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The air in the room was a heavy, stagnant blend of expensive cigar smoke and aged wood. Every piece of furniture, carved with the precision of another century, exuded an aura of museum-quality antiquity.
Around the mahogany conference table sat the kings of Wall Street—men whose whispers could move markets and starve nations. Yet, at this moment, they sat like prisoners awaiting a verdict, their postures stiff and deferential as they looked toward the head of the table.
A man in a white leisure suit swirled a glass of whiskey, the square ice cube clinking against the glass with a sharp, rhythmic sound. "T, your pawn seems to have ideas of his own."
His tone was playful, but his eyes were fixed on the tall figure standing by the floor-to-ceiling window.
The man known as Trant did not turn around. Outside, the city skyline was a jagged grey silhouette beneath a blanket of low-hanging clouds.
"If he didn't have ideas of his own, he wouldn't be qualified to be my pawn, would he?" Trant's voice was a calm, magnetic baritone that brooked no argument. "Of all the children Spencer handpicked back then, his performance was the most outstanding. Calm, rational..."
Trant turned slightly, his lips curling into a mocking arc. "And ambitious. A perfectionist to a fault."
A soft knock interrupted the silence. A waiter in a crisp tailcoat entered, moving across the thick carpet like a ghost. He placed a high-quality white envelope on the windowsill and withdrew without a word.
Trant tore open the envelope with long, elegant fingers. He scanned the contents once, then set it aside as if brushing away a speck of dust.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice echoing in the still room. "Our two little troublemakers have set off."
The men at the table shifted. A man in a white suit spoke up, his brow furrowed with unconcealed wariness. "Is that Eastern kid really just a student? Wesker is modified—his physical limits are far beyond a normal human's. Yet the boy handled him with ease. His strength doesn't match our data. Perhaps... an agent from the East?"
Trant finally turned to face the group, his cold gaze sweeping over them until the temperature in the room seemed to drop. He gave a dismissive wave.
"An agent? No. We've mapped his history. All his 'anomalies' began after his involvement with Claire Redfield. In Raccoon City, he fought with a lack of reservation that was purely protective."
Trant tapped the mahogany surface. "Agents are cold weapons, precision machines. They don't let personal feelings sway their focus. You should know that better than anyone."
His eyes narrowed. "However, one thing interests me. He seems to know things in advance—including my existence. But it doesn't matter. A man tied down by his emotions, a man with a visible weakness, is not a threat to the plan."
In the corner, an old man exhaled a ring of white smoke from a sophisticated pipe. "We still know too little about his country's ancient techniques. If those fist forms and medical arts could be hybridized with our biotechnology..." His eyes flared with a greedy, fanatical light. "We could create something truly unprecedented."
Trant nodded slowly. "As long as it's controllable, we'll see. The boy has no ambition; he just wants to live a quiet life with his girlfriend. That simply won't do."
Trant's smile was a chilling, bloodless thing. "He needs motivation. And we have the perfect foil—that fool who loves wearing sunglasses indoors."
A ripple of low, suppressed laughter went around the table.
Trant raised his glass toward the window, looking out as if he could see the plane crossing the Atlantic thousands of miles away. "Let's see what surprises our 'Little Bald Eagles' can bring us in the City of Romance. Just like that girl who is as beautiful as water... they always provide the most unexpected news."
In the first-class cabin of the transatlantic flight, the lights were dimmed to a soft amber.
The low, monotonous hum of the engines was a constant lullaby. Noah and Claire lay beneath cashmere blankets, lost in a deep, restorative sleep. They needed every ounce of strength they could gather.
They both knew the truth: the moment the wheels touched the tarmac at Charles de Gaulle, a real war would begin. And unlike Raccoon City, there would be no running away.
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