
Liquid fire coursed through his veins.
Alen arched his back, screaming as the A-Virus collided with his Progenitor-enhanced DNA. It was a war at the cellular level. His veins turned black, bulging against his skin. His heart rate soared to 300 beats per minute.
But he didn't mutate into a monster. He optimized.
The A-Virus latched onto the Wesker bloodline, unlocking dormant potential. His muscles grew denser. His perception slowed time to a crawl.
Alen stood up.
He didn't look tired anymore. He didn't look human. His eyes were not just blue; they glowed like twin stars, burning with vertical slit pupils of a predator.
The "Hat Man" was gone. Albert Wesker's heir had arrived.
"Now," Alen said, his voice a dual-tone growl. "Let's finish this."
He moved. No—he vanished.
He hit Bailey with the force of a freight train. He didn't use a gun. He used his fists. He tore through the Mold tendrils with his bare hands. He dodged attacks, moving faster than the eye could see, leaving distinct afterimages that confused the monster.
Bailey roared in confusion, swiping at air.
Alen appeared on Bailey's back. He drove his hand into the creature's spine, ripping through the mutated flesh.
"Found you," Alen hissed.
He grabbed a canister of the Anti-Mold Necrotoxin from his belt—the prototype he had made in the ranch lab.
He punched his hand into Bailey's exposed heart and crushed the canister inside the creature's chest.
The Collapse
The effect was immediate.
Bailey shrieked as the necrotoxin calcified his cells. The black sludge turned gray, then white, then crumbled into ash. The monster fell apart, dissolving into a pile of dust.
Alen landed on the floor, breathing heavily. The red glow in his eyes faded, leaving him exhausted but alive. The A-Virus receded, dormant once more, but the change was permanent. He felt… more.
"Ronda," Alen said, his voice raspy. "Burn it down."
Detonation sequence initiated.
Alen retrieved the cryo-pod containing E-017. He grabbed the hard drive containing The Connections' entire database from the main server.
He didn't run out. He walked.
Behind him, C4 charges detonated in sequence. The structural pillars of Level 7 collapsed. The limestone mountain groaned, then imploded.
Alen emerged from the tunnel into the ravine as the ground shook. Behind him, the monastery stood undisturbed, but underneath it, the earth swallowed the secret lab.
The Connections' main hub was gone. Brandon Bailey was dust.
Alen loaded the girl onto the awaiting stealth jet. He looked back at the cloud of dust rising from the valley.
"Mission Accomplished," he whispered.
He boarded the jet. They were gone before the dust settled.
Mission Update:
Status: Success.
Target Neutralized: Brandon Bailey (Deceased).
Asset Acquired: E-017 (Alive).
Facility: Destroyed.
Alen Wesker Status: A-Virus/Progenitor Hybrid (Stable).