Location: The Lemanissier Ranch, Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: July 12, 2016, 08:30 Hours
The world didn't return with a bang; it came back in sharp, painful pieces.
First, there was the smell—a stinging antiseptic mixed with old wood and dust. Next was the sensation—a dull ache spreading from her chest and abdomen, combined with the tight pressure of bandages.
Isabella Gionne fought her way back from a week of emptiness. Her eyelids felt heavy. When she finally opened them, the light blinded her.
She blinked, tears falling, until the room came into focus. It was a clean, simply furnished bedroom. Lace curtains fluttered in the breeze from an open window, softening the harsh Texas morning light into warm, golden patches on the floor. She looked down and saw she was wearing a soft, oversized man's flannel shirt.
For a dizzying moment, the calmness was unsettling. She was alive and warm.
Click.
The unmistakable sound of a hammer cocking filled the air.
The calm vanished. A primal dread, colder than the air conditioning, froze her. The steel tip of a gun barrel pressed firmly against the back of her neck.
"So," a voice said, low and tense, "you've decided to join the living."
Isabella stopped breathing. The voice came from directly behind her. She knew better than to move, but instinct kicked in. Slowly, terrifyingly slowly, she turned her head.
Her world shattered.
Standing in the shadows, backlit by dust motes, was a ghost.
The sharp jaw, the pale skin, the severe, swept-back blonde hair, and the cold intelligence burning behind his eyes.
It was him. Albert Wesker. The monster who had seduced her sister with promises of power and then fed her to the worms.
A strangled gasp escaped her throat. The room spun.
"You…" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "You should be dead. The volcano… how are you alive?" She squeezed her eyes shut, trembling. "Am I dead? Is this Hell?"
The man's expression shifted. The menace was still there, but a flicker of annoyance showed through. He lowered the weapon slightly and stepped into the light.
"Hey," he said, sharp as a whip. He snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Focus. Look at me. Really look at me."
Isabella opened her eyes and stared. The resemblance was uncanny, yet there were differences. He was younger. His build was leaner. His eyes—though blue and piercing—lacked the reptilian pupils described in Wesker's last days.
"I am not him," the man said, his voice flat. "But I gather from your reaction that you knew the man I resemble."
He holstered the pistol at the small of his back in one smooth motion and crossed his arms.
"Now," he said, switching to a cold, probing tone. "Start talking. Who are you? Who were the men who dumped you in my ravine? And why do you wear the face of Excella Gionne?"
His questions cut through her panic. He wasn't Wesker; he was something else. Someone else.
"I'll tell you," she rasped, clutching the flannel shirt to her chest. "Just… water, please."
He studied her for a moment, then grabbed a pitcher from the bedside table and poured a glass. He handed it to her but kept his distance.
Isabella drank greedily, feeling the cool liquid soothe her dry throat. She set the glass down, took a deep breath, and looked at the stranger who had saved her life.
"To understand who I am," she said quietly, "you must know there were two of us."
The Gionne Estate, Italy – 1983 (The Memory)
The birth of the Gionne twins was celebrated as a blessing for the fading aristocratic family. Excella came first—screaming and demanding attention. Isabella arrived four minutes later—quiet and observant, with a soft gaze.
They were identical, mirror images in the crib. But from the moment they could speak, the family began to create a divide between them.
Excella was the prodigy. Brilliant, charismatic, and ruthless. She excelled at languages, math, and manners. She was the "Golden Child," destined to restore the Gionne name.
"Excella, my dear," their father would beam, showing her off to investors. "You have the Midas touch. You will rule the world."
Isabella was the shadow. Where Excella soared, Isabella stumbled. The letters on the pages of her textbooks danced and twisted due to her dyslexia, treated in a perfection-obsessed household not as a condition but as a failure.
"Isabella," her mother would sigh, disappointment weighing heavy. "Must you be so slow? Why can't you be like your sister? She doesn't even have to try."
Isabella retreated. She found solace not in the ballroom, but in her grandfather Lorenzo Gionne's dusty library. He was the only one who didn't see a broken lock but a different key.
"Don't let their noise drown out your song, piccola," Lorenzo would whisper, sitting her on his knee in front of his massive, humming computer from the early 90s. "They follow paths. You will create them."
In the glow of the green phosphor screen, Isabella found her voice. The written word confused her, but code? Code was pure. Code was logic. It didn't judge; it just executed. If the syntax was right, magic happened.
For a girl who found the human world cruel, the binary world felt like paradise.
Their paths split irrevocably at eighteen. Excella, a genius in genetic engineering, used her grandmother's connections to take control of Tricell's pharmaceutical division. She wanted power and to be a queen.
Isabella wanted freedom.
When Lorenzo died, the family mourned the loss of his prestige. Isabella mourned the loss of her only friend. But Lorenzo had left one final surprise. He bypassed the family trust and gave his fortune entirely to Isabella.
The note attached to the will was simple: For the one who understands the future.
That night, while Excella celebrated her position at Tricell, Isabella packed one bag. She transferred the funds into encrypted offshore accounts and vanished into the rain. On her pillow, she left a note:
You have your golden heir. You will not have your shadow.
The Ranch House – Present Time
"Excella's rise was public," Isabella said, her voice gaining strength. "She became the face of Tricell, the queen of the pharmaceutical world. Then… she met your lookalike."
Alen leaned back against the dresser, his face blank. "Albert Wesker."
"He seduced her," Isabella said bitterly. "Not with romance but ambition. He promised her a new world. Uroboros. She thought she was his partner. Instead, she was just his wallet and lab rat."
Isabella looked down at her hands—hands that had spent years dancing across keyboards in dark rooms.
"I became 'Blackheart.' A ghost in the machine. I hacked for PMCs, intelligence agencies—anyone who could pay. I dealt in secrets."
"Blackheart," Alen repeated, testing the name. "I've heard of you. You cracked the Pentagon's logistics server in 2011. Cleanest break on record."
A faint, sad smile touched her lips. "That was me. I stayed in the shadows. I watched the news when the Kijuju incident happened. I saw what he did to her. My sister… turned into a monster. Burned to ash."
She looked up at Alen, her eyes glistening. "I hated her for years. I hated her perfection. But when she died… part of me died too. One sister chased the sun and burned. The other stayed in the dark and survived."
"Until a week ago," Alen interjected.
"A job gone wrong," she admitted. "I uncovered something I wasn't supposed to see. A transaction log linking a syndicate called 'The Connections' to a defunct Umbrella lab. They sent a cleanup crew. I ran. They caught me a mile from your property."
She shuddered, the memory of bullets tearing through her still vivid. "They left me in that ditch like garbage. I thought… I thought it was over."
She stood up, her legs shaking, and stepped closer to him. "But you found me. You stitched me up. You saved my life."
The wall she had built around herself—the 'Blackheart' persona—crumbled. Relief, trauma, and the sheer improbability of being alive overwhelmed her. She stumbled forward and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. Sobs shook her body.
Alen stiffened. He stood rigid, his arms hovering uncertainly. He was a soldier, a spy, a killer—not a comforter.
But he felt her trembling. He sensed the genuine terror leaving her body.
Slowly, awkwardly, he patted her back.
"Don't worry," he murmured, his voice softening. "I'm here. You're safe now."
She pulled back, wiping her eyes with the flannel shirt sleeve. He reached out, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. The gesture felt surprisingly tender.
"You and your sister," Alen noted softly. "You look alike. But her eyes were hungry. Yours look tired."
"I have nowhere to go," Isabella whispered. "If Blackheart reappears, they'll know I survived. They'll send more men. Better men."
Alen studied her. His mind raced through tactical plans. She was a liability, but also an asset. A hacker of her level, with knowledge of Tricell and The Connections?
And there was something more. A strange balance—a Wesker saving a Gionne. Perhaps it was a chance to even things out.
"Then don't go back," Alen said firmly. "Stay here."
"Here?" She looked around the simple room. "On a ranch?"
"I need someone who understands systems," Alen said, thinking of the corrupted Red Queen drives in the barn. "And you need a ghost to hide behind."
He crossed his arms again. "But we need a cover. A single man living on a ranch suddenly housing a strange woman raises questions in a small town."
"What do you suggest?"
Alen looked her in the eye. "If anyone asks, you're my wife."
Isabella blinked, a deep flush heating her cheeks. "Your… wife?"
"It's a standard cover," Alen said, his tone clinical, though his pulse quickened. "It explains your presence. It explains why you don't go into town often. It explains my protectiveness."
He turned to the door. "I bought you some clothes. They're on the chair. There's a bathroom down the hall. Get those bandages off, clean up, and get dressed. I'll make food."
He paused at the doorway.
"Alen," he said, without looking back.
"What?"
"My name. It's Alen."
He left, leaving Isabella standing in the sunlight.
As Alen walked to the kitchen, his thoughts churned. He had omitted a crucial lie. He couldn't tell her he was a son of Albert Wesker and Alex Wesker or reveal his father's and Mother's blood ran through him or that he had abilities that defied nature. Trust was a currency he couldn't spend yet.
In the bathroom, steam fogged the mirror as Isabella removed the bandages, wincing at the red scars on her torso. She looked at her reflection.
Pale. Wounded. But alive.
"Isabella Gionne is dead," she whispered to the glass. "Blackheart is offline."
She touched the glass.
"Hello, Mrs. Lemanissier."
The game had changed. For the first time, she wasn't playing alone.
Mission Update:
Asset Secured: Isabella Gionne (Codename: Blackheart).
New Alliance Formed.
Current Status: Compromised but Stable.
Next Objective: Repair the Red Queen Drives with Isabella's assistance.