Location: The Dragos Ridge, Perimeter of the Shadow Village
Date: February 19, 2020
Time: 14:30 Local Time
The winter in the Carpathians did not end; it merely deepened.
For three months, Alen Wesker had been a machine. His routine was a cycle of violence and science. Capture. Analyze. Synthesize. Discard.
He had filled the lower containment cells of the Trevor Manor with the horrors of the village. Moroaica dragged screaming from the dungeons. Samca plucked from the sky. Lycans lured into pit traps. To Alen, they were not living beings; they were biological errors. The virus in his blood made him view them with a cold, aristocratic detachment. They were just meat for the grinder of his research.
He was perfecting the Necrotoxin. He was refining the Vaccine. He worked day and night, his blue eyes glowing in the dark of the lab, his personality calcifying into the stoic, terrifying mold of his biological father.
But today, the variables changed.
The Anomalous Signal
Alen crouched on a high branch of an ancient pine tree, two miles from the Village center. He was a shadow against the snow, his black duster coat motionless.
< EXECUTE: REALITY-LENS PERCEPTION >
His vision shifted. The world turned into a wireframe of grey data.
* Heartbeats: Detected.
* Patrol Paths: Highlighted in red lines.
* Structural Weaknesses: Glowing orange.
It was the instinct of an assassin amplified by a supercomputer. He scanned the terrain, looking for a lone Varcolac he had been tracking for days.
Suddenly, the lens flared red.
* ALERT: High-Decibel Impact.
* Signature: Class-5 Threat (Urias Străjer).
* Target: Unidentified Biological.
"Interesting," Alen murmured.
He moved.
< ACTIVATE: SPATIAL-PHANTOM MOVEMENT >
He didn't climb down; he vanished. Leaving a blur of black afterimages—a visual glitch in reality—he phased through the dense foliage, dropping forty feet in a second. He landed silently, the snow barely crunching beneath his boots.
He sprinted toward the clearing, moving faster than the eye could track, a blur of motion weaving through the trees.
The Arctic Ghost
Alen skid to a halt behind a rock formation. What he saw defied the logic of the region.
In the center of the clearing stood a Urias Străjer—one of the gargantuan, armored guardians of the village. It wielded a massive, spiked mace that weighed as much as a car.
And it was trying to kill a wolf.
But not a local wolf. This creature was massive, pristine white, with thick fur designed for zero-degree temperatures. An Arctic Wolf (Canis lupus arctos). It was bleeding heavily from a gash on its flank, limping, cornered against a cliff face.
"You are far from home," Alen whispered.
The Urias raised its massive mace, roaring with a sound that shook the snow from the trees. It was going to crush the white wolf into paste.
Alen felt a spike of genuine anger. He hated the Mold. He hated the Lycans. But a natural predator? A creature of pure instinct? That was something noble. That was something worth saving.
Alen stepped out from the shadows, his hand blurring to his holster.
"Hey," Alen called out, his voice calm, arrogant, and piercing.
The giant stopped. The massive armored head turned.
Alen stood with his hands at his sides, his duster blowing in the wind. "Pick a fight with someone your own size, you overgrown fungus."
The Dance of Death
The Urias Străjer roared, forgetting the wolf, and charged at Alen. The ground shook with every step.
"Predictable," Alen noted.
As the massive mace swung down to obliterate him, Alen triggered the Spatial-Phantom.
WHOOSH.
The mace smashed into the ground, cracking the bedrock. But Alen was gone. He reappeared instantly on the creature's back, defying gravity.
Bang. Bang.
Two shots from the Samurai Edge – AW Model-01. The bullets struck the creature's exposed neck, blowing chunks of fungal armor away.
The giant thrashed, throwing Alen off. Alen flipped in mid-air, landing in a crouch ten meters away.
"You are strong," Alen said, holstering the Samurai Edge and drawing the S&W M&P R8 Revolver from his chest rig. The cylinder spun with a heavy click. "But you are slow."
The giant lunged again, faster this time.
Alen's eyes glowed blue. He saw the trajectory before the creature even moved. He side-stepped the attack by a millimeter, the wind of the weapon rushing past his face.
"Die."
Alen leveled the revolver. Necrotoxin Rounds loaded.
He fired three times in rapid succession. The heavy .357 magnum rounds, tipped with the green toxin, punched through the creature's helmet and into its brain stem.
The effect was instantaneous.
The Urias Străjer froze mid-step. The green veins of the toxin spread across its grey skin like lightning. It let out a gurgling, confused sound, and then collapsed forward, crashing into the snow like a fallen tower. Its body began to calcify and crumble into dust.
Alen stood over the corpse, holstering his weapon. He wasn't even out of breath.
Trust
Silence returned to the forest.
Alen turned slowly toward the cliff wall. The white wolf was still there. She was snarling, baring her teeth, terrified. Her yellow eyes were wide, dilated with pain and adrenaline. She tried to stand, but her back leg collapsed.
Alen lowered his hood. The glowing blue in his eyes faded, leaving them a piercing, human blue. The cold "Wesker" mask softened, just for a moment.
"Easy," Alen said softly, holding his hands up, palms open. "I am not the enemy."
He approached slowly. The wolf snapped at the air, warning him.
"I know. It hurts," Alen murmured, his voice hypnotic. "But if you stay here, you freeze. Or the others come back."
He got close enough to see the detail on her neck. A heavy iron collar with a broken chain. A metal tag read: "EXOTIC ASSET #404 - CARTEL LOGISTICS."
"Escaped form a smuggler's van," Alen deduced. "Likely crashed in the mountains. You're a survivor, aren't you?"
He knelt down. The wolf watched him, sensing the power radiating off him, but also the lack of aggression. When he reached out, she didn't bite. She whimpered.
Alen examined the leg. Deep laceration. Muscle damage. But the bone was intact.
"I'm going to pick you up now," Alen told her. "Do not bite me. My skin is harder than your teeth."
He slid his arms under her massive frame. She weighed over 130 pounds, but to Alen, she was as light as a feather. He lifted her against his chest. She stiffened, then slumped against the warmth of his coat, exhausted.
"Let's go home."
The Patient
Location: Trevor Manor, Med-Bay
Time: 16:00
The lab was warm.
Alen had placed the wolf on a surgical table lowered to the floor, padded with sterile blankets. He worked with the precision of a surgeon. He cleaned the wound, stitched the muscle, and wrapped the leg in advanced bio-weave bandages.
The wolf watched him the entire time, her yellow eyes tracking his hands. She seemed to understand that the pain was fading.
"Trinity," Alen said, wiping his hands on a towel. "Run the blood panel."
He inserted a sample into the analyzer. This was the moment of truth. If she was infected with the Mold... he would have to put her down.
The screen loaded.
<< ANALYSIS COMPLETE. >>
<< STATUS: NEGATIVE. NO CADOU PARASITE DETECTED. >>
<< SUBJECT IS PURE. >>
Alen let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Good."
He walked to the kitchenette in the corner of the lab. He pulled out a raw, premium steak—his own dinner. He didn't care. He heated it slightly, just enough to release the scent, and carried it over.
He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her.
"Eat," Alen said, placing the plate down. "You need the protein."
The wolf sniffed the air. Her hunger overrode her fear. She devoured the steak in seconds, licking the plate clean. Then, she drank a bowl of warm water Alen provided.
Satiated and warm, she looked at Alen. She dragged her body forward and rested her heavy white head on Alen's knee.
Alen froze. He looked down at the creature. For months, he had touched nothing but cold metal, guns, and dead bodies. The warmth of the animal was... grounding.
He reached out and buried his hand in her thick, white fur, scratching behind her ears.
"You and I..." Alen whispered, a genuine, rare smile breaking his stoic face. "We are both ghosts in this place. We don't belong here."
She looked up at him, her yellow eyes filled with intelligence.
"Freya," Alen said, the name coming to him instantly. The Norse goddess. Beautiful, but dangerous. "I will call you Freya."
Epilogue: The Duo
Date: March 15, 2020 (One Month Later)
The recovery was miraculous, aided by trace amounts of regenerative gel Alen applied to her food.
In the snow-covered courtyard of the Trevor Manor, a blur of motion tore through the air.
Alen Wesker stood in the center, holding a training sleeve. "Freya, Attack!"
The white blur launched itself. Freya, fully healed and stronger than ever, hit Alen's arm with the force of a missile. Her jaws locked onto the protective sleeve.
Alen didn't stagger, but he smiled. "Good grip. Release!"
She let go instantly, dropping to the ground and waiting for the next command.
Alen knelt down, rubbing her head aggressively as she wagged her tail—a behavior she only showed him. She wasn't just a pet. She was a tactical asset. She watched his back while he worked. She slept at the foot of his bed, chasing away the nightmares of Isabella and his mother.
Alen stood up, looking out over the precipice toward the Village. The "Wesker" persona slid back into place, cold and calculating. But as he rested his hand on the massive wolf's head, there was a difference.
He was no longer alone.
"Come, Freya," Alen commanded, walking back toward the armory. "We have work to do."
The white wolf trotted beside the man in black, two predators ready to face the monsters in the dark.
Status:
* Alen Wesker: Mental State Stabilized.
* Companion: Freya (Arctic Wolf) - Bonded.
* Mission: Preparation for the Village infiltration complete.