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The air in Dr. James Marcus’s office is standing still, thick with the scent of that strange, sterile sweetness that seeps into every inch of the training facility. Albert Wesker is sitting perfectly straight in the chair before the doctor’s desk, back taut against the stiff wood, hands resting on his knees like pieces of machinery carefully calibrated not to tremble. The faint yellow glow of the desk lamp pools across the room, spilling unevenly over the scattered papers and notebooks that litter Marcus’s workspace. Each page is curling at the edges, scrawled with tight handwriting and sketches that mean nothing to the uninitiated. The chaos of the desk, the disorder of it, is something that irritates Wesker in a way he cannot quite name. It feels undisciplined. Human.
He studies the small office with methodical detachment. The room isn’t large. The walls close in like the narrow confines of a cell. There are no trophies or signs of comfort, only the barest arrangement of function: shelves bowed with heavy binders, a faint hum from the outdated ventilation system, and that dim lamp bleeding its light across the desk’s scratched surface.
It is evening, and the deep autumn outside presses against the windows. Beyond the glass, Wesker sees the silhouettes of tall, black, motionless trunks swallowing what remains of daylight. The forest wraps the facility like a secret.
His gaze catches on the one picture hanging crookedly on the wall. Three men stand side by side: Dr. Marcus, younger then, his smile stiff and hollow; Lord Ashford, with his pale aristocratic severity; and Oswell E. Spencer, the man whose shadow seems to stretch endlessly across every corner of Umbrella’s legacy.
Wesker’s eyes narrow, focusing on Spencer’s expression. That calm, watchful arrogance, the smile of a man who knows he owns the world. Something in Wesker’s chest tightens. He cannot help himself; Spencer’s name crawls through his mind like an infection he refuses to cure. He wonders what it would be like to stand where that man stands, to have that same omnipotent stillness, to be the one who looks down on creation and calls it his experiment.
He doesn’t hear Marcus speaking at first. The voice cuts through his reverie sharply, laced with irritation.
“Wesker. Are you listening?”
The words snap him back into the room like a slap. He curses himself inwardly for the lapse, it was a childish mistake, a sign of distraction, and tilts his chin in acknowledgment.
“My apologies, sir,” he says simply, his tone obedient. The apology costs him nothing, and he offers it without ceremony.
Marcus studies him for a heartbeat too long, then waves a hand dismissively and continues, his voice sharp with a mixture of pride and mania.
“As I was saying…you’ve both proven yourselves worthy of true Umbrella work. The experiments today have confirmed it. You handled yourselves admirably. Especially you, Wesker.”
Next to him, William Birkin sits rigid, shoulders trembling faintly under the blood-specked white of his lab coat. The boy’s face is ashen, his lips pressed together to keep them from shaking. He’s staring into the desk, refusing to lift his eyes toward Marcus.
Wesker glances at him briefly. That hollow, fragile posture, the look of someone trying to vanish into themselves. The faint smudge of blood on the sleeve is still visible, darkening as it dries.
Wesker remembers.
The image rises: Roger’s body thrashing against the restraints as the leeches sank into his skin, the wet sounds of flesh being torn apart, the faint tremors of life draining into death. The screams that began as words and ended as something animal. Birkin had turned away, shaking, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from a nightmare. Wesker had watched. Not because he wanted to but because he had to. Because observation was survival here. Because fear was weakness, and weakness had no place under Umbrella’s eye.
Marcus is still talking, pacing slightly behind the desk, his hands gesturing as though conducting some invisible orchestra. His voice vibrates with fanatic conviction.
“The two of you, you will carry this work forward. The potential is extraordinary. The T-virus will change everything, and I see in you the minds capable of perfecting it.”
Wesker listens now. The words sink into him and they are cold and intoxicating. Power. Advancement. Evolution. Each phrase feeds something deep and restless in him. He can almost feel it, the future being built beneath their hands, the future that will belong to those strong enough to mold it. And yet, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Birkin again. He's trembling, barely holding together. There’s a faint pang in Wesker’s chest, a sliver of something unwanted. Sympathy, maybe. Or pity. He doesn’t let it grow.
He turns his eyes back to Marcus and forces the feeling away, burying it deep where it cannot rot him from within.
“Yes, sir” he answers, voice calm and precise, the very model of control. His detachment is armor, polished and cold.
Marcus finally waves a hand toward the door, dismissing them. “You may go. I expect you both to be ready for the next stage by tomorrow morning.”
Wesker stands. The chair legs scrape faintly against the floor. Birkin follows, slower, unsteady on his feet. As they turn toward the door, Wesker casts one final glance at the desk — the scattered papers, the glow of the lamp, the faint shadow of Marcus’s obsession soaking into the room like a stain. He says nothing.
Outside the office, the corridor stretches into darkness. Wesker steps through first, the heavy door creaking behind him. Birkin trails after, his silence thick with exhaustion.
The door closes behind them with a low thud that echoes faintly through the dim corridor. The air outside Marcus’s office feels colder and heavier, as if the building itself is holding its breath. The sterile hum of the facility’s lights stretches above them, flickering in intervals, casting long, uneven shadows along the tiled floor. Wesker’s steps are measured and quiet, his boots striking in an almost metronomic rhythm. Every move he makes feels rehearsed, perfected into precision.
Birkin, on the other hand, moves like a wire pulled too tight. His steps are quick, erratic, nearly stumbling over themselves as he pushes forward through the narrow hall. His breath catches in ragged gasps, the sound sharp in the still air. He’s muttering under his breath half-formed words, fragmented thoughts.
Wesker glances at him once, briefly, assessing. The boy looks even younger out here, stripped of Marcus’s watchful presence. His face pale beneath the flickering light, blond hair clinging to his forehead with sweat. The faint trace of blood on his lab coat stands out like an accusation.
They walk a few more paces in silence before Birkin suddenly stops, turning toward Wesker with a wild, unfocused look in his eyes. His hands tremble as he reaches out and grabs Wesker by the collar of his uniform. The movement is clumsy and desperate. Not aggressive, but pleading. His grip tightens, knuckles whitening.
“Wesker,” he breathes, voice barely holding itself together. “We have to get out of here. Do you hear me? This– this isn’t right. What we saw, what he made us watch–...” His voice breaks on the last word. He swallows hard and continues, the words tumbling over each other in a frantic rush. “It’s wrong. They killed him, Albert. Roger. He was just—...he was one of us. And those things–” He cuts himself off, shaking his head violently as if trying to erase the image from his mind. “We can’t stay here. We can’t–”
Wesker’s expression hardens instantly. The physical contact, the sheer closeness, triggers something unpleasant inside him. He can feel the boy’s uneven breath against his neck, the twitch of his fingers at his collar. It’s too close. Too personal. His muscles stiffen, and for a moment, the urge to recoil borders on instinct. He steps back sharply, forcing Birkin’s hand away with controlled precision. It's not violence but the rejection is cold enough to sting.
“Enough.” His voice cuts through the air, low and edged with irritation. “Pull yourself together, Birkin.”
Birkin flinches at the tone, his eyes wide and glassy under the harsh light. The boy looks like he’s about to say something else, but no words come. He just stands there, trembling while staring at the floor.
Wesker exhales slowly, suppressing the rise of annoyance curling in his chest. He straightens his collar with an almost obsessive motion, smoothing away the faint wrinkle where Birkin’s hand had been. He hates being touched. He hates being reminded that he’s human enough to be touched.
He studies Birkin — the hunched shoulders, the trembling fingers still clutching at the edge of his sleeve, the way his breath comes too fast. There’s something painfully boyish about him, something unrefined and too soft for this place. A mind sharp enough to dissect gods, trapped inside a body that still trembles at the sight of blood. Wesker can’t decide if he pities him or despises him for it.
For a fleeting moment, a dark satisfaction coils inside him. The knowledge that he’s stronger. Colder. More suited to survive the crucible that Umbrella demands of them. He is control where Birkin is chaos. Strength where Birkin is trembling weakness. The thought brings a strange sense of superiority, a pulse of pride that feels almost like warmth. But it doesn’t last.
Because even as he looks at Birkin, Wesker knows the truth. They’re both prisoners here. Both owned by the same invisible hand that pulls the strings above their heads. Marcus, Spencer; the architects of their fate. No matter how perfect, how composed he becomes, Wesker is still just another specimen under their microscope. A tool shaped for obedience. A creation, not a creator. The realization eats at him like acid.
Birkin finally looks up, eyes red-rimmed and unguarded. “I can’t stop seeing it,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Every time I blink, I see his face. The way he screamed–”
“Stop,” Wesker interrupts, not unkindly this time. His voice softens, not out of compassion but necessity. He can’t stand the sound of Birkin’s fear. It feels too loud, too alive. He sighs and starts walking again “Come on. Let’s get back to the dorms.”
Birkin hesitates, then follows, dragging his feet slightly. The silence between them stretches long, broken only by the faint hum of electricity and the echo of their steps on the tiled floor.
Wesker glances at him sidelong, the boy’s profile lit by the weak fluorescent light. He looks like he could break in half under the weight of his own thoughts. Wesker doesn’t know how to comfort him. He never has. Empathy feels like a foreign language his brain refuses to learn. But he knows distraction. He knows routine. Order. Control.
“You can set up the chessboard when we get back,” Wesker says finally, tone quieter now. “If it’ll help.”
Birkin blinks at him, confusion flickering through his exhaustion. “Chess?”
“Yes.” Wesker keeps his gaze forward. “You’ve been studying new openings, haven’t you? Show me.”
The offer is blunt, clinical almost, but something in it steadies Birkin. His posture straightens slightly, and he nods. It's a small, fragile gesture, but it’s something. Wesker catches it and feels the faintest, unwelcome flicker of relief.
They walk the rest of the way in silence, the tension thinning into something almost bearable. When they finally reach their dormitory door, Birkin exhales shakily, as if the simple act of arriving has grounded him. Wesker pauses before opening it, glancing once more down the hallway.
He knows there’s no way out. Not for either of them. Not yet. But he doesn’t say it.
He just opens the door, letting the light spill into the room, and mutters under his breath,
“You can have white tonight.”
Birkin almost smiles. Almost.
The dormitory is dim, the single ceiling light casting a muted, yellowish hue over the room. The space is small, just two narrow beds on opposite walls, a desk cluttered with papers and test notes, and a thin rug between them where they’ve set up the chessboard countless times before. It’s their ritual. Their one piece of order in a place built on chaos.
Wesker kneels on the rug, his posture impeccable as ever, one knee drawn up while his hand idly brushes a stray pawn back into place. The room hums faintly with the sound of the heating system, a low, mechanical drone that fills the silence. Birkin sits across from him, legs crossed, still wearing his half-buttoned lab coat. His hair is damp from sweat and stress, and his fingers tremble slightly as he arranges the pieces.
Normally, Birkin’s focus in these matches is unshakable. He’s methodical, sharp, his mind lights up when he plays, alive with calculation and competitiveness. But tonight, his eyes are elsewhere. His gaze keeps drifting toward the wall, unfocused, haunted. When Wesker moves a piece, Birkin reacts too late, often blinking as if startled out of a thought.
“You’re distracted” Wesker says evenly after a few turns, his tone not mocking but purely observational.
Birkin gives a weak laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe a little” He reaches for his knight, hesitates, then sets it down in the wrong position entirely.
The silence that follows is heavy. Wesker watches the way his hand lingers uncertainly over the board, the faint tremor in his jaw. Normally, he’d take the opportunity to scold him, to remind him that weakness is a luxury neither of them can afford. Normally, he’d seize on every flaw, sharpen Birkin through ridicule the same way Marcus sharpens them both through fear. But tonight, something holds him back.
He looks at Birkin, truly looks at him, and sees not the future scientist Umbrella is grooming but a sixteen-year-old boy trembling under the weight of what he’s seen. The image of Roger’s face flashes again in his mind, the scream, the tearing flesh, and then Birkin’s hands, clenched so tight they were shaking. Wesker exhales through his nose, steadying himself.
He doesn’t know how to comfort anyone. He never has. He was never taught softness, only discipline, precision, perfection. But he does understand one thing about Birkin: he thrives on recognition. Praise. Even false praise. It feeds him like oxygen.
So Wesker makes his move. Not the optimal one. Not the one he knows would checkmate Birkin in five turns. Instead, he leaves an opening, a trap reversed.
Birkin blinks, glances at the board, and slowly begins to see what Wesker has given him. His eyes sharpen, a flicker of the old arrogance returning. He moves his queen with a faint, trembling smile.
“Check,” he murmurs.
Wesker studies the board, pretending to think. He could easily undo this. He could show Birkin that this small triumph is an illusion. But he doesn’t. He moves one last piece, deliberately clumsy, and lets the boy take his king.
Birkin’s reaction is almost immediate. He exhales a shaky laugh, shoulders loosening as if some invisible weight has been lifted.
“Ha! I told you, I’d get you one of these days.” There’s pride in his voice again. It's boyish and unfiltered, something that doesn’t belong in this sterile world.
Wesker watches him quietly. His first instinct is to crush the illusion. To remind him who the better player is, who the superior mind has always been. It would be easy, a single sentence, and the pride would dissolve back into shame. But then Birkin smiles.
It’s faint, fleeting, but genuine. It’s the first real human expression Wesker has seen from him since they left the lab. And against his own logic, his own nature, Wesker finds himself holding his tongue.
“Congratulations,” he says, voice cold and distant but steady. “Well played.”
Birkin looks up, startled for a moment, then grins too wide, too bright for this place.
“Thanks. I told you I’d win eventually.” He leans back on his hands, laughing softly to himself. The sound feels alien in the quiet of the dorm.
Wesker only nods once.
Birkin rises, stretching, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, voice lighter now. “Don’t stay up too late thinking about your defeat, alright?”
He smirks, the playful arrogance of a boy trying to reclaim some sense of normalcy, and disappears into the adjoining bathroom. The faint hiss of running water follows soon after.
Wesker stays on the rug, staring down at the board. The pieces are still in their final arrangement, his king toppled, Birkin’s queen triumphant. A false victory, an illusion he crafted. Yet somehow, it feels heavier than truth.
He leans back, resting his elbows on his knees, and lets his eyes drift to the dim ceiling light. The thought lingers, uncomfortable and foreign: generosity. That’s what he’s just shown, isn’t it? A calculated act of kindness.
He tells himself it’s strategic, keeping Birkin stable benefits them both. But the logic feels thin, brittle. Because somewhere beneath that rationale, he knows he did it not for survival, but for the boy.
He sighs quietly, running a hand through his blond hair, expression unreadable. Feelings are dangerous. Attachment is a liability. Marcus would scoff, Spencer would sneer, and they would be right. Compassion weakens. Empathy corrupts discipline.
And yet…
He looks at the door where the faint sound of running water continues. The ghost of Birkin’s grin flickers behind his eyes.
Even if he hates it, Wesker is still human.
And humans, no matter how disciplined, still crave closeness, even if all they can allow themselves is a lie.
The facility sleeps, or at least pretends to. The faint hum of the generators echoes through the pipes, a distant, mechanical heartbeat that never truly fades. Wesker lies on his back, perfectly still, his eyes open and fixed on the ceiling above.
He should be asleep. He should have been asleep hours ago. But sleep refuses to come. Every time he closes his eyes, the image returns: the boy in the lab, Roger, writhing as the leeches tore into his flesh, the way the sound left his throat not as a scream, but as a wet, broken gasp. The smell of blood, the way it spattered the observation glass. The tremor that ran through the room — and through Birkin.
Wesker’s jaw tightens. He can deal with this. He’s been trained for this. Since childhood, his life has been a series of walls built to contain emotion, to shape him into something efficient, something cold. Fear, disgust, pity, they are useless words, relics of weaker men. He repeats it in his head like a prayer. I can deal with this.
But across the room he can hear the quiet sounds of Birkin’s suffering.
The boy is tossing in his narrow bed, sheets twisted around his legs, faint groans breaking the silence. Sometimes it’s just a breath, sometimes a muffled word. Wesker can’t tell if it’s apology or pleading. He shifts on his side, glaring into the dark as if his eyes could silence him. But the sounds keep coming: the rustle of fabric, the half-formed whimper of someone caught in a nightmare they can’t escape.
It irritates him. The noise, the weakness, the intrusion. But beneath that irritation, buried deep where he doesn’t want to name it, something stirs. Something small and dangerously human. He tells himself it’s pity, or perhaps annoyance disguised as concern. Yet he knows better. The truth is more complicated, something closer to care, though he resists the word like poison.
With a quiet exhale, he sits up. His bare feet touch the cold floor, and for a moment, he hesitates. The kind of hesitation that doesn’t belong to him. He looks at the bed across the room, where Birkin’s body shifts under the blanket, shoulders jerking with each shallow breath. In the dim light, he looks even smaller than usual, fragile in a way that disgusts and unnerves Wesker both.
The sight of him, disheveled, trembling, unkempt, draws a dry, involuntary thought: How utterly unattractive. His hair is sticking up, his face pale and blotchy from the remnants of tears. And yet, watching him, Wesker feels something twist low in his chest. Something raw.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Marcus would call it sentimentality, Spencer would call it failure. Umbrella would destroy him for it. But that’s exactly why he stands. The thought hits him with a sudden, electric clarity: they don’t want this.
Marcus wants them to be competitors. Spencer wants them to be tools. The entire world around them despises the idea of two boys showing anything human. And so, out of something that might be rebellion, or madness, he walks.
The floor creaks faintly as he crosses the room. Each step feels heavier, louder, even though his feet barely make a sound. When he reaches Birkin’s bed, he stops for a long moment, simply looking down. Birkin’s face is tense, his lips parted, whispering fragments of a name that never finishes. A line of sweat traces his temple.
Wesker sits down on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dips slightly under his weight. Birkin jolts awake with a small gasp, his eyes snapping open. For a second, he doesn’t even seem to recognize Wesker, he just stares, dazed and frightened, breath uneven.
“Wesker…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. There are tears clinging to his lashes.
The sight makes something unpleasant stir inside Wesker’s chest. He frowns, more to cover the feeling than to express it. “Stop making noise,” he says quietly, his tone sharp but hushed. “You’re keeping me awake.”
Birkin blinks bewildered. His voice trembles. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”
“Don’t apologize,” Wesker cuts in, sharper now, though his irritation isn’t truly anger. “Just stop it.” The harshness is a mask, one he wears easily. It’s easier than admitting why he’s here, why his heart is beating faster than it should.
For a long second, the silence stretches. Birkin stares at him, small and confused, and Wesker stares back, impassive and unreadable. Then, before he can second-guess it, he moves. He lies down behind the boy, the motion controlled but somehow reckless. His pulse thrums in his throat, loud and unsteady. It feels… wrong. Forbidden. A deliberate act of defiance against everything he has ever been told to be.
Birkin stiffens immediately, his breathing quickening. “What are you–”
“Be quiet,” Wesker murmurs, cutting him off. His voice is low, almost a growl. “Just go back to sleep.”
They both lie there, tense and uncertain, two mismatched pieces trying to fit. Birkin doesn’t seem to know what to do with his arms; one ends up awkwardly across his chest, the other half-draped between them. Wesker’s own movements are stiff and mechanical. Closeness is a language he’s never spoken. Birkin shifts, accidentally jabbing an elbow into Wesker’s ribs.
“Watch it,” Wesker mutters under his breath, suppressing a wince.
“Sorry,” Birkin mumbles, voice small. He shifts again, and somehow ends up half-turned toward Wesker, his head resting against his chest. The movement is clumsy and hesitant, but when it settles, something clicks into place. The tension drains out of the room little by little.
Birkin’s breathing evens out. His body relaxes, pressed close enough that Wesker can feel the faint rise and fall of his ribs. Wesker’s heartbeat hammers in response, a disobedient rhythm he can’t quite steady. He should move. He should pull away. But he doesn’t.
He lies there instead, eyes open, staring into the dark. His hand moves almost without thought, resting lightly against Birkin’s chest, over his heartbeat. The pulse is steady now, soft under his palm. Wesker tells himself he’s studying it, a scientist’s curiosity, nothing more. But the truth is something far simpler, something he doesn’t dare name: comfort.
He listens to the sound of Birkin’s breathing, to the mechanical hum of the building beyond, and thinks about what it means to be human. About how every instinct he has been taught tells him to reject this, this warmth, this contact, this weakness. But here, in the dark, it feels less like weakness and more like rebellion.
By the time dawn creeps in through the narrow window, painting the room in pale gray light, they have both shifted apart, back to their own sides, as if nothing had happened. The silence between them is heavy but familiar. When Birkin finally sits up, stretching, he looks rested for the first time in days.
Wesker glances at him briefly from his own bed, expression unreadable.
“Sleep well, Birkin?” he asks, voice cool.
Birkin grins faintly, rubbing his eyes. “Better than you, probably.”
Wesker smirks, just a shadow of it. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
They go about their morning routine in silence after that, two perfect students preparing for another day under Umbrella’s gaze. But beneath the calm exterior, Wesker feels something new simmering in his chest. A quiet satisfaction, a small, forbidden warmth that lingers long after the night has ended.