Location: The Lemanissier Ranch, Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: July 29, 2017
Time: 13:00 Hours
The Texas sun was a physical weight, a hammer beating down on the asphalt as Alen Wesker sped down the highway. The wind roared past his helmet, but it did nothing to cool the skin that still burned with the aftershocks of the A-Virus.
He had Ruby secured behind him on the bike, her small arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her face buried in his back. He had left the San Antonio bunker in a strange, fragile state of peace—a rare occurrence for a man made of war. He had saved a life. He had found a daughter. He was bringing her home.
But as the ranch gate came into view, the peace shattered.
Blue and red lights slashed through the heat haze.
Police cruisers. An ambulance. The Amarillo Sheriff's Department vehicles were scattered across the gravel driveway like spilled toys. A crowd of neighbors stood behind the yellow perimeter tape, murmuring and pointing at the column of black smoke rising from the guest house.
"Hold on tight, Ruby," Alen said, his voice strained, fighting the sudden spike in his heart rate. The black veins on his neck pulsed, reacting to the stress.
He killed the engine and kicked the stand down. The silence that followed the roar of the bike was thick, broken only by the crackle of police radios and the weeping of a woman.
Alen scanned the area. Near the barn, forensic teams in white suits were placing markers next to bodies. Five... no, six men. They were dressed in black tactical gear—heavy body armor, combat boots, suppressed weapons lying in the Texas dust.
They weren't burglars. They were a hit squad.
Then, he saw her.
Isabella was sitting on the back of an ambulance, a shock blanket draped over her shoulders. Her left arm was heavily bandaged, fresh blood seeping through the white gauze. Her face was a mask of soot and tears. A paramedic was checking her pupils, but she wasn't looking at him. She was staring at the ground.
Alen didn't walk; he rushed through the police tape, ignoring the Sheriff's shout.
"Isabella!"
He reached her in seconds, gripping her uninjured shoulder. His eyes scanned her for life-threatening injuries, his mind cataloging threats: Gunshot graze, left deltoid. Hematoma, right temple. Shock.
"What happened?" Alen demanded, his voice shaking with a terrifying mix of anger and fear. "Who did this? Tell me!"
Isabella looked up. Her eyes were hollow. She looked broken in a way he had never seen, not even when he pulled her out of the ravine.
"I'm sorry, Alen," she whispered, her voice cracking. "They found me. The Connections... they tracked my digital trail while you were in Moldova. They sent cleaners."
"And?" Alen pressed, his heart pounding against his ribs. "Where is Master Shi?"
Isabella sobbed, a raw, ugly sound. "We fought. But there were too many. They had heavy weapons. Master Shi... he told me to run. He held the door."
She choked on the name.
"He fought them, Alen. He took down four of them with his bare hands. But they had automatic rifles. My contact—Ada—she arrived late. She saved me, but she couldn't... she couldn't save him."
The world stopped. The heat, the noise, the sirens—it all disappeared into a high-pitched whine.
Alen let go of Isabella. He turned slowly toward the second ambulance. Two paramedics were loading a gurney. A white sheet covered the form, but Alen recognized the shape. He knew the stillness.
"No," Alen breathed.
He walked toward the ambulance. His legs felt like lead. The A-Virus surged, his vision tinting red at the edges.
"Sir, you can't be back here—" a paramedic started, stepping in his way.
Alen didn't even look at him. He pushed past with a casual force that sent the man stumbling into the dirt. He reached the gurney. His hand shook—tremors from the virus and the grief—as he gripped the edge of the sheet.
He pulled it back.
Master Shi Yan Xing lay still.
The old Shaolin master. The man who had taught Alen that strength meant nothing without control. The man who had seen the Wesker blood not as a curse, but as a challenge. The man who had been his anchor when the world tried to drown him.
There were three bullet wounds in his chest. But his face... his face was peaceful. Defiant. His hands were still curled into fists.
Alen stared. The floodgates opened.
He didn't scream. He collapsed, sinking to his knees in the dust, resting his forehead against the cold metal rail of the gurney. Tears streamed from his eyes, hot and stinging. He grabbed Shi's cold hand, squeezing it, desperate for a pulse, for a lecture on Qi, for anything.
He had lost Jessica Richard in 2002, and that had shattered his childhood. Now, he had lost his father figure, and it shattered his manhood.
"Why?" Alen whispered, his voice broken. "Why did you leave me? I wasn't done learning."
He lingered there for what felt like an eternity, holding the hand of the only man who had ever understood the monster inside him without fearing it.
Finally, gently, he pulled the sheet back up.
He stood. He wiped his face.
Grief didn't fade. It hardened. It crystallized into something dark and sharp in his chest. His veins pulsed, momentarily turning black as the virus reacted to the cortisol spike. He pushed it down. He locked it away.
I will kill them, Alen vowed silently. I will burn their world to ash.
"Mr. Lemanissier?"
Alen turned. Sheriff Johnson stood there, hat in hand, looking both sympathetic and skeptical.
"Sheriff," Alen said. His voice was void of feeling.
"I need to ask you some questions, son. Where were you?"
Alen gestured to Ruby, who stood quietly by the police tape, looking terrified, clutching the hem of her new hoodie.
"I was picking up my daughter," Alen lied smoothly, the alias tasting bitter like bile. "Camping trip. I didn't know... I didn't know this would happen."
Johnson looked at Ruby, then back at Alen. The lie held.
"I'm sorry for your loss. Master Xing was a good man. We'll find who did this."
"Thank you, Sheriff," Alen said coldly. "But I think I'll handle the arrangements."
Time: 18:30 Hours (The Funeral)
The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the small private cemetery on the hill overlooking the ranch. The neighbors had left. The Sheriff had gone.
It was just Alen, Isabella, Ruby, and Mrs. Xing standing over the fresh mound of earth.
Alen stood rigid. He wore a black suit, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses to mask the unnatural glow of the A-Virus, but his posture vibrated with suppressed energy.
Ruby tugged on his sleeve. "Dad?" she whispered, testing the word.
He looked down. "What is it, Ruby?"
She held out a sealed envelope. "A lady gave this to me by the gate. She was wearing a red scarf. She said she was a friend of Isabella's. She told me to give this only to you."
Alen took the letter. He tore it open. The handwriting was elegant, sharp.
* "I'm sorry for your loss. I arrived too late to save the Master, but I got Isabella out. I took out six of them, but the rest scattered.
* These men belong to 'Black Tusk', a wet-work PMC operating out of a salvage yard on the state line. They are the ones hunting your wife. They were hired by a third party.
* Location attached. Do what you do best. - A"
There was no signature. Just the faint scent of expensive perfume. Ada Wong. Always watching, never interfering until the damage was done.
Alen crumpled the paper in his hand. He pulled out his phone.
"Trinity," he whispered. "Locate these coordinates."
<< Scanning... Confirmed. It is a salvage yard named 'Iron Horse'. Thermal scans indicate heavy heat signatures and fortified structures. 100 miles west. >>
"Good."
The ceremony ended. Mrs. Xing walked back to the house with Ruby, her back straight, her grief private. Alen and Isabella were left alone by the grave.
The silence stretched thin and fragile.
"It's your fault," Alen said. His voice was devoid of feeling.
Isabella froze. "Alen..."
"If you hadn't come into my life," Alen turned to her, removing his sunglasses. His eyes burned with a terrifying blue-gold luminescence. "If you had told me The Connections found you while I was in Moldova... if you hadn't kept secrets... he would be alive."
"I wanted to protect you!" Isabella pleaded, stepping toward him. "You were going after Bailey! I didn't want to distract you!"
Alen snapped.
He moved faster than humanly possible. He grabbed Isabella by the waist and pinned her against the stone archway of the cemetery gate.
"Protect me?" Alen roared, his face inches from hers. "I am the son of Albert Wesker! I don't need protection! I needed the truth! Who are they? Tell me!"
Isabella looked into his eyes and saw a stranger. She saw the monster he fought so hard to suppress.
"They are Black Tusk," she cried, tears spilling over. "Hired guns. The Connections hired them to liquidate me because I found the Moldovan lab coordinates. I thought I lost them... I'm so sorry, Alen."
Alen stared at her for a long moment. Then, he released her. She slumped against the wall, gasping.
"Alen," she reached for him. "Where are you going?"
Alen walked toward his motorcycle. He didn't look back.
"To finish it."
Time: 21:00 Hours
Location: 'Iron Horse' Salvage Yard, Texas Border
The yard was a maze of rusted metal carcasses—crushed cars stacked three high, forming a fortress of junk. Floodlights buzzed. Heavy metal music thumped from the main office trailer.
Alen parked his motorcycle in the shadows. He didn't have his trench coat. He didn't have his hat. He wore a black hoodie, the hood pulled up to obscure his face.
He checked the custom Samurai Edge. Full mag. One in the chamber.
He walked to the gate. The guard, a hulking man with a Black Tusk tattoo on his neck, stepped forward with a shotgun. "Private property, pal. Turn around."
Alen didn't speak. He moved.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: SPATIAL-PHANTOM]
He flickered. One second he was ten feet away; the next, his hand was wrapped around the guard's throat.
CRACK.
He slammed the guard's head into the steel gate post. The man dropped.
Alen kicked the gate open. The hinges screamed.
Twenty mercenaries poured out of the trailers. They were armed with assault rifles. They were the ones who had shot an old man.
"CONTACT!" someone screamed.
Gunfire erupted.
Alen phased through it. The A-Virus pumped through his veins, accelerating his perception of time. The bullets moved in slow motion. He dodged them with minimal movement, a blur of black fabric.
He wasn't fighting. He was executing.
He fired the Samurai Edge. Bang. Bang. Bang. Three headshots. Three bodies.
He holstered the gun and drew his knife. He engaged in CQC, breaking arms, shattering ribs, using his enhanced strength to throw men through car windshields. He tore through them like a reaper harvesting wheat.
He reached the main office trailer. He kicked the metal door off its hinges.
The Boss of the cell sat there, frantically trying to load a revolver. He looked up, terror in his eyes as the hooded figure stepped over the debris.
"Who sent you?" the Boss stammered. "What do you want?"
Alen walked forward. He grabbed the revolver, crushing the barrel with his bare hand as if it were aluminum foil.
"I want your blood," Alen whispered.
He grabbed the Boss by the throat and lifted him off the ground. "You killed an old man today. A man worth a thousand of you."
"Please—I was just hired! It was a job!"
"Who?" Alen tightened his grip.
"The Connections! A man named Bailey! Brandon Bailey!"
Alen froze.
Bailey.
He threw the Boss onto the desk. He grabbed the man's phone.
"Unlock it."
The Boss, weeping, unlocked the phone. Alen scrolled through the encrypted logs.
Date: July 26, 2017.
From: B. Bailey (Encrypted).
Message: "Target located: Isabella Gionne. Eliminate her. Leave no witnesses. Payment transfer pending."
July 26th.
Two days before Alen arrived in Moldova. Two days before he killed Bailey.
Bailey had ordered the hit before he died. It was a dead man's switch. A final act of spite.
Alen stared at the screen. The irony was suffocating. He had killed Bailey to save the world, but Bailey had already killed his world.
"You're too late," Alen whispered. "He's already dead."
He looked at the Boss. "And now, so are you."
Alen didn't give him a quick death. He beat him. He used his fists, venting every ounce of grief, rage, and helplessness into the man's face until there was nothing left but ruin.
Silence returned to the night.
Alen stood over the body, his breathing heavy, his knuckles split and bleeding. He pulled a C4 charge from his pocket, set the timer for 30 seconds, and tossed it onto the desk.
He walked out.
BOOM.
The explosion turned the trailer into a fireball, lighting up the desert night. It incinerated the bodies, the phone, and the evidence.
Alen stripped off his blood-soaked hoodie and tossed it into the flames. He stood there for a moment in his t-shirt, the fire reflecting in his blue eyes.
The sadness was still there. But the warmth was gone. The part of him that Shi Yan Xing had nurtured—the gentle student, the man who wanted peace—had died in that ambulance.
Alen Wesker got on
his bike and rode into the dark.
He was colder now. And the world was about to find out exactly how dangerous a cold Wesker could be.