October 7, 2025 · Restricted Airfield Hangar, France · 20:45 (Local Time)
Rebecca had gone to the Night-Wing's forward bay two hours ago to finish configuring the medical station. Patrick was asleep in the side room — she had told him firmly, twice, that he was not coming, and he had accepted this with the dignified resignation of a man who had served dangerous people long enough to know when an argument was already over.
The unrestricted aircraft hangar was vast and dimly lit, its high metal ceiling lost in shadow while the Night-Wing sat silently on the concrete floor like a sleeping predator. Only a few overhead work lights burned, casting long pools of cold white across the open space and leaving most of the hangar in deep gloom. The air smelled of jet fuel, machine oil, and faint antiseptic from the portable medical station Rebecca had used earlier. She had already left for the forward medical bay to prep beds for the incoming survivors, leaving Alen completely alone with the low mechanical hum of the aircraft and the distant patter of rain against the hangar roof.
In the center of the open floor stood a large, matte-black reinforced silver case — nearly two meters long and half a meter deep, its surface scarred from years of field use. Alen approached it, pressed his palm to the biometric lock, and the case hissed open with a soft pneumatic release, revealing the Midnight Trench outfit laid out in precise, foam-cut compartments like instruments in a surgeon's kit.
He began with the base layer. The black compression shirt, high-collared and form-fitting, slid over his torso with a faint whisper of fabric. The right sleeve was cut slightly shorter to accommodate the titanium arm beneath. Next came the tactical pants — black reinforced fabric with knee panels and subtle seam reinforcement — pulled on and tucked neatly at the ankles. He sat on the edge of a nearby equipment crate, lacing the mid-calf combat boots with deliberate, even pulls, the side zippers sealing with soft metallic clicks. The thick anti-slip soles made no sound when he tested his weight against the concrete.
Gloves next. Black leather combat gloves, reinforced across the palms and knuckles, worked over each hand until they fit like a second skin. The right glove concealed the titanium arm completely; only the faint metallic weight difference reminded him it was there.
He stood and reached for the tactical harness. The Midnight rig settled over his shoulders with a familiar creak of webbing and leather. Adjustable straps crossed his chest and back in an X-pattern, matte gunmetal buckles locking into place with quiet snaps. He checked each D-ring, then cinched the wide utility belt around his waist, the large rectangular buckle seating with a solid thud. Low-profile pouches for spare magazines, zip-ties, and a compact med-kit were already loaded. The drop-leg holster went on next — right thigh, positioned under where the trench would fall — followed by the compact chest holster on the left side of the harness for the tri-dagger. A small encrypted comms unit clipped to the belt, its earpiece already paired with Trinity.
Last piece of equipment before the coat: the watch. A matte-black tactical chronograph with a reinforced band and luminous hands. He fastened it on his left wrist, the second hand ticking once in perfect sync with his own pulse.
Only then did he reach for the coat.
The floor-length black leather trench slid from its compartment and settled over his shoulders like liquid night. It fell to his ankles, the high stiff collar framing his jaw, the wide waist belt already threaded through the loops and cinched loosely for now. The open front panels revealed the harness and holsters beneath while still allowing the coat to flow with every movement. Alen adjusted the shoulder straps where they passed through the discreet slits in the leather, then buttoned the inner lining so the coat hung perfectly. The back vent and side slits would let it billow when he used Phantom Movement; for now it hung still, heavy and silent.
He turned toward the polished side panel of the silver case that served as an improvised mirror.
From a flat metal tin he took a generous palmful of high-hold wax, working it through his blond hair with practiced fingers. Short-to-medium length strands lifted and locked into place as he swept them back and up in the rigid, sharp style that had become his signature — a modified pompadour, part quiff, part classic flattop, every strand standing exactly where he placed it. The wax gave it a glossy, almost metallic sheen under the hangar lights, the front rising slightly before sweeping back into a clean, unbroken line. He ran his gloved fingers through it one final time, sculpting the edges until the style was rigid and immovable, the same severe sweep Albert Wesker had once worn like a crown.
Finally, the sunglasses.
He lifted the black rectangular pair from their slot in the case, slid them on, and the reflective lenses settled over his eyes, turning the world into cool, filtered clarity.
Alen stood motionless for two seconds, studying his reflection in the silver panel. The full Midnight Trench outfit stared back — trench coat flowing over the tactical harness, belt and holsters hidden but ready, hair swept back in that sharp, unyielding style, the Ghost of Wesker made flesh once more.
Trinity's voice came softly through the earpiece.
"Outfit integrity one hundred percent, Master. Night-Wing is fueled and prepped. Signal trace to the Black Forest remains locked. Two assets. One facility."
Alen closed the silver case with a quiet snap, secured the latches, and left it standing in the center of the hangar floor. The coat settled around his boots as he walked toward the Night-Wing's ramp, the harness creaking once beneath the leather, the suppressed HK USP shifting comfortably against his thigh.
He did not look back.
The Ghost was dressed.
The dead woods were waiting.