Location: The Trevor Manor (Carpathian Annex), Eastern Europe
Date: November 24, 2019
Time: 17:15 Local Time
The silence of the manor was not empty; it was heavy, like the held breath of a predator waiting for its prey to look away.
Alen Wesker stood in the center of the Grand Hall. The air inside was stale, preserved by fifty years of cold isolation, smelling of dust, dry rot, and the faint, metallic scent of snow seeping through the stone. He pulled down his hood. His sharp, pale features were illuminated only by the dying gray light filtering through the high windows. His expression was a flat line—unreadable, bored, and dangerous.
It was magnificent. A double staircase swept up to a balcony in a perfect, geometric curve—identical to the blueprints of the Spencer Mansion in the Arklay Mountains, but liberated from Spencer's claustrophobic demands. Here, the ceilings soared. A massive crystal chandelier hung silent and dark above him, a dormant star.
"This isn't a house," Alen whispered, his voice smooth and devoid of warmth. "This is a throne."
He walked to the center of the room, his boots clicking softly on the marble. He could see the obsession in the architecture—the subtle seams of hidden panels in the wainscoting, the intricate woodwork that hinted at mechanisms beneath, the puzzles built into the very bones of the walls.
"You built this for yourself, didn't you, George?" Alen said to the empty room, his tone conversational, as if speaking to a disappointing subordinate. "A place where Spencer couldn't find you. A sanctuary for your family. A pity you lacked the foresight to use it before he buried you."
He stared up at the gallery. He felt no sympathy, only a clinical appreciation for the structural paranoia. George Trevor had been a man trapped by monsters in suits. Alen was a man trapped by monsters in his blood.
"Trinity," Alen commanded, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Boot the manor's geothermal heating. Establish the encrypted uplink to Ireland. This is Forward Operating Base Alpha."
<< Affirmative. Systems initializing. Welcome home, Alen. >>
The AI's voice was a warm presence in the cold room. Deep beneath the floorboards, ancient pipes groaned as heat began to circulate for the first time in decades.
Alen walked toward the massive bay window, looking out over the precipice. Miles below, the valley was swallowed by a thick, supernatural fog. Somewhere in that white void lay the village. Somewhere down there, Mother Miranda played god with a fungus that remembered the dead.
"The landlord is home," Alen said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "And the rent is due."
The Call
Time: 18:00
Alen retreated to the library, a high-ceilinged room lined with rotting books on philosophy, botany, and structural engineering. He sat at the heavy oak reading table, dusting off a leather-bound volume of architectural theory with a gloved hand.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sharp trill of his secure satellite phone.
He glanced at the screen. ID: MATEO CÁRDENAS ORTEGA.
Alen picked up. He didn't say hello. "Ortega."
"Amigo!" The voice on the other end was warm, crackling with the static of a long-distance encrypted line. "How are you doing? Do you like your new house in the middle of nowhere?"
"The architecture is adequate," Alen replied, leaning back in the creaking chair, his face impassive. "Though your methods require explanation. How did you acquire a deed belonging to a man who died in the 1960s? This place shouldn't exist on any registry."
"Amigo, you know me very well," Ortega chuckled darkly. "I used to do deals for Umbrella Corporation logistics before the fall. I found the deed in a misfiled cache of assets from a dead shell company. I know a man who knows a man... let's just say the paperwork was buried deeper than the foundation."
Ortega's voice softened. "Rest in peace for the Trevors. They didn't deserve that death, did they?"
Alen looked at the dusty books. He thought of Lisa Trevor, the girl who became a test subject for thirty years, and the grave marker in the Arklay woods.
"Deserve has nothing to do with it," Alen said coldly. "They were weak. Spencer was efficient. That is the history of the world."
"You sound like him," Ortega noted, his tone wary. "Listen very carefully, Alen. I have a housewarming surprise for you. I know you. I know you didn't go there to retire. You went there to hunt. So, I put a little gift in the basement. A full Tier-4 advanced laboratory. Everything you need. Cryo-containers, sequencers, the works."
Alen blinked once. A flicker of interest. "You stocked it?"
"I thought you might need it," Ortega said grimly. "Stay away from that mother in the village, Alen. My intel says she is ancient. Her Four Lords... they are not biological errors. They are masterpieces. They don't know you are there yet. They are unaware that a predator is watching them from the cliffs."
"Let them enjoy their ignorance," Alen said, standing up. "Fear is a lesson best taught in person."
"Stay safe, hermano."
"Maintain the perimeter, Ortega."
Alen cut the call, slipping the phone into his pocket. He moved to a hidden door behind a bookcase—he didn't need to search for it; he simply understood Trevor's logic. He pressed the spine of a book titled The nature of Tragical Science.
Click.
The bookcase swung open. He descended the stone spiral stairs into the dark.
The Aftershock
Ortega hadn't lied. The basement had been converted. Stainless steel tables, a massive server bank for Trinity, a centrifuge for the Necrotoxin, and a pristine cryogenic storage unit hummed in the dark.
On the central desk lay a physical note. "A parting gift for my guardian angel brother. — M."
"Trinity," Alen said, looking at the setup with clinical approval. "Efficiency is a rare commodity. It seems Ortega has his uses."
<< Affirmative, Master. >>
Alen took a step toward the console, and then—
The pain hit him. It wasn't a cramp; it was a structural failure of his biology.
Alen gasped, a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth. His knees buckled, and he crashed to the concrete floor, one hand gripping the edge of the steel table to break his fall. The world spun in jagged streaks of red and black.
"Gah!"
He ripped his shirt open. The black, necrotic veins of the A-Virus—dormant for months—were surging again. They pulsed violently against his pale skin, spreading from his heart like a spiderweb of ink. The stress of the travel, the cold, and the proximity to the Mold were triggering a reaction.
<< Warning! >> Trinity's voice spiked with high concern. << Vital signs critical. Systemic rejection detected. Master, use the silver case! The prototype! >>
Alen's vision blurred. He didn't panic. He didn't scream. He forced his mind to override the screaming nerves. Locate. Administer. Survive.
He crawled toward the metal table, his movements jerky but precise. He reached for the silver case. His fingers fumbled with the latches.
Snap.
Inside, nestled in blue foam, were the six vials of glowing green liquid. The Fraser/Chambers Prototype. He grabbed the autoinjector, loaded a vial with a mechanical click, and jammed it into his chest, directly into the heart muscle.
Hiss.
The cold liquid flooded his system.
Alen arched his back, his eyes rolling back for a second as the vaccine fought the virus. Slowly, the burning subsided. The black veins receded, sinking back beneath the surface of his skin. The tremors stopped.
He lay on the floor for a minute, breathing hard, sweat cooling on his forehead.
<< Are you alright, Master? >>
Alen sat up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt the familiar hum of the Progenitor virus repairing the cellular damage.
"The frailty of this form is... tiresome," Alen rasped, standing up and buttoning his shirt. He checked his reflection in the dark glass of the cryo-chamber. He looked weak. He looked human.
His expression hardened into a mask of absolute indifference.
"That ends now," Alen said. "We focus on the mission. I will adopt the 'Hat Man' persona. In a village of superstitions, I will be their omen."
The Transformation
Alen walked to his motorcycle saddlebags and pulled out a black, reinforced suitcase. He set it on the table and unzipped it.
Inside lay the legacy of Isabella Gionne. The armor of a ghost.
* The Coat: A long, black duster made of the same ballistic weave his father wore, but modified for stealth. Matte, light-absorbing, silent.
* The Hat: A wide-brimmed fedora, designed to cast his eyes in eternal shadow.
* The Underlayer: A tactical black turtleneck and combat trousers.
Alen stripped off his travel gear. He dressed in the new skin. He pulled the turtleneck on. He fastened the tactical belt. He shrugged into the long duster coat, the fabric settling around him like smoke. Finally, he placed the hat on his head and tilted the brim low.
He looked in the mirror. Alen Richard was gone. The Ghost was back. Beneath the shadowed brim, his eyes began to glow—a faint, bioluminescent blue that pierced the dark.
"Trinity," Alen said, his voice deeper, more resonant. "Transcribe a requisition order for Ortega. I require specific hardware for this hunt. The local lycans possess enhanced durability. I need stopping power, not subtlety."
<< Ready to transcribe, Master. >>
"I need the Woox Superleggera sniper rifle for long-range surveillance," Alen listed, checking his holsters. "A modern tactical Winchester M1873 for mid-range kinetic impact. The S&W M&P R8 revolver—eight rounds of .357 magnum for close encounters. A lever-action G&G Lev AR-15. And a SCAR-H with KDG additions for when the situation degrades."
<< The request is sent. Mr. Ortega has received the message. The shipment will be air-dropped to the extraction zone within 48 hours. Anything else, Sir? >>
"Yes. Send a message regarding the Night-Wing. Tell him to land it at a secure airbase in France and bury it. I will retrieve it when I am finished here."
<< He has replied instantly. He says: "It waits for you." >>
"Good."
The Discovery of the Roots
Alen left the lab and returned to the main floor. He needed to understand his fortress.
He walked into the Study. A large oil painting of the Trevor family hung above the fireplace—George, his wife Jessica, and their daughter Lisa. They looked happy. Unaware of the horror.
Alen's enhanced eyes noticed something. The dust pattern on the frame was uneven.
He reached up and felt the side of the frame. A latch.
Click.
The painting swung forward on silent hinges. Behind it sat a small, recessed safe. It was unlocked. Inside was a single, leather-bound book.
The Diary of George Trevor.
Alen opened it. The handwriting was precise, architectural.
> "I built for Spencer a cage of puzzles, but here, I build for myself a sanctuary of roots. The woman in the valley—Miranda—she is not like Spencer. He plays with chemicals; she plays with souls. I have seen the things they do in the village. I have seen the 'gifts' she bestows upon the Four Lords."
> "My house sits on the precipice, but my reach goes deeper. If the shadow comes for the Trevor name, we will not run; we will simply vanish into the mountain. I have constructed the 'Seven Veins'—a catacomb system that extends like tree roots deep into the valley."
>
Alen turned the page. A fold-out map spilled open.
It was a tactical masterpiece. Trevor had hollowed out the mountain. Seven distinct tunnels radiated from the Manor's sub-basement, traveling kilometers underground to strategic locations in the valley below.
* Path of the Silent Watcher: Leads to a hidden watchtower inside a hollow mountain peak overlooking the entire village.
* Path of the Weeping Stone: Exits through a false crypt in the Village Graveyard.
* Path of the Iron Vein: Ends at a drainage grate near Heisenberg's Factory.
* Path of the Cold Deep: Emerges in the caves beneath Moreau's Reservoir.
* Path of the Red Rose: Leads to the wine cellars of Castle Dimitrescu.
* Path of the Fog: Bypasses the hallucinogenic plants of House Beneviento.
* The Shadow Bunker: A reinforced holding cell buried directly behind the village proper.
Alen traced the lines with his gloved finger.
"You didn't just build a house, George," Alen whispered, a faint, cruel smile touching his lips. "You built a siege engine."
He closed the diary with a decisive thud.
"Trinity. Deploy the spider-drones into the Path of the Silent Watcher. I want eyes on the village tonight."
<< Deploying. >>
Alen walked to the window. The fog swirled, hiding the monsters below. But they couldn't hide from him anymore. He had the high ground. He had the tunnels. He had the cure.
He adjusted his hat, his silhouette sharp against the glass.
"Let the game begin."