Location: The Lemanissier Ranch, Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: August 9, 2017
Time: 09:00 Hours
The ranch was a shell of its former self. The livestock had been sold to neighbors three days earlier. The stables, once filled with the warm, dusty scent of horses and hay, now echoed with emptiness. Dust motes swirled in the harsh Texas sunlight streaming through the drawn curtains, settling on the furniture like a covering.
It had been a week since the funeral. Seven days of silence. Seven days of overwhelming heat that felt more like a sentence than weather.
Alen sat on the edge of the bare mattress in the guest room, staring at his trembling hands. They shook with a subtle rhythm that no amount of will could control.
Technically, the A-Virus was inactive. His unique physiology, a mix of Progenitor-enhanced DNA, was holding the mutation at bay. But the aftereffects were severe. Every few hours, dark veins would pulse against the skin of his forearms, a visible reminder of the genetic battle raging in his body. Waves of nausea rolled over him, tasting of bile and metal.
Yet the physical pain was bearable. It was his mind that was cracking.
Alen shut his eyes and exhaled slowly.
Flashback.
The scene shifted. He was no longer in Texas. He was in a sterile, white lab. The air reeked of ozone and disinfectant. A woman with golden hair and sharp, intelligent eyes looked down at him. Not with malice, but with a twisted form of affection.
Alex Wesker. His mother.
"You are perfect," she whispered, her voice echoing as though underwater. "A vessel for the future."
The image blurred. The affection turned sour. The face changed. It was no longer Alex; it morphed into a man with slicked-back hair and dark sunglasses, sneering at Alen's weakness.
"Disappointing," Albert Wesker spat.
Alen gasped and opened his eyes.
He was back in Texas. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes.
These weren't just memories; they were hallucinations triggered by trauma, the A-Virus affecting his cortisol levels. The grief of losing Shi Yan Xing—his anchor, the man who taught him to meditate and control the "monster"—had broken the dam. Without the Master's guidance, the Wesker legacy seeped through the cracks of his mind.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Alen tensed, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun on the nightstand. "Come in."
The door opened. Isabella walked in.
She looked different. The long, flowing hair of the hacker who once hid in the shadows was gone, replaced by a sharp pixie cut—short at the back and a wispy fringe framing her eyes. It was chic, edgy, and practical. Her new look changed her silhouette completely, elongating her neck and giving her a defiant, almost tomboyish appearance.
She carried a black tactical duffel bag.
"We're ready," she said softly, her voice shaky.
Alen stood up and walked past her without making eye contact. The distance between them felt vast. He hadn't forgiven her for the secret that had cost Master Shi his life. He worked with her out of necessity; she was part of the mission now, but the warmth had vanished.
"Good," Alen replied. His voice sounded rough.
He paused in front of the hallway mirror.
He had changed too. He had taken a razor to his own hair that morning, cutting away the softness of country life. He now sported a disconnected undercut—shaved tight on the sides and back with significant length on top, styled back in a messy, aggressive pompadour.
He had shaped his beard to emphasize his jawline sharply.
The resemblance was unsettling. With the beard and severe haircut, his face bore an eerie resemblance to Albert Wesker. But when he leaned closer to the glass, his eyes—vibrant, emotional, and troubled—were all Alex.
He looked like a ghost of the Umbrella Corporation. A weapon finally free from its confines.
"Did you pack the drive?" Alen asked, checking the laces of his tactical boots.
"Everything is secured," Isabella replied, trying to maintain professionalism despite his coldness. "Passports. Visas. The encrypted drives."
Alen nodded. He went to the hidden wall safe and retrieved his Legacy Bag—a reinforced, waterproof leather satchel that was always with him. He checked its contents one last time, ticking them off mentally:
* The Golden Locket: Half of a set, the only keepsake from Alex Wesker.
* The Diaries: Dr. James Marcus's journal and Alex's personal research notes.
* The Drives: The blue drive containing Albert's corrupted data, the drive with Glenn Arias's A-Virus research, and the new addition—the complete database of The Connections.
* The Biohazard Container: A sealed, lead-lined vial containing the D-Series core harvested from the Baker estate.
* The Universal Phone: Hosting Red Queen 3.0.
"Ronda," Alen tapped his earpiece. "Status?"
<< All systems scrubbed, Master. The underground lab is sealed and purged. It appears as an abandoned ranch to any satellite or thermal scan. No heat signatures remain below ground. >>
"Let's go."
The Departure
They moved as one, but in silence.
Mrs. Xing waited by the door, wearing a heavy coat over her traditional cheongsam. Her face showed deep grief. She held the hand of Ruby (E-017), who was dressed in casual children's clothes—jeans and a bright yellow puffer jacket.
Ruby looked up at Alen, sensing the dark energy around him. She tightened her grip on the small toy rabbit Mrs. Xing had given her.
"Alen," Ruby whispered. "Are we going to be safe?"
Alen halted and looked down at her. For a moment, the hallucination flickered—he saw Eveline staring back, her skin gray and rotting. He blinked hard, forcing the image away and replacing it with Ruby's innocent face.
"Yes," Alen said, his voice rough. "Where we're going, the monsters can't follow."
They climbed into the rented black SUV. Isabella drove while Alen sat in the passenger seat, watching the arid Texas landscape disappear for the last time. The windmills, the dust, the endless blue sky.
Goodbye, Master Shi, Alen thought, guilt heavy in his gut. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. But I will save them.
Isabella had worked her magic. At the regional airfield, they didn't go through normal security. Using a backdoor in the TSA server she had hacked days earlier, they bypassed the checkpoints entirely and walked directly onto the tarmac to board a private charter jet booked under a shell corporation.
At 12:00 PM, the plane took off.
Alen watched America fade beneath the clouds. He felt like he was escaping a crime scene.
Location: The Scottish Highlands, United Kingdom
Time: 20:00 Hours (Local Time)
The world shifted.
The oppressive heat of Texas gave way to a damp, chilling cold. The sky wasn't blue; it was a heavy gray, hanging over the mountains like a damp blanket.
They landed at a small private airfield near Inverness. They didn't rent a car—paper trails were risky, and rentals had GPS trackers. Instead, Alen led them to long-term parking. He found an old, dependable-looking Toyota Avensis estate car that looked like it hadn't moved in weeks.
He scanned the area. Clear.
In thirty seconds, he picked the lock and hotwired the ignition. The engine sputtered to life.
"Get in," Alen commanded, opening the back door for Mrs. Xing and Ruby. "We have a long drive."
The journey into the Highlands felt like entering another world.
Civilization faded away. The roads narrowed, winding like black ribbons through the glens. The headlights cut through the drifting fog, illuminating stone walls slick with ancient moss and the occasional pair of glowing eyes—deer—watching from the heather.
Alen drove in silence, his eyes scanning every shadow and passing vehicle. But the landscape soothed him. This land had strength. The land of stone and storm.
Four hours later, they reached the village.
It wasn't really a town; it was a cluster of warm, amber lights huddled against the base of a massive, brooding mountain. The stone houses were built to endure centuries of Atlantic winds.
Alen steered the car up a steep, private gravel track.
And there it was. The Richard Estate.
It emerged from the mist like a fortress. A massive, L-shaped building of gray granite, part ancient manor, part functioning hospital. A single iron lamp flickered above the heavy oak door, letting the faded medical crest carved into the lintel appear.
"It looks... strong," Mrs. Xing noted quietly from the back seat.
"It is," Alen murmured. "I haven't been here since 2011. I didn't think I'd ever return."
He shut off the engine. Silence engulfed the Highlands—only the wind sighing through the pines and the distant sound of a mountain stream.
Alen stepped out. The air carried scents of peat smoke, rain, and wet earth. It cleared the metallic taste of the A-Virus from his throat. It smelled like clarity.
He helped Ruby out, then Mrs. Xing and Isabella. They stood in the courtyard, shivering slightly in the cool air, a ragtag family of refugees.
Alen approached the massive door and pulled the heavy iron bell.
Clang. Clang.
A minute passed. Then, the heavy door creaked open.
A stout woman in a nurse's uniform, her red hair pulled back tightly, peered out. She held a heavy flashlight like a weapon.
"Here now," she barked in a thick Highland accent. "Who are ye? What do ye want at this hour? The surgery is closed."
Alen stepped into the light and removed his hood.
"I'm Alen," he said. "Alen R. Richard. Tell Dr. Amalia her grandson has come home."
The nurse's jaw dropped. "Lord save us. The boy?"
She turned and ran down the hallway, calling, "Doctor! Doctor Amalia!"
Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed on the stone floor.
An elegant woman appeared in the doorway. She was in her late seventies but stood tall. She wore a white doctor's coat over a thick wool sweater. Her silver hair was tied back, and her lined face reflected a life spent saving others. Yet her eyes—sharp, intelligent, and fiercely blue—were still bright.
Amalia R. Richard.
She stopped and looked at the scarred, dangerous man on her doorstep. She didn't see the Wesker blood. She didn't see the killer who burned down a bar in Texas. She saw the boy she raised.
"Alen?" her voice trembled.
"Grandma," Alen's voice cracked.
She rushed forward, ignoring the cold, and wrapped her arms around him. Alen sank into the embrace, burying his face in her shoulder. For the first time in a week, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Amalia pulled back and cupped his face. "You look tired, my dear. So tired."
She looked past him at the group shivering in the mist.
"And who are these?" Amalia asked, her eyes widening.
Alen stepped back, gesturing to his group.
"This is Isabella," Alen said, his voice flat but respectful. "My... partner."
Isabella gave a shy, nervous bow.
"This is Ruby," Alen placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "My adopted daughter."
"And this," Alen gestured to the older woman, "is Mrs. Xing. The wife of my mentor... whom I lost last week."
Alen looked at Amalia, his eyes pleading. "We have nowhere else to go. We need sanctuary."
Amalia didn't hesitate. She didn't ask for explanations. She didn't question the scars, the stolen car, or the haunted look in his eyes.
"Why would you even ask, you foolish boy?" Amalia scolded gently, wiping a tear from her eye. "This is your home. My door is always open to you."
She clapped her hands, turning to the stunned nurse. "Margaret! Get the bags! Prepare the East Wing! Put the kettle on—we need tea, and plenty of it!"
She ushered them inside.
Come in, come in out of the cold," Amalia commanded. "You're safe now."
As Alen crossed the threshold, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, sealing out the mist, the cold, and—for now—the demons of the past