Here is the polished, expanded, and novelized version of Chapter 135. It blends the high-stakes bio-horror of Resident Evil with the stoic, almost accidental romance of a psychological thriller.
Chapter 135: The Ghost and the Doll Maker
Location: House Beneviento – The Workshop
Date: July 29, 2020
Time: 07:00 AM Local Time
The workshop was silent, save for the rhythmic, hollow ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall. The morning light filtered through the heavy velvet curtains, casting long, pale beams across the dusty floorboards.
Alen Wesker sat in the high-backed velvet armchair, a statue of absolute control.
He was not wearing his usual "Hat Man" attire. Today, he had shed the identity of the wandering phantom and donned the armor of a god. He wore the iconic tactical suit of the Umbrella Chronicles era—a long, glossy black leather trench coat with a high mandarin collar and flaring vented tails that pooled around his boots. Beneath it, a tailored wool-blend suit jacket layered over a ribbed black turtleneck. His hands were encased in shiny black leather gloves, and his feet in polished oxford shoes that gleamed with a metallic sheen.
He had dyed his hair jet black, erasing the blonde of the Wesker line to blend into the shadows. With his dark sunglasses in place, he looked like a silhouette cut from obsidian—a figure of god-like superiority and tactical menace.
His Cognitive Dominion was active, emitting a low hum of psychic static that kept the house isolated from Mother Miranda's prying mind.
He waited.
Five minutes later, the workshop door creaked open.
Donna Beneviento stepped inside. She stopped dead. Her body went rigid, her breath hitching in her throat. Through her black mourning veil, her one good eye widened in primal terror.
She wasn't just seeing Alen; she was seeing a ghost. She was seeing the monster who had burned the world in the stories Miranda told. The leather, the sunglasses, the impossible stillness—it was pure nightmare fuel.
"Status," Alen commanded. His voice was a low, frictionless baritone, devoid of empathy. It didn't ask; it demanded.
Donna couldn't speak. She trembled, clutching her chest, her knees threatening to buckle.
It was the doll, Angie, who broke the silence. The puppet jerked to life in Donna's arms, her wooden jaw clacking nervously.
"Whoa! Warning next time, Mr. Hat Man!" Angie shrieked, her voice high and shaky. "You look like the Grim Reaper got a makeover! You're scaring Donna half to death! She thinks she's seeing a ghost!"
Alen didn't move. He simply tilted his head, his sunglasses reflecting the terrified woman.
"Fear is a redundant emotion," Alen stated coldly. "Did you acquire the assets?"
"Y-Yes," Angie stammered, acting as the mouthpiece for Donna's paralyzed vocal cords. "We got the Cadou parasites from Mother's lab. And... the dolls. I'm made, but the Donna-doll is gonna take some time. You can't rush perfection!"
Donna moved stiffly, walking to the workbench as if walking to the gallows. With shaking hands, she produced three glass containment jars from beneath her shawl. Inside, the Cadou parasites writhed—pale, worm-like nightmares suspended in amber fluid.
"Acceptable," Alen noted, his gaze tracking the parasites.
Then, Donna hesitated. She reached deep into her robes and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound book. It was old, the cover cracked and worn, smelling of mildew and decay.
"There is... something else," Angie whispered.
Alen stood up. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace, the leather of his trench coat whispering against itself. He took the book.
"Explain."
"It is a duplicate," Angie said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mother Miranda's research journal. The original is in her sanctum, but she kept this one in the archives years ago. I found it. It has... everything."
Alen opened the book. His eyes scanned the pages behind his glasses. Diagrams of the Mutamycete fungal root. Genetic sequencing of the Cadou. The chemical composition of the mold. It was outdated, decaying, but the data was pure.
"Precise," Alen murmured, a rare flicker of clinical satisfaction crossing his face. "With this, the synthesis of the Reverse-Engineered Cadou will be accelerated by 40%. You have exceeded expectations, Donna."
He closed the book with a sharp snap.
The Question
Donna stared at him. For the first time, she spoke with her own voice—soft, raspy, and laced with a deep, haunting sorrow.
"Why?"
Alen looked up. "Elaborate."
"Why save me?" Donna stepped closer, clutching her chest. "What do you intend to do with me after I am cured? Will you use me like Miranda? Will you use me as a pawn... just like your father used Excella Gionne?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
Alen froze. The mention of his father—and the woman whose face Isabella wore—struck a nerve deep within his psyche. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. He lowered the journal slowly.
He looked at Donna. He saw the scars. He saw the veil hiding her shame. He saw a woman broken by isolation, manipulated by a god who promised family but delivered only parasites.
He walked toward her. He didn't stop until he was looming over her, his presence overwhelming.
"You are under a misconception," Alen said, his voice dropping to a low, intense growl. "You are not a pawn. You are a victim."
Donna flinched, but she didn't back away.
"I know your history," Alen continued, his tone clinical yet strangely intimate. "Your sister, Claudia, died screaming when Miranda implanted the first Cadou. Your parents took their own lives in despair. You were left alone in this mausoleum with nothing but a doll your father made. Miranda adopted you, yes. But she didn't give you a family. She gave you a cage."
Tears welled in Donna's eye, hot and stinging. He was peeling back her soul with surgical precision.
"She exploited your mental instability," Alen said, his blue eyes glowing faintly behind the lenses. "She turned your trauma into a weapon. But I am not her. And I am not Albert Wesker."
He reached out, his gloved hand hovering near her face, almost touching the veil.
"I was raised by humanity, Donna. My grandmother taught me that power without purpose is just tyranny. If I were my father, this valley would already be a crater. But I am here. Saving you."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated in her bones.
"You are better than the other Lords. Dimitrescu is a vanity project. Moreau is a mistake. Heisenberg is a child throwing a tantrum. But you... you survived the silence. You are a broken woman, yes. But you are my woman."
The world stopped.
The Glitch
Donna's heart skipped a beat. A flush of heat rushed to her pale cheeks, burning beneath the scars. Her mind reeled.
My woman.
"Did..." Donna gasped, her voice trembling. "Did you just say I am... your woman?"
Alen blinked.
The cold, calculated mask slipped for a fraction of a second. He realized what he had said. The logic of "asset acquisition" had crossed wires with something... else. Something possessive. Something protective.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his leather gloves with a sharp, jerky movement. He looked away, his stoic demeanor returning like a steel shutter slamming down.
"I meant... you are under my protection," Alen corrected, his voice stiff with awkwardness. "You are a critical asset within my sphere of influence. Do not read into the semantics."
He turned his back to her, pacing to the window to hide the rare loss of composure.
Suddenly, he stumbled.
"Ghh..."
Alen dropped to one knee, clutching his chest. The black veins of the A-Virus flared on his neck, pulsing violently against the collar of his shirt. The stress of maintaining the Cognitive Dominion jammer was taking its toll.
"Alen!"
Donna rushed to him. She dropped to her knees, her hands hovering over him, terrified to touch him but terrified to let him fall.
Alen fumbled for the silver case in his coat. He pulled out the high-dose stabilizer vial prepared by Julian Fraser. He injected it into his neck with a hiss.
The black veins receded. His breathing steadied.
Donna reached out, her hand resting tentatively on his shoulder. She patted the heavy leather coat—a clumsy, gentle gesture of comfort.
"You... you don't look good," Donna whispered. "I can see it. The tiredness inside you. It's deep. You carry the weight of the world, don't you?"
Alen looked at her. For a moment, the Predator was gone. Only a tired man remained.
"I am functioning within acceptable parameters," Alen lied, standing up and brushing off his coat. He adjusted his sunglasses. "Focus on the mission. Finish the dolls. Act normal."
He grabbed the briefcase containing the parasites and the journal. He moved to the door.
The Departure
"Where are you going?" Donna asked, her voice filled with a sudden, desperate loneliness.
"I have business to attend to. Logistics."
He paused at the door. His eyes scanned the room, landing on a small, framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It was old—a picture of a young Donna Beneviento, unscarred, holding the original Angie doll in the sunlight. She was smiling.
Alen picked it up. He slipped it into his inner pocket.
"Why?" Donna asked, confused. "Why are you taking that?"
Alen didn't turn around. He adjusted his collar, the shadow covering his eyes.
"Because," Alen said, his voice low, sincere, and utterly devoid of deception. "You are beautiful."
Donna stood frozen. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. No one—not in her entire life—had ever said that to her. Not Miranda. Not her parents. No one.
Before she could speak, the air shimmered.
[ABILITY ACTIVATED: SPATIAL-PHANTOM MOVEMENT]
Alen didn't walk out; he dissolved. His form blurred into a streak of black static and afterimages, phasing through the solid wood of the door and vanishing into the wind.
Donna stared at the empty space where he had stood. She touched her cheek, feeling the heat.
For the first time in forever, the silence of the house didn't feel like a tomb. It felt like a waiting room.
She looked at Angie.
"He's coming back," Donna whispered.
And for the first time, she believed it.
Status:
Assets Secured: Cadou Parasites, Miranda's Journal.
Alliance: Solidified.
Donna Beneviento: Emotional State - Compromised / Hopeful.
Alen Wesker: Vital Signs - Stabilizing. Tactical Withdrawal Complete.