Location: The Lemanissier Ranch, Outside Amarillo, Texas
Date: August 9, 2017
Time: 09:00 Hours
The ranch was a skeleton of what it had been.
The livestock had been sold off to neighbors three days ago. The stables, once filled with the warm, dusty scent of horses and hay, now echoed with a hollow silence. Dust motes danced in the shafts of harsh Texas sunlight that cut through the drawn curtains, settling on the furniture like a shroud.
It had been a week since the funeral. Seven days of silence. Seven days of a suffocating heat that felt less like weather and more like judgment.
Alen sat on the edge of the stripped mattress in the guest room, staring at his hands. They were trembling—a fine, rhythmic tremor that no amount of discipline could suppress.
Technically, the A-Virus was dormant. His unique physiology, a cocktail of Progenitor-enhanced DNA, was suppressing the mutation. But the aftershocks were brutal. Every few hours, black veins would pulse violently against the skin of his forearms, a visual reminder of the genetic war raging inside his cells. Nausea would roll over him in sickening waves, tasting of bile and copper.
But the physical pain was manageable. It was the mind that was breaking.
Alen closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.
Flashback.
The room shifted. He wasn't in Texas. He was in a sterile, white laboratory. The air smelled of ozone and antiseptic. A woman with golden hair and sharp, intellectual eyes was looking down at him. Not with malice, but with a strange, twisted affection.
Alex Wesker. His mother.
"You are perfect," she whispered, her voice echoing as if from underwater. "A vessel for the future."
The image warped. The affection turned cold. The face changed. It wasn't Alex anymore; it was a man with slicked-back hair and dark sunglasses, sneering at Alen's weakness.
"Disappointing," Albert Wesker hissed.
Alen gasped, snapping his eyes open.
He was back in Texas. Sweat dripped from his forehead, stinging his eyes.
These weren't just memories; they were trauma-induced hallucinations, the A-Virus interacting with his cortisol levels. The grief of losing Shi Yan Xing—his anchor, the man who had taught him to meditate, to control the "monster"—had cracked the dam. Without the Master's guidance, the Wesker legacy was leaking through the cracks in his psyche.
A knock at the door broke the spell.
Alen stiffened, his hand instinctively twitching toward the gun on the nightstand. "Come in."
The door opened. Isabella stepped inside.
She looked different. The long, flowing hair of the hacker who hid in the shadows was gone. In its place was a sharp, clipped pixie cut—short at the back, with a wispy fringe framing her eyes. It was chic, edgy, and practical. It changed her silhouette completely, elongating her neck and giving her a defiant, almost tomboyish look.
She held a black tactical duffel bag.
"We're ready," she said softly. Her voice was hesitant.
Alen stood up. He walked past her without making eye contact. The distance between them was a chasm. He hadn't forgiven her for the secret that cost Master Shi his life. He worked with her because he had to—she was part of the mission now—but the warmth was gone.
"Good," Alen said. His voice was gravel.
He paused in front of the hallway mirror.
He had changed too. He had taken a razor to his own hair that morning, carving away the soft country life. He now sported a disconnected undercut—shaved tight on the sides and back to the skin, with significant length left on top, swept back in a messy, aggressive pompadour.
He had groomed his beard, shaping it to strictly accentuate his jawline.
The resemblance was terrifying. With the beard and the severe hair, the structure of his face screamed Albert Wesker. But when he leaned closer to the glass, the eyes—vibrant, emotional, tortured—were all Alex.
He looked like a ghost of the Umbrella Corporation. A weapon finally out of its box.
"Did you pack the drive?" Alen asked, checking the laces of his tactical boots.
"Everything is secured," Isabella replied, professional but hurt by his coldness. "Passports. Visas. The encrypted drives."
Alen nodded. He went to the hidden wall safe and pulled out his Legacy Bag—a reinforced, waterproof leather satchel that never left his side. He checked the 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.
"Trinity," Alen tapped his earpiece. "Status?"
<< All systems scrubbed, Master. The underground laboratory is sealed and purged. To any satellite scan or thermal imaging, this is just an abandoned ranch. No heat signatures remain below deck. >>
"Let's go."
The Departure
They moved as a unit, but in silence.
Mrs. Xing waited by the door, wearing a heavy coat over her traditional cheongsam, her face a mask of stoic grief. She held the hand of Ruby (E-017), who was dressed in normal children's clothes—jeans and a bright yellow puffer jacket.
Ruby looked up at Alen, sensing the dark energy radiating off 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 stopped. He looked down at the girl. For a split second, the hallucination flickered—he saw Eveline staring back at him, her skin gray and molding. He blinked hard, forcing the image away, replacing it with Ruby's innocent face.
"Yes," Alen said, his voice rough. "Where we are going, the monsters can't follow."
They loaded into the rented black SUV. Isabella drove. Alen sat in the passenger seat, watching the dry Texas landscape roll by for the last time. The windmills, the dust, the endless blue sky.
Goodbye, Master Shi, Alen thought, the 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 pass through normal security. Using a backdoor in the TSA server she had exploited days ago, they bypassed the checkpoints entirely, walking directly onto the tarmac to board a private charter jet booked under a shell corporation.
At 12:00 PM, the wheels left the tarmac.
Alen watched America disappear beneath the clouds. He felt like he was fleeing a crime scene.
Location: The Scottish Highlands, United Kingdom
Time: 20:00 Hours (Local Time)
The world changed.
The oppressive, blinding heat of Texas was replaced by a damp, bone-deep chill. The sky wasn't blue; it was a heavy, slate gray, hanging low over the mountains like a wet wool blanket.
They landed at a small private airfield near Inverness. They didn't hire a car—paper trails were dangerous, and rentals had GPS trackers. Instead, Alen led them to the long-term parking lot. He found a beat-up, reliable-looking Toyota Avensis estate car that looked like it hadn't moved in weeks.
He checked the perimeter. Clear.
In thirty seconds, he had picked the lock and hotwired the ignition. The engine sputtered to life.
"Get in," Alen ordered, opening the back door for Mrs. Xing and Ruby. "We have a long drive."
The journey into the Highlands was a transition into another world.
Civilization fell 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, every passing car. But the landscape soothed him. This was the land of the resilient. 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 houses were stone, built to withstand centuries of Atlantic gales.
Alen steered the car up a steep, private gravel track.
And there it was. The Richard Estate.
It rose out of the mist like a fortress. It was a massive, L-shaped building of gray granite, part ancient manor, part functional hospital. A single iron lamp burned above the heavy oak door, revealing the faded medical crest carved into the lintel.
"It looks… strong," Mrs. Xing observed quietly from the back seat.
"It is," Alen murmured. "I haven't been here since 2011. I didn't think I'd ever come back."
He killed the engine. The silence of the Highlands was profound—just the wind sighing through the pines and the distant rush of a mountain burn.
Alen got out. The air smelled of peat smoke, rain, and wet earth. It filled his lungs, clearing 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 walked to the massive door and pulled the iron bell pull.
Clang. Clang.
A minute passed. Then, the heavy door groaned open.
A stout woman in a nurse's uniform, red hair pinned back severely, peered out. She held a heavy flashlight like a weapon.
"Here now," she barked in a thick, no-nonsense Highland accent. "Who are ye? What d'ye want at this hour? The surgery is closed."
Alen stepped into the light. He 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, shouting, "Doctor! Doctor Amalia!"
Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed on the flagstones.
An elegant woman appeared in the doorway. She was in her late seventies, but she stood straight as a rod. She wore a white doctor's coat over a thick wool sweater. Her silver hair was tied back, and her face was lined with the map of a life spent saving others. But her eyes—sharp, intelligent, and fiercely blue—were undimmed.
Amalia R. Richard.
She stopped. She looked at the scarred, dangerous-looking man on her doorstep. She didn't see the Wesker blood. She didn't see the killer who had burned down a bar in Texas. She saw the boy she had raised.
"Alen?" her voice wavered.
"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 dropped.
Amalia pulled back, cupping 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 offered a shy, nervous bow.
"This is Ruby," Alen put 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… who 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 ask about the scars, the stolen car, or the haunted look in his eyes.
"Why would you ask, you foolish boy?" Amalia chided 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.