Minted lamb

by Secret_service

Summary:

In his relentless pursuit of perfection, Albert Wesker defies Umbrella’s restrictions and conducts a forbidden experiment with Dr. William Birkin’s reluctant help. Using an advanced machine, Wesker successfully creates a clone—an exact replica of himself. Despite initial malfunctions, the experiment stabilizes, and Wesker is left with a flawless duplicate, whom he names Aerico, after the Greek demons associated with plague and disease.

Though something appears to be wrong with the clone?

Notes:

This story was inspired by BlueEyedArcher and Radelski

Chapter 1: Aerico

Albert Wesker stood on the upper platform, his black leather-gloved hand resting on the metal railing, his cold, calculating gaze fixed on the bustling researchers below. Behind the dark lenses of his shades, his expression remained unreadable, though a subtle tension radiated from him. His face, normally a mask of indifference, contorted into a faint scowl of impatience. The answers he sought eluded him, and the noise of the facility grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. He loomed over the scene like a predator watching its prey, imagining, for just a moment, how satisfying it would be to crush them all like the insignificant ants they were.

“Hello, Wesker.”

The familiar British accent broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to reality. Wesker turned his head slightly, already anticipating the presence of Dr. William Birkin. Birkin, dressed in his usual lab coat and latex gloves, tilted his head as if pitying Wesker, his skepticism palpable.

The reminder of his recent dismissal from Umbrella stung, though Wesker’s stoic demeanor betrayed nothing. His insistence on pursuing an unapproved experiment had cost him dearly—Spencer himself had rejected the request for resources, deeming it too extravagant for a mere theory. Wesker, however, was not one to take “no” lightly.

“Greetings, Birkin,” Wesker replied dryly, his transatlantic accent laced with thinly veiled disdain. His voice, though smooth and sophisticated, carried an edge of irritation, cutting through any potential pleasantries. “Did you gather the materials I requested?”

Birkin hesitated, shifting nervously as his gloved fingers fidgeted, an action that only served to irk Wesker further.

“Y-yes, I did,” Birkin stammered, his discomfort evident. “But… are you sure this is a good idea?” His brow furrowed as he glanced at the machine they’d built—a towering construct of cables, metal, and monitors, all humming with latent energy. The sheer scale of the project filled him with unease.

Wesker ignored the question entirely, stepping past Birkin to examine the machine. His gloved fingers trailed along its cold surface with an almost reverent touch, his gaze sharp and unyielding.

“What about Umbrella?” Birkin asked hesitantly, his voice wavering. The question made Wesker stop in his tracks.

A flash of irritation crossed Wesker’s face as he turned sharply, his movement so sudden that Birkin instinctively flinched. The anger in Wesker’s expression was a rare sight, and it left Birkin momentarily stunned.

“I don’t plan on letting them find out,” Wesker stated bluntly, his tone dripping with contempt. His voice carried an unshakable confidence, as if failure wasn’t even a possibility in his mind.

Birkin crossed his arms, glancing between Wesker and the machine. He didn’t trust the situation, but his loyalty to Wesker outweighed his doubts. Their partnership had lasted for years, and though Wesker’s methods were often unorthodox, Birkin had always admired his brilliance.

“Be a dear and monitor the vitals, will you?” Wesker’s tone shifted, his words smoother, almost persuasive. There was an unsettling charm in his voice, enough to make Birkin’s resolve waver.

Birkin flushed, his face a faint shade of scarlet as he stammered a reluctant agreement. Turning to the console, he adjusted his glasses and began preparing the machine. With a sigh, he pressed a button, causing the scanner to hum to life.

Meanwhile, Wesker removed one of his gloves with practiced precision, exposing his hand. Picking up a needle, he pricked his thumb without so much as a flinch, letting a drop of blood fall onto a petri dish. He stepped back, watching intently as the scanner closed and began analyzing his DNA.

Moments later, Wesker joined Birkin on the upper platform, standing close enough to make the other man visibly uncomfortable. Birkin fumbled with the controls, his fingers trembling as he glanced nervously at the flashing monitors.

“The machine isn’t fully tested,” Birkin warned, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Trial and error, Birkin,” Wesker replied coolly. “Perfection is born from failure.”

Before Birkin could protest further, Wesker leaned over and pressed the activation button himself. The machine roared to life, its internal mechanisms whirring and clanking as it began its work.

For a moment, all seemed to be going well—until the machine sputtered violently, warning lights flashing red as alarms blared. The vitals on the screen spiked erratically, sending Birkin into a panic. He scrambled to adjust the settings, his hands flying over the controls in an effort to stabilize the system.

“Damn it… come on!” Birkin muttered under his breath. After a tense few moments, the vitals finally evened out, and the alarms fell silent.

Birkin slumped in relief, his breathing ragged, but Wesker showed no signs of concern. His only reaction was a scoff as he descended the stairs toward the machine.

“W-Wait! Don’t open it yet, something could be wrong with the neural!-” Birkin called out, his voice laced with panic. But Wesker paid him no mind, his long strides carrying him to the capsule.

The researchers who had gathered around the machine scattered as Wesker approached, unwilling to be caught in his path. He shoved one out of the way with a gloved hand, his eyes narrowing as he peered inside the capsule.

Instead of a malformed lump of flesh, as he half-expected, there lay a human figure—unconscious but unmistakably alive. The clone was a perfect replica of Wesker, down to the sharp lines of his face and the slicked-back blonde hair.

Wesker’s lips curled into a smirk as he studied the body before him. “Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice a mix of pride and curiosity.

Birkin stood frozen on the platform above, dread pooling in his stomach. He had no idea what this experiment would lead to, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that they had crossed a line they could never uncross.

Albert Wesker’s gloved hand slowly rose, his touch deliberate as it cupped the clone’s face. His thumb traced the smooth, unblemished skin beneath the black leather with a careful precision, as though memorizing every detail. It was surreal—seeing his own face reflected back at him, the perfect symmetry of features he’d long considered his own hallmark now mirrored flawlessly in another. His sharp eyes, hidden behind dark shades, lingered on the strands of blonde hair that framed the clone’s face, spilling haphazardly over the forehead.

For a moment, Wesker’s usual cold detachment faltered. A flicker of something deeper—pride, perhaps even fascination—crept through as he studied the silent figure. The clone’s stillness gave him full control of the moment, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Wesker indulged in an almost paternal curiosity.

He let out a quiet breath, his fingers tightening ever so slightly before he reluctantly withdrew his hand. The connection lingered even as he redirected his attention to the nearest researcher. His commanding tone broke the spell of silence in the room.

“Prepare a room for him,” Wesker ordered, his voice carrying a cold authority that demanded immediate compliance.

The researchers scrambled to obey, nodding hastily before scurrying out to fulfill his directive. Wesker’s piercing gaze followed their retreat briefly before returning to the clone, his lips curling into a faint smirk.

“Well, you’re not exactly a mockery of my image, are you?” he murmured, his voice low and filled with dark amusement. “I can’t wait to see what you become.”

The faint hum of machinery in the background filled the quiet as Wesker stepped closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as his mind began to wander. A name. A being as significant as this deserved a name—a title that carried meaning, something that would cement his identity and purpose. It couldn’t be something mundane. No, it had to be unique.

He tilted his head slightly, the faintest shadow of a memory surfacing in his mind. One of his favorite books from years past came to him, its details vivid as though he’d read it yesterday. A smile ghosted across his face as the perfect name took shape in his thoughts.

“Aerico,” Wesker said aloud, testing the word as it rolled smoothly off his tongue. It carried a weight that pleased him, the name striking the perfect balance between elegance and danger.

Turning back to the clone, Wesker smirked with a glint of satisfaction. “Named after the Greek demons said to spread plagues and diseases,” he explained, his voice tinged with wry humor. “Very fitting for you, wouldn’t you agree?”

He lingered for a moment longer, silently appreciating the potential that lay before him. In this perfect replica, Wesker saw not just a reflection of himself but the possibility of something far greater. Whatever Aerico would become, Wesker would ensure it would serve his vision—one that Umbrella, Spencer, or anyone else had no power to stop.

The quiet sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence as the researchers returned with a set of clothes, their nervous energy palpable as they approached. Wesker took the garments without a word, nodding curtly before dismissing them with a sharp glance.

Chapter 2: Schedule

Summary:

Aerico, a clone of Albert Wesker, wakes up in a sterile research facility where he is treated as a mere test subject. Though his captors ignore his sarcasm and defiance, he takes pleasure in unsettling them. Haunted by fragmented memories of Wesker, Aerico resents being caged but remains patient, knowing he won’t be trapped forever. One day, his routine is disrupted when William Birkin, a researcher and former colleague of Wesker, secretly brings him a proper meal. Birkin warns him that Wesker himself will visit soon and urges him to behave. Amused by the prospect, Aerico prepares for the meeting, knowing that whatever Wesker has planned will be anything but ordinary.

What could his counterpart possibly want?

Aerico awoke to the cold sterility of a cell, the blinding white light above him momentarily overwhelming his senses. He blinked rapidly, his vision faltering, before the disorienting brightness gradually subsided. His surroundings came into focus—a plain, sterile cell with walls that seemed to close in on him. Above him, behind a reinforced glass wall, he could see the familiar faces of researchers observing his every move. They watched him with detached curiosity, like a predator studying its prey.

 

The sight filled him with a bitter frustration. The glass, the sterile walls, the feeling of confinement—it all mirrored the very cells where others had been imprisoned and experimented on. But now, he was the one caged, treated as though he were an animal rather than the man he knew himself to be, or was.

 

Aerico frowned as he glanced down at himself. His clothes—a plain white shirt and pants—felt alien. He looked like one of their countless test subjects, stripped of identity and dignity. He’d complained about the clothing multiple times, yet the researchers never acknowledged his protests, which only spurred him to mock them further.

 

“Could you at least give me some shades? This room is blinding,” Aerico quipped, his voice smooth and disinterested, a jest aimed at their authority. He leaned back against the wall, tilting his head to watch them through half-lidded eyes. His unbothered tone was deliberate, meant to unsettle them.

 

Their gazes met his briefly, their faces as blank as their clipboards. None responded, but their subtle shifts of annoyance did not escape his notice. They continued their relentless observations, scribbling notes about his vitals and bombarding him with cognitive tests that bored him to no end.

 

Aerico’s steps were slow and deliberate as he paced back and forth across the small, sterile room. Each movement was measured, as though he were trying to burn through the monotony of his confinement with every stride. His mind churned with frustration, but he masked it with the cool indifference that had become second nature to him. His sharp eyes flicked from the sterile walls to the observing researchers behind the reinforced glass, taking note of their every glance, their every shift. 

 

He paused at the small, barred window in the corner, staring out into the bleak, featureless hallways beyond. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the soft hum of the facility's machinery. The lack of answers gnawed at him—why was he here, and what did they want from him?

 

After a few moments, Aerico stopped pacing, his body finally succumbing to the weight of the day. He made his way to the plain bed in the corner, its stark white linens a stark contrast to his dark thoughts. He lowered himself onto the edge, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. 

 

His mind wandered back over the past week—the endless tests, the dull meals, the sense of isolation that clung to him like a second skin. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being reduced to nothing more than a specimen, a mere shadow of the man he was—or had been. The frustration bubbled up inside him again, but he buried it beneath layers of sarcasm and disinterest. 

 

A bitter chuckle escaped him as he sat back against the bed, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. "So this is it," he murmured to himself. "A week of hell in a glass cage." His voice was low, edged with irony. Despite the isolation, he had begun to adjust to his surroundings—his body, strong and resilient, finding a rhythm even within these confines. But the thought of Wesker's presence—his creator, his parallel, the part of him he couldn’t escape—lingered in the back of his mind. Aerico wasn’t sure how, or when, but something inside him told him he would never be fully free from the shadow of the man who had birthed him.

 

For now, though, he let the silence settle over him, his thoughts lingering on the flickering images of Wesker’s memories. Each fragment pulled him deeper into a sea of resentment, a simmering anger he couldn’t quite control. What would Wesker do in his position? The question lingered as his fingers traced the edge of the bed, the answer just out of reach.

 

Yet Aerico wasn’t powerless. Memories trickled into his mind—memories that weren’t entirely his own. They belonged to Albert Wesker, the man he had been cloned from. The shared anger between them festered like an open wound, uniting them across their fractured existence. Aerico could feel Wesker’s simmering resentment toward Umbrella, his insatiable desire to rise above the corporation and wield the power they had denied him.

 

The memories were fragmented, distant echoes that made Aerico’s head throb whenever he tried to make sense of them. The reason the researchers’ faces seemed so familiar became clear in time—they were the very same people from Wesker’s memories. They had once worked under him, obeying his every word, but now, they treated Aerico like nothing more than an experiment.

 

A week had passed since his creation. The days blurred together, each one following the same numbing routine. Twice a day, the researchers came to slide food through the small hatch beneath the door, avoiding interaction as much as possible. Aerico’s confinement grated on him, but he adapted quickly. His body, strong and resilient, fell into a rhythm, though the sterile white clothes and monotonous meals left much to be desired.

 

Aerico stretched, his lean muscles shifting beneath the fabric of his shirt. Despite being in his early thirties, his body was a masterpiece of strength and refinement. His angular features, framed by a chiseled jawline and faint frown lines, hinted at his age but only seemed to enhance his sharp, sophisticated appearance. His Transatlantic accent, rich and velvety, added to his charisma, carrying a natural authority that even his captors couldn’t ignore.

 

He spent much of his time engaging in small rebellions—mocking the researchers from behind the glass or challenging them to games of chess when they dared to humor him. He always won, of course, his strategic mind outpacing theirs with ease. But the victories felt hollow, a temporary distraction from the monotony of his existence.

Though boredom got the best of him

 

The sterile white room was filled with the soft sound of the clock ticking, its rhythm almost hypnotic. Aerico sat at the small, round table in the center of the cell, the chessboard set between him and one of the researchers. The researcher, a young man with nervous, darting eyes, was sitting across from him, visibly uncomfortable under Aerico's unblinking gaze. Aerico leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly drumming on the edge of the table, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

 

"So," Aerico began, his voice smooth and low, the words laced with a faint hint of mockery. "Are you sure you know how to play this game, or is this just an experiment to see if I can beat you without even trying?"

 

The researcher shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his glasses as his fingers hovered over his pieces. "I... I know how to play," he stammered, his voice cracking slightly.

 

Aerico chuckled, leaning forward slightly as he studied the board with practiced ease. His eyes flicked over the pieces, calculating moves with precision. His mind was a sharp, strategic tool—every game, every move felt almost effortless. He didn’t even need to look at his opponent as he made his first move, pushing his pawn forward with the same casual indifference that he wore like a second skin.

 

The researcher hesitated before making his move, his hand trembling as he placed a piece on the board. He glanced nervously at Aerico, who was already eyeing the board again, unfazed.

 

The game unfolded quickly. Aerico moved with deliberate confidence, his every move calculated, his eyes never leaving the board. The researcher, on the other hand, made clumsy mistakes, his confidence fading as Aerico expertly cornered him.

 

With each move, Aerico grew more entertained by the researcher’s unease. The young man’s attempts to strategize were no match for Aerico’s meticulous planning. The pieces shifted across the board like a dance, Aerico’s mind leading the show while the researcher stumbled along, desperately trying to keep up.

 

After a few more tense moves, Aerico's fingers hovered over a piece. His eyes flicked up to meet the researcher’s gaze, his smirk widening as he made the final, decisive move—checkmate.

 

The researcher blinked, staring at the board in disbelief as he realized the game was over. Aerico leaned back in his chair, the smug satisfaction clear on his face as he folded his arms, watching the researcher’s growing frustration.

 

"You’re not bad," Aerico remarked casually, though his tone carried a sharp edge. "But perhaps next time, you should try something a little more... unpredictable. A little more Wesker-like, wouldn't you agree?"

 

The researcher swallowed, his face flushed with embarrassment as he cleared the pieces off the board, avoiding Aerico's knowing stare.

 

Aerico watched him silently, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "I wonder, if I could teach you the game, would you actually learn, or would you still be too predictable?" he mused, his voice almost like a purr, dripping with superiority.

 

The researcher didn’t respond, the silence hanging heavily between them as Aerico let out a contented sigh, already bored with the interaction. He leaned back, eyes flicking back to the glass wall, where the silent observers no doubt watched, taking notes on his every move. It didn’t matter. He had won, and for now, that was enough.

 

A few hours later

 

Breakfast was no different. Aerico sat on the edge of his bed, his sharp eyes tracking the shadow that appeared beneath the door. A researcher slid a plate of food through the hatch, their movements hurried and cautious. Aerico smirked faintly, sensing their unease.

 

“Hello,” he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. “Anything actually edible today?” His voice, smooth as silk, carried an air of playful menace, deliberately unsettling.

 

The figure behind the door remained silent, as always, but Aerico didn’t bother hiding his amusement. He leaned over and inspected the plate with a theatrical sigh, his smirk fading into a scowl.

 

“Beans and toast,” he muttered, his tone thick with disdain. He poked at the unappetizing mixture with a finger, the bland smell making his stomach churn. “How thoughtful of you. Truly, a meal fit for a king.”

 

The shadow behind the door shifted slightly, hesitating for just a moment before disappearing altogether. Aerico’s smirk returned. Even in captivity, he still had the ability to unsettle them, and that brought him a sliver of satisfaction.

 

He leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms as he contemplated his situation. The memories he shared with Wesker swirled in his mind, vivid and haunting. He couldn’t help but wonder—what would Albert Wesker have done in his place?

 

Whatever the answer, Aerico knew one thing: he wouldn’t remain caged forever.

 

A couple more HOURS later 

 

The lunch schedule, Aerico noticed a change in routine. The familiar, hurried footsteps of the usual researchers were absent, replaced by slower, hesitant steps. They stopped just outside the door, and for a moment, Aerico wondered if someone new had been assigned to him. The hatch slid open, and before he could see anything, a soft, British voice reached his ears—one he recognized instantly.

 

“I-I was able to convince the researchers to allow me to bring you this,” the voice stammered. A tray slid through the hatch with practiced care, and Aerico’s sharp eyes dropped to inspect it. Minted lamb, plated with precision, and a cold beverage—a Greek red wine sangria. The scent of the lamb reached him, rich and savory, a far cry from the bland meals he’d endured for weeks.

 

“I wasn’t sure if your taste was the same as… Wesker,” the voice continued apologetically. “Sorry if it’s not to your liking.”

 

Aerico’s usually hardened features softened, the faintest trace of genuine emotion flickering across his face. He didn’t have to ask who it was—he knew the voice all too well.

 

“Thank you, William,” Aerico said, his voice uncharacteristically soft, genuine.

 

There was a pause from the other side of the door, as though William Birkin hadn’t expected gratitude, much less a tone that carried sincerity. Before either of them could linger too long in the moment, William cleared his throat nervously.

 

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” William began, his voice lowering, “but Wesker is going to visit you today. Please… be on your best behavior.”

 

Aerico’s lips curled into a sly smirk, his sharp features alight with amusement. He inclined his head toward the door, even if Birkin couldn’t see him, the gesture instinctive.

 

“No promises, dear,” Aerico replied, his tone teasing, a playful lilt reminiscent of being scolded by an overprotective spouse.

 

Birkin hesitated on the other side, caught between frustration and fondness for the clone’s antics. Without another word, the sound of retreating footsteps echoed down the hall, leaving Aerico alone once again.

 

He sat back on the edge of his bed, picking up the tray to examine the meal more closely. The aroma of the lamb was tantalizing, a stark contrast to the dreary fare he’d been subjected to. Birkin’s thoughtfulness was a pleasant surprise, and the rare kindness didn’t go unnoticed.

 

Aerico allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, savoring the small victory. However, the mention of Wesker’s impending visit lingered in his mind, sharpening his focus.

 

“Albert Wesker,” Aerico murmured to himself, his smirk returning. “This should be interesting.”

 

He inspected glass of the sangria, holding it up as if in a toast. “Let’s see what you’ve got planned, dear Albert.”

Aerico lifted the glass of sangria to his lips, inspecting it as though it were a carefully constructed puzzle, rather than a drink. He swirled it gently, watching the rich red liquid catch the light before taking a slow sip. His eyes narrowed in concentration, waiting for the flavors to unfold.

 

The first taste was... unexpected. It wasn’t the bold, tart bite of wine he was accustomed to, but something much sweeter—almost playful. The fruitiness hit him immediately, a mix of citrus and berries, followed by a subtle hint of cinnamon that lingered on his tongue. He paused, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 

"Hmm. Not what I expected," he muttered to himself, a slight smile tugging at his lips. The sweetness was almost too much, an unwelcome surprise for someone like him, whose palate usually leaned toward the bitter and sharp. He took another sip, more out of curiosity than enjoyment. It was sugary, almost like a dessert disguised as a drink. Aerico couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it. 

 

"For someone so refined, this drink is embarrassingly... sweet," he said aloud, his tone dripping with mockery. But there was a certain amusement in his voice—an unexpected fondness for the sweetness that he couldn’t deny. His usual sharp and calculated demeanor seemed momentarily softened, as if this light-hearted indulgence had caught him off guard.

 

His lips curved into a bemused grin. He had a sweet tooth, it seemed. And that realization, as odd as it was, made him appreciate the drink just a little bit more.

 

The room was quiet again, save for the faint hum of the facility around him. Aerico’s thoughts turned inward, his mind racing with possibilities. The day was far from over, and he intended to make the most of whatever came next.

Notes:

The lore building part is gonna be tedious, but I did have this just stored in my notebook app for a while💀

Chapter 3: Impulsiveness

Summary:

Aerico Wesker’s first encounter with Albert Wesker was anything but smooth—defiance clashed with authority as the clone refused to submit to his maker. His resistance was met with swift and merciless consequences, a harsh reminder of who truly held control. Yet, beneath Aerico’s rebellion, Albert began noticing peculiar anomalies in his creation—subtle but undeniable deviations from what was expected. William Birkin’s warnings about unforeseen variables echoed in Albert’s mind, forcing him to consider the possibility that Aerico was more than just a mere copy. Troubled by these strange occurrences, Albert summoned Excella Gionne earlier than planned, though his reasons remained shrouded in secrecy, leaving even his closest allies questioning his true intentions.

What is Albert Wesker planning?

Aerico lay stretched out on the stiff, government-issued mattress, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the sterile white ceiling. The hum of fluorescent lights above filled the silence, but he paid it no mind. He had long since grown used to the monotonous noise, just as he had adjusted to the cold sterility of his confinement. He refused to speak to anyone unless it was Albert Wesker. Call it petty, call it a desperate grasp at control—he didn’t care. The silence was his rebellion, a quiet war waged with nothing but defiance.  

 

His protest was interrupted by the soft shuffle of movement beyond the reinforced glass. Aerico’s gaze flicked toward the observation deck, expecting the same dull researchers who scurried about like obedient insects. But this time, something was different. The usual murmurs of discussion were abruptly cut short, replaced by a new presence that radiated authority.  

 

A figure emerged from the shadows of the dimly lit corridor, his posture rigid, his presence suffocating. The researchers straightened instinctively as if the very air had thickened with his arrival. Aerico squinted at the man, his vision adjusting as the figure stepped forward. Then, a voice rang out, sharp and unmistakably familiar.  

 

A voice identical to his own.  

 

The words carried a quiet venom, slicing through the stale air with practiced precision. Aerico’s body went rigid. His breath caught as the figure moved fully into the light.  

 

Albert Wesker.  

 

The original.  

 

He stood tall, draped in his signature black leather coat, pristine as ever, the high collar framing his angular features. Even without seeing his eyes—hidden behind those ever-present dark shades—the weight of his gaze was inescapable. His presence was suffocating, commanding, leaving no room for weakness.  

 

A smirk tugged at the corner of Wesker’s lips, dripping with condescension. He surveyed the sterile walls, the plain furnishings, the sheer dullness of it all. Then, with a slow, deliberate sweep of his gloved hand, he gestured to Aerico’s containment.  

 

"Hello, Aerico," Wesker drawled, his tone smooth but laced with unmistakable mockery. "I see you’ve adjusted to your… accommodations."  

 

The sour amusement in his voice was evident, as if the mere thought of Aerico in such a place was some cruel joke.  

 

Aerico didn’t move. He barely breathed.  

 

His fingers twitched against the thin mattress, the only outward sign of the storm brewing beneath his carefully composed expression.

 

"Room? This is a cell," Aerico retorted with a sharp laugh, the sound laced with mockery. His golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers lazily intertwining. Though his tone was light, his gaze was anything but. It locked onto Wesker with an unsettling intensity, scrutinizing every minute detail of the man before him. This was the moment he had been waiting for—the chance to meet the original, the one whose memories and power coursed through his veins. Yet, despite the anticipation, Aerico didn’t rush. He let the silence linger, stretching the tension like a taut wire.  

 

He could sense it. Wesker wanted something from him.  

 

That alone made Aerico all the more unwilling to cooperate. He wouldn’t make this easy. No, he’d enjoy making Albert work for whatever it was he sought. It was a game now, an unspoken battle for dominance, and Aerico relished every second of it. He wasn’t some mindless clone, groveling for approval. He was his own being, and he would ensure Albert knew it.  

 

Across the glass, Wesker remained still, but not unaffected. There was something about the way Aerico stared—unwavering, intense, almost hypnotic—that stirred an unease he hadn’t expected. It was like looking into a warped reflection, an uncanny mirage that blurred the lines between self and imitation. Every detail of Aerico’s face was an exact replica—down to the sharpness of his jawline, the arch of his brow, the smirk that hinted at secrets yet untold.  

 

Aerico, already frustrated by his confinement and unimpressed by Albert’s silence, exhaled sharply, breaking the stillness. He tilted his head, irritation creeping into his tone.  

 

“Well? Are you going to say something, or are you just going to stand there like an idiot?”  

 

The words were a deliberate push, meant to provoke, and it worked. Albert’s lips twitched into a strained smirk, his amusement tempered with something colder. The sheer audacity of his clone—his own creation—was unexpected, but not unwelcome.  

 

“Oh, please,” Wesker finally responded, his voice smooth and laced with mockery. His smirk widened, his own golden eyes flickering with amusement.  

 

“Don’t act so crude toward yourself.”

 

Aerico rolled his eyes, his expression one of sheer boredom. The unimpressed arch of his brow, the lazy shift of his posture—it was all deliberately designed to be infuriating. And judging by the way Albert’s jaw tightened, it was working. Albert had anticipated something different from his creation, perhaps reverence, perhaps submission. What he hadn’t expected was blatant defiance wrapped in smug amusement.  

 

For a fleeting moment, Wesker found himself at a loss for words. Aerico’s insolence threw him off balance, disrupting the precise calculations running through his mind. His own creation—his supposed mirror—was acting more like an impudent thorn in his side than the perfect being he envisioned.  

 

The silence shattered when Albert finally snapped. “Do you have no shame?” His voice, usually so composed, cracked with frustration. His gloved hands clenched the railing before him, the metal groaning under his grip. The sharp, metallic whine echoed in the sterile room, making the researchers flinch and subtly retreat, as if fearing they might be caught in the fallout of Wesker’s rare loss of composure.  

 

Aerico, meanwhile, remained utterly unfazed. In fact, the sight of Albert struggling to contain his irritation only fueled his amusement. He cocked his head, blue eyes gleaming with wicked delight. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk—a silent challenge, as if to ask, Is that really the best you’ve got?  

 

Albert exhaled sharply, forcing himself to let go of the railing. The distorted metal remained as a testament to his fraying patience. With practiced ease, he straightened his posture, smoothing his gloved hands over his coat. His voice, when he spoke again, was measured, sharp as a blade.  

 

“The longer you refuse to cooperate, the more tests you’ll have to endure. Do you understand?” His words were a warning, calculated to instill obedience. His hands clasped behind his back, his stance the very embodiment of control.  

 

Aerico, reclining leisurely against the wall, let out a slow, exaggerated sigh. “Oh, is that right?” he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery.  

 

Albert’s eye twitched. He refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he pressed forward, his tone steady and authoritative. “If you agree to work for me, I’ll allow you to roam freely. You’ll have access to the entire facility. All you need to do is comply.”  

 

For a moment, silence hung between them. Then, with infuriating slowness, Aerico lifted a hand—and flipped Albert the bird.  

 

The gesture was deliberately exaggerated, the slow curl of his fingers making it all the more insulting. His grin widened as he saw the brief flicker of barely-contained rage that flashed across Albert’s face.  

 

Albert’s composure shattered. “You little cretin!” he snapped, voice uncharacteristically flustered. His usual calculated elegance crumbled as he stuttered, momentarily at a loss for words. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his shoulders tensing as if physically restraining himself from throttling his insufferable clone.  

 

Aerico bit back a laugh, eyes twinkling with mischief. He had won this round, and he knew it.

 

Aerico’s glare was razor-sharp, a silent snarl in the form of a glance. His blue eyes burned with irritation before he finally slumped back against the padded wall, exhaling heavily through his nose. He closed his eyes, feigning disinterest, though the dull, persistent throb behind his temples made it difficult to completely shut Albert out.  

 

Albert, however, was watching him intently. His clone’s blatant defiance scraped against his nerves, raw and infuriating. But beyond the anger, something else unsettled him—a feeling he couldn’t quite place. The unpredictability of Aerico gnawed at the edges of his usually unshakable confidence, making him question, for the first time, if he had created something he couldn’t fully control.  

 

A flicker of something dangerous crossed Wesker’s face before he smothered it with cold detachment. His lips curled into a smirk, but his tone was anything but amused.  

 

“Fine, be that way,” he growled, voice low and sharp as a blade. “You’ll see it my way soon enough.”  

 

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel, his long coat sweeping behind him in a dramatic flourish. His steps were purposeful, heavy with authority, and as he reached the door, he paused. Leaning in close to one of the researchers, he whispered something just beneath Aerico’s range of hearing.  

 

Whatever he said sent a visible ripple of tension through the room. The researchers stiffened, their postures suddenly rigid, their eyes darting between one another with unease.  

 

Aerico’s eyes snapped open, his smirk faltering. The air had shifted, thickened with something almost suffocating. He didn’t need to hear what Albert had said to know it wasn’t good. His gut twisted with unease, and for the first time since this ridiculous power struggle began, he felt the creeping tendrils of dread curling around his spine.  

 

Then, without warning, the heavy doors to his cell slammed open with a deafening clang.  

 

The sound reverberated off the sterile walls, making his muscles tense instinctively. His sharp gaze flicked toward the figures stepping inside. Two researchers, their expressions eerily blank, were flanked by four armed guards clad in black tactical gear. The sight made his stomach drop. He had a bad feeling about this—a very bad feeling.  

 

Aerico instinctively pushed himself further into the corner of the room, his back pressing against the padded wall as if he could sink into it and disappear. His mind worked fast, calculating his options, but the guards were already closing in.  

 

Two of them reached out, their gloved hands moving to grab his arms.  

 

No.  

 

His body reacted before his mind even had the chance to formulate a plan. Pure instinct drove him as he twisted violently, his fist shooting out like a bullet.  

 

The satisfying crack of bone shattering beneath his knuckles echoed in the cell as his punch connected squarely with a guard’s jaw. The man staggered back, a garbled cry escaping him as he clutched his now-mangled face, blood spilling between his fingers.  

 

Another guard lunged, attempting to subdue him, but Aerico was already in motion, fueled by adrenaline and defiance. He moved like a phantom, fast and precise. He was about to strike again when—  

 

Pain.  

 

A sharp, piercing sting exploded against his neck.  

 

His body locked up as a rush of cold fire spread through his veins. His hand flew up, fingers clawing at the source—  

 

A syringe.  

 

One of the researchers had slipped through the chaos, their face eerily composed as they plunged the needle deep into his skin. The plunger had already been pressed down, its contents flooding his system before he could react.  

 

Aerico’s vision wavered, the edges of his world blurring and distorting. His limbs felt sluggish, as though they were no longer his own. His breath hitched, his pulse thundering in his ears as the drug worked fast, yanking him under like a riptide.  

 

His knees buckled.  

 

As he sank to the floor, the last thing he saw was the cold, impassive faces of the researchers staring down at him. The guards loomed behind them, their weapons still raised, their stances cautious despite his rapidly fading strength.  

 

Darkness curled at the edges of his vision. His last coherent thought before it consumed him was a furious, resounding—  

 

Damn it.  

 

Pain flared like wildfire beneath Aerico’s skin, searing through his veins with an almost electric intensity. His muscles convulsed against his will, locking up in rigid defiance as his body betrayed him. He gritted his teeth, sharp canines pressing hard against his tongue, a futile attempt to anchor himself against the inevitable.  

 

His vision fractured. Shapes twisted and doubled before shattering into darkness, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shadows swallowing his consciousness. The last thing he registered was the sensation of rough hands gripping his arms, manhandling him like dead weight. Then—  

 

Nothing. 

 

---  

 

When Aerico’s eyes flickered open, the first thing he noticed was the cold. Not the sterile chill of his previous cell but something deeper, more oppressive. A sharp bite of metal against his skin sent a dull ache rolling through his body, and as he shifted, the sound of rattling chains filled the silence.  

 

Chains.  

 

His arms were pulled taut, bound in heavy, reinforced manacles that gleamed dully under the fluorescent lighting. A thick metal collar sat snug around his throat, connected to the chains that anchored him in place. The weight of it all pressed down on him, a silent confirmation that his captors had learned from their mistakes.  

 

So, they were afraid of him.  

 

Good.  

 

His blue eyes, still sluggish from sedation, flicked around the room, assessing. It was smaller than before, the walls a stark, lifeless gray with no observation window this time. Only an intercom sat embedded high on the wall—a one-way system. They weren’t taking any chances.  

 

Aerico leaned back slightly, testing the restraints. The metal barely gave, resisting his movements with an unyielding grip. His frustration simmered, a slow burn beneath his skin, but he schooled his expression into something eerily calm. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing his irritation—not yet.  

 

A sudden mechanical hiss broke the silence, the heavy door to his left clicking open.  

 

Aerico didn’t flinch. Instead, his gaze shifted lazily toward the figure entering. A man in a crisp white lab coat stepped forward, clipboard in hand, his movements measured, precise. His face was the picture of calm, yet Aerico caught the nervous tick—the subtle, restless click-click of a pen being fidgeted between his fingers.  

 

He’s afraid.  

 

Aerico’s eyes flicked downward to the man’s ID badge, the name “Ortiz” printed in neat, clinical lettering. But it was the information beneath it that truly caught his interest—a high-level clearance designation.  

 

Interesting.  

 

Ortiz made his way to the steel table positioned between them, setting his clipboard down before settling into the chair across from Aerico. The act was deliberate, an attempt at controlled authority, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.  

 

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then—  

 

“I hope you understand why we had to stop being lenient with you.” Ortiz’s voice was smooth, but there was a practiced coldness to it, an artificial detachment. He leaned forward slightly, his pen still clicking rhythmically in his hand. “Of course, you would understand.”  

 

The condescension dripped from his words, pooling between them like oil waiting for a spark.  

 

Aerico’s jaw tightened, his sharp eyes narrowing into thin slits of lapis. His glare was unwavering, piercing, a quiet challenge in its own right.  

 

Ortiz faltered.  

 

It was small, barely a hitch in his breath, but Aerico noticed. The slight twitch in the man’s fingers, the way his grip on the pen tightened as if seeking comfort from its presence.  

 

Aerico allowed himself a slow, deliberate smirk.  

 

Even in chains, even collared like an animal, he was still the one in control.

 

Ortiz exhaled through his nose, the sound more frustration than patience. “You know the routine.” His voice was clipped, strained with the effort to maintain control. “I ask questions. You answer truthfully.”  

 

Aerico barely held back a scoff. His chains clinked as he shifted, slouching against the chair as much as his restraints allowed. The cold metal of his collar dug into his skin, but he acted as though it were nothing more than an inconvenience, something beneath his notice.  

 

Ortiz made a note on the clipboard, marking the time and date in sharp, deliberate strokes before settling in. “Do you remember anything before being made?”  

 

The way he asked made it clear he wasn’t expecting a real answer—only confirmation of what he already knew.  

 

Aerico’s lips curled into a smirk. “Depends,” he drawled, his voice drenched in mock amusement. “Is there anything in this shit hole worth remembering?”  

 

His tone was light, teasing, as if he were sharing an inside joke with himself. He did remember things—memories that weren’t quite his but still sat in his mind like echoes of a life once lived. But that didn’t mean he had to make it easy for them.  

 

Ortiz didn’t rise to the bait, but the stiffness in his jaw betrayed his irritation. “So, you do remember some things,” he muttered, jotting something down. “I’ll write that down.”  

 

Aerico feigned offense, widening his eyes in an exaggerated display of hurt. He lifted one hand as much as the chains allowed, pressing it dramatically against his chest. “You wound me, Doctor,” he said, voice rich with faux sincerity. “Cutting me off like that? I was about to share my deepest thoughts.”  

 

Ortiz didn’t react—at least, not visibly. But Aerico noticed the faint hesitation in the movement of his pen, the way his fingers gripped it a little tighter.  

 

keep doing just that. 

 

Aerico’s eyes tracked the pen now, watching the subtle dance of Ortiz’s movements. The man was careful, methodical—but also predictable. And that predictability? That was something Aerico could use.

 

“Do you remember a man named Oswell E. Spencer?” Ortiz asked, his voice smooth, but with an edge that suggested he expected the question to hit its mark. His gaze flicked from the clipboard to Aerico, as if he could already sense that this was the question that would finally crack through the clone's stoic façade. 

 

The name landed like a blow. Aerico’s smirk dissolved instantly, the playfulness draining from his eyes. His entire demeanor shifted, a flicker of something darker, more volatile, flashing across his features. For a brief moment, pain—a raw, jagged pain—flashed in his eyes, and his body stiffened as if trying to hold back an instinctual reaction. The room seemed to shrink, the air thickening with the sudden tension. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch out unnervingly long, his fingers twitching like a predator held back from striking.

 

A low, guttural hum rumbled from his throat as he shifted in his seat. His body relaxed ever so slightly, but the predatory gleam in his eyes grew sharper, more dangerous. He leaned forward, a cruel, knowing smile curling onto his lips, and his sharp canines caught the light in a flash of venomous delight. The sudden, chilling shift in his presence was palpable, as though the very air around him had changed, becoming dense with menace.

 

“Did Wesker give you the order to ask that?” Aerico whispered, his voice low and seeping with malice, each word dripping with an eerie calm. His glowing, bright-blue eyes locked onto Ortiz with the intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. There was something unnerving in the way his gaze seemed to strip away any pretense, leaving the man exposed, raw, and vulnerable. “No… he didn’t, did he?”

 

Ortiz froze. The room seemed to close in around him as his blood ran cold. His skin paled beneath the harsh, sterile lighting, draining to a shade so sickly it was almost unnatural. The clipboard trembled in his hands as his breath hitched, but he didn’t retreat. He couldn’t. His eyes darted nervously to the door, then back to Aerico, trying, failing, to mask the terror that was beginning to bubble beneath the surface.

 

From the observation room, Albert Wesker watched the scene unfold, leaning forward in his chair. His fingers rested against his jaw, his piercing gaze unblinking, taking in every microexpression, every subtle movement. He knew exactly what was happening—the shift in Aerico’s mood, the calculation behind each of his actions. It was all part of the game.

 

What Ortiz didn’t realize was that Aerico had already gone beyond his control. In the silence, Aerico’s thumb subtly slipped out of its joint with a sickening pop. Pain was meaningless now—his anger, far more potent. With a fluid, almost invisible motion, he freed himself from the restraints, his hands slipping free from the cuffs with practiced precision. His movements were swift, a blur of deadly intent, a tiger freed from its cage.

 

Before Ortiz could even register the danger, Aerico lunged. His hand shot forward like a striking viper, snatching the pen from Ortiz’s trembling grasp. The pen, a simple object, became an instrument of destruction in Aerico’s hands. Without hesitation, he jammed it into Ortiz’s palm with a sickening crunch, the sound echoing through the room like the crack of brittle bone. A burst of blood sprayed outward, splattering across Aerico’s hand and the floor in a grotesque fountain. Ortiz’s scream was sharp, high-pitched, and shrill, reverberating through the sterile space, as the agony of the wound tore through him.

 

Aerico ripped the pen free, the movement savage and fluid, leaving a gaping hole in Ortiz’s hand where the pen had punctured it. Blood continued to pour from the wound, staining the floor beneath them in thick, dark pools. Ortiz collapsed, his legs giving way beneath him, and he hit the floor with a sickening thud. His once-ordered, authoritative posture was replaced with a crumpled heap of pain and helplessness, his screams turning into desperate, pathetic whimpers as he clawed at the cold, unforgiving ground. His vision blurred, and his hand clutched blindly at the floor, as though hoping for some escape that was no longer within reach.

 

Aerico stood over him, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of his adrenaline, his eyes glittering with cold satisfaction. The silence that followed was thick, oppressive—broken only by the rapid, uneven breaths of the man on the floor.

 

Aerico showed no mercy. His fingers curled around Ortiz’s collar, lifting him with a fluid, almost effortless motion. With a sharp twist, he pulled the man toward him, his grip tightening as he slammed Ortiz’s head into the floor with brutal precision. The sickening crack of skull meeting concrete echoed through the room, and Ortiz’s body went slack, his consciousness slipping away into darkness. 

 

For a long moment, Aerico stood over him, his chest heaving with the intensity of the action. The bloodied figure beneath him didn’t move. A grim expression set across Aerico’s features, his mind racing. Without hesitation, he began searching Ortiz’s coat pockets, his fingers working quickly, methodically. His eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for—Ortiz’s key card, nestled securely in a breast pocket. With a swift motion, he yanked it free, holding it in his hand like a token of his next move.

 

Aerico stood then, his posture rigid as he turned toward the door. His mind was already calculating his next steps, already three moves ahead. Escape was within his grasp, and with each passing second, the plan solidified. 

 

But before he could reach the door, a sudden, sharp sting exploded at the back of his neck. Aerico’s breath caught in his throat as the collar he had once thought to be a mere decoration injected a powerful tranquilizer directly into his bloodstream. The effects were immediate, a wave of heat rushing through his veins before his vision blurred. His body swayed unsteadily, fighting against the paralyzing force of the drug, but it was no use. The edges of his vision turned to static, the world around him spinning wildly, until his legs betrayed him, and he collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor. 

 

“Damn it, Albert!” Aerico snarled weakly, his voice low and strained as he fought to remain conscious. His mind screamed, his body trembling, but it was a losing battle. The tranquilizer was stronger than he anticipated. His senses dulled, the world around him slipping into oblivion.

 

Moments later, the reinforced door burst open with a loud, mechanical hiss. The guards flooded into the room, their eyes widening in shock at the scene before them. Two of them gagged, their expressions twisted in disgust at the bloodied mess, but they didn’t hesitate. They grabbed Aerico’s unconscious form, hauling him away with practiced ease, dragging him back to his cell. Medics quickly poured into the room, rushing to Ortiz’s side. Their faces were grim as they worked quickly, applying pressure to the wound in an attempt to stabilize him, the sound of frantic beeping filling the air.

 

Back in the observation room, Albert Wesker sat with an air of quiet composure, but his gloved fingers pressed tightly against the bridge of his nose, his mind reeling. The footage of Aerico’s attack played on repeat in front of him, the brutality of the assault on Ortiz unfolding for the third time. Each frame, each violent movement, was like a punch to the gut. Aerico’s actions weren’t just violent; they were calculated, coldly efficient. Every motion was deliberate, executed with unnerving precision. This wasn’t a mere display of power—it was a statement. 

 

Another researcher gone rogue. Another experiment gone awry. Normally, Wesker would have ordered termination immediately, without hesitation. But Aerico wasn’t like the other experiments. Not by a long shot. Aerico was… different. Wesker had spent years observing the creation of this one, and despite the failure, there was something in him that had managed to pique Wesker’s curiosity. Something… valuable. But it was clear now—Aerico was becoming a liability.

 

Wesker’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp beep, signaling an incoming call. His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, activating the communication link. The voice that came through was rushed, almost frantic. 

 

“Sir, this is Medic 4. We’ve stabilized Ortiz. His vitals are steady. I—I need to tell you, though, he’s not out of the woods yet. The damage was significant, and... well, we’re still working on—”

 

Wesker’s eyes narrowed further, his lips curling into a barely concealed frown. There was a long, oppressive silence on the line before he spoke, his voice low and cold. “Terminate the procedure.”

 

The medic’s voice faltered, and there was a slight, incredulous pause on the other end. “W-wait, sir, you don’t mean—he’s stable, I’m telling you. We can save him, just give us a little more time, please—”

 

Wesker’s patience snapped like a brittle thread. His voice grew sharper, colder, cutting through the medic’s desperate pleading. “Do it. Now.”

 

There was a breathless silence on the line, the medic seemingly stunned into disbelief. But Wesker’s tone didn’t leave room for negotiation. His jaw clenched, his eyes flicking to the monitor as he watched the chaos unfold on the screen, waiting for confirmation. The medic, knowing better than to argue with Wesker’s orders, let out a quiet, defeated sigh.

 

“Yes, sir,” the medic finally replied, the resignation heavy in their voice. 

 

The line went dead, and Wesker leaned back in his chair, his gaze returning to the screen. There was no room for weakness. Not in this facility, not in his plans. Aerico was a tool, and sometimes, even the most useful tools had to be discarded when they became too unpredictable.

 

As the seconds ticked by, Wesker’s mind moved on to the next phase of his plan.

 

For one, Aerico wasn’t Umbrella’s creation. He had emerged from the shadows under far more enigmatic and unsettling circumstances, appearing almost as if he had materialized out of thin air, and with an uncanny resemblance to Wesker himself. His appearance alone was enough to intrigue anyone, but Aerico proved to be far more than a mere clone. He wasn’t just a reflection of Wesker’s physical form; he was an entity in his own right, possessing his own thought process, his own personality—a maddening cocktail of intelligence, sharp wit, and a defiant streak that made him impossible to control.

 

But it was the memories that truly set Aerico apart.

 

Aerico remembered everything. Every single detail of Wesker’s life was burned into his mind—the early years of his upbringing, the grueling training under Umbrella’s watchful eye, the carefully executed betrayals, and even the darkest corners of Wesker’s own psyche. The fact that Aerico had access to this wealth of knowledge was both a blessing and a curse. If Aerico had even the slightest inkling of how to leverage these memories against him, Wesker would be vulnerable in ways he couldn’t afford. The thought alone was enough to make a sharp headache throb at his temples. He clenched his jaw, irritation and frustration settling like a weight in his chest as his piercing blue eyes narrowed at the monitor. Aerico’s sneer, frozen on the screen, seemed to mock him.

 

“How can someone look like me, sound like me…” Wesker muttered under his breath, his voice laced with palpable annoyance, “…and act like a complete fool?”

 

Aerico was everything Wesker despised: chaotic, unpredictable, undisciplined. He was a wild card, a loose thread in an otherwise meticulously crafted tapestry. Every movement Aerico made seemed like an affront to everything Wesker had worked so hard to perfect. In many ways, Aerico was a reflection of everything Wesker had tried to suppress within himself—an embodiment of the disarray and unpredictability he had spent his life trying to control. And Wesker hated loose threads.

 

The sound of soft, deliberate footsteps behind him caught his attention, breaking his intense focus. A delicate hand gently traced invisible patterns across the fabric of his tactical suit, fingers gliding over the textured material with almost unsettling grace. The presence behind him was unmistakable, and Wesker didn’t need to look to know who it was.

 

Excella Gionne, ever the enigma, stood there—her lithe form barely making a sound as she pressed herself against his back, her warm breath brushing against the nape of his neck. Her fingers continued to trace absentmindedly over his chest, the touch light but deliberate, as though she were trying to unravel something hidden beneath the surface.

 

"Albert," she purred, her voice a mixture of curiosity and subtle concern. "You’ve been watching that same footage for hours. What is it about this one that has you so… captivated?"

 

Wesker didn’t immediately respond, his gaze still fixed on the frozen frame of Aerico’s attack on Ortiz. His sharp, analytical mind raced with calculations and possibilities. Aerico was a puzzle—one that, despite his initial irritation, had begun to pique Wesker’s interest in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

 

With a smooth, fluid motion, Wesker reached for his desk, his hand brushing across the cold, sleek surface. His fingers closed around the familiar shape of his custom-made sunglasses, a design that had been tailored specifically for his enhanced sensitivity to light. They were a product of Birkin’s genius, a perfect fusion of practicality and style, their sleek black frame a subtle reflection of Wesker’s own sense of control. 

 

Wesker slid the sunglasses on with practiced precision, the lenses darkening immediately to block out the harsh lights of the room. The subtle hum of artificial light faded as his enhanced vision adjusted, and the piercing blue of his eyes was hidden from view, leaving only a calm, unreadable expression in its wake.

 

With the sunglasses now in place, Wesker’s posture shifted. He was once again the picture of composed detachment, his stoic expression never betraying the storm of thoughts swirling in his mind. The presence of Excella beside him, her soft touch still lingering on his chest, seemed to fade into the background. For a moment, Wesker was alone in his thoughts, his mind calculating the next move in this strange, dangerous game.

 

Behind him, Excella’s hands continued their slow, almost hypnotic exploration over his tactical suit, the light touch of her fingers barely noticeable, but still enough to draw his attention. However, he remained focused, immersed in his own thoughts. Then, as if stirred by an unspoken urgency, Wesker abruptly rose to his feet, the movement swift and decisive. The sudden motion startled Excella, causing her to take a half-step back, blinking in surprise as she watched him adjust the collar of his suit. The faint creak of fabric against skin was the only sound that broke the stillness.

 

“What’s wrong, love?” Excella asked, her voice soft yet laced with genuine concern. She had seen Wesker in many states of mind—calm, focused, calculating—but this level of obsession over one of his experiments was rare. His attention was often devoted to his work, but this… this was something else.

 

Wesker gave her a brief glance, his expression completely unreadable behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. “Are you familiar with beige tones?” he asked abruptly, his voice low and brisk, devoid of warmth.

 

Excella blinked, caught off guard by the question. It wasn’t what she had expected. “Beige?” she echoed, momentarily thrown. “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

 

Without pausing to explain, Wesker spoke again, his tone carrying an air of quiet authority. “I’ll need your help selecting a few items,” he said, his words clipped, as though the matter was of immediate importance.

 

Excella hesitated for a moment, her curiosity piqued. Wesker never asked for help with anything trivial. In fact, he was known for working alone, preferring solitude and control over the unpredictable nature of collaboration. Something in his voice told her that this was no ordinary task. She straightened instinctively, her posture correcting itself as she fell in step behind him.

 

The stark, sterile corridors of the laboratory stretched before them, winding and labyrinthine, an unyielding maze of metal and concrete. Excella had learned long ago that keeping close to Wesker was the only way to avoid becoming lost in the endless halls. Her black bobbed hair swayed with each step, the movement subtle but deliberate, while her heels clicked sharply against the polished floors, echoing in the empty space around them. The ring that adorned the back of her form-fitting white dress shimmered faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights, catching the gleam of light with each movement. The fabric of the dress clung to her curves, accentuating her presence and adding an almost ethereal quality to her already striking figure.

 

Though she remained silent, her mind raced with questions. Why would Wesker, who typically worked in isolation, suddenly require her assistance for something as mundane as selecting a color scheme? The thought lingered in her mind, but she knew better than to voice her curiosity. Questioning Wesker was always a dangerous game—one she had no desire to play.

 

As they continued down the sterile hallways, Wesker’s thoughts remained far from the walls of the laboratory. His mind was consumed with the image of Aerico—his defiance, his unpredictable behavior, and the hidden potential that lingered beneath his chaotic exterior. If Aerico could be controlled, he would be a powerful ally—an asset like no other. But if not… 

 

The idea of failure gnawed at Wesker’s thoughts, and his jaw clenched, a sharp, invisible tension threading through his muscles. No loose threads. He couldn’t afford any weakness, any vulnerability that could undermine the carefully constructed world he had built.

 

“Come along, Excella,” he said suddenly, his voice calm but edged with a hint of impatience. His pace quickened, and his long strides carried him through the maze of corridors with relentless precision. “We have work to do.”

 

“Yes, Albert,” Excella replied with a quiet resolve, quickening her pace to match his. She was unwavering in her devotion, determined to stay by his side, whatever his plans might entail. Whatever the task, she would follow him to the end—because with Wesker, the end was always just the beginning.

 

 

Notes:

Tweaking as we go along the story, both physically and mentally, the next chapter may come out slower than intended, considering this story has been put on and off, rest assured I will continue this story, eventually.

Chapter 4: The Aberrant

Summary:

Albert Wesker takes it upon himself to oversee Aerico Wesker’s testing, unwilling to trust any of the researchers after the last incident. Aerico, despite his usual sarcasm, is notably cooperative, following every instruction without resistance. Pleased with his obedience, Albert rewards him at the end of the session, though the nature of the reward is left ambiguous.

Though someone appears bothered by this..

Albert Wesker's study was dim, the only light filtering in from a few small windows. The clock on the wall ticked 5:30 AM with an almost sinister precision. The room was eerily quiet until a soft rustling and a low groan pierced the stillness. Aerico Wesker, still half-dazed from sleep, shifted restlessly in the bed, blinking in irritation at the harsh light that seemed to cut through the fog of his dreams.

 

He groaned louder as he stretched, muttering curses under his breath. "Fucking 5:30? Are you serious, Wesker?"

 

He attempted to roll over, but a calm, unyielding voice interrupted.

 

"You will get up, Aerico," Albert Wesker said coldly, standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest.

 

Aerico glared at him from his bed, the sudden jolt of waking sending frustration through his veins. He sat up, rubbing his eyes. "You're insane if you think I'm getting up for some test at this ungodly hour," he muttered, his voice still thick with sleep.

 

Albert's gaze was as unflinching as ever, but the words that followed carried an edge of cold manipulation. "And whose fault is that?" he asked, his voice low and controlled. "If you hadn’t killed Ortiz, maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with you. You’ve only made things more difficult for yourself.”

 

Aerico froze, his irritation momentarily dissipating. His eyes narrowed, the fog of sleep lifting just enough for the sting of those words to register. “What the hell are you talking about?” Aerico’s voice was dangerous, like a spark that could ignite a fire. “I didn’t kill Ortiz.”

 

Albert didn’t flinch, his expression stone-cold as ever. He didn’t let the confusion in Aerico’s voice sway him. “Of course you did. You are the one who killed him. The least you could do is face the consequences of your actions."

 

The comment was calculated, designed to needle, to put Aerico on edge—to make him question himself, to make him more pliable in the long run. Albert watched with cold, calculating eyes as Aerico’s confusion shifted into a kind of simmering rage.

 

Aerico clenched his fists, a deep breath escaping his lungs in frustration. He looked like he was going to shout, maybe throw something, but then he froze, his sharp, calculating mind snapping back into focus. He slowly stood from the bed, never breaking his glare from Albert’s eyes.

 

“Whatever,” Aerico spat, masking the flicker of doubt with his usual smirk. “But you’re still a fucking asshole for waking me up like this. I’m not your damn lab rat.”

 

Albert’s expression remained unchanged, but he couldn’t hide the slight satisfaction that flickered in his eyes. Aerico was frustrated, yes—but he was still responding. He had his attention, and that was all Albert needed.

 

"Get dressed," Albert ordered, his voice firm, the tone brokering no argument. "The tests won’t wait."

 

Aerico gave him one last glare, but he knew better than to keep pushing. For all his stubbornness, Aerico knew where the boundaries were, even if he hated it. He turned away with a huff, muttering to himself under his breath about how he’d make Albert regret this later. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew when to fight—and when to simply get it over with.

 

As he pulled on his clothes with a mixture of annoyance and irritation, he glanced over at Albert, still watching him silently. “You know,” Aerico said, voice laced with venom, “if you weren't so damn obsessed with your little projects, maybe you'd realize you’ve been missing the bigger picture.”

 

Albert said nothing, his sharp eyes watching Aerico’s every movement. He was used to his creations resisting, to their outbursts and challenges. Aerico might be unpredictable and reckless, but he was still a piece on Albert’s board. And one way or another, Albert would make sure he stayed in line.

 

The breakfast table was quiet, the only sounds the soft clink of silverware against porcelain and the low hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. Aerico sat there, his wrists cuffed to the chair, the restraints an unfortunate but necessary precaution. His usual defiance was evident in the way he slouched, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him, barely touched.

 

The guards stood a few feet away, always watchful, their gazes unwavering as Aerico ate what was probably a healthy—if unappetizing—meal. He didn’t care for the bland eggs and toast, but he ate it anyway. His mind, however, was elsewhere, simmering with thoughts of vengeance, manipulation, and what Albert Wesker had said earlier about Ortiz.

 

Finally, once he had finished—or at least enough to appease his keepers—two guards motioned for him to stand. He sighed dramatically, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated creak. The cuffs on his wrists clinked as he stood, and he shot a pointed look toward the guards, the intensity in his gaze enough to make them shift uneasily.

 

"Lead the way, boys," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. The guards, unfazed, moved to escort him out.

 

The corridor was cold, sterile, and far too clean for Aerico's liking. The guards flanked him, one in front, one behind, their presence only reminding him that this was not his domain. His thoughts wandered briefly to his next chance to escape, but he knew that would take time.

 

As they reached the testing room, Albert Wesker was already there, standing by the table with his usual expression of calm, control, and borderline disdain. He didn’t even glance up as the door opened. Aerico was shoved into a chair, glaring at the guards, He immediately slouched, his back arching as he relaxed into the uncomfortable seat.

 

Albert finally turned to face him, his gaze piercing and calculating. “Good morning, Aerico,” he said in that clipped, controlled tone of his. “How are you feeling today?”

 

Aerico rolled his eyes dramatically, resting his head on the back of the chair. “Oh, just peachy, Wesker. I feel like a million bucks. Really,” he added, as if to emphasize his point. “I’ve never felt better, actually. The cuffs? Totally comfortable. And the breakfast? Delicious.” He made a show of wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, glancing at the empty plate in front of him. “Couldn’t ask for a better start to the day.”

 

Albert’s face didn’t shift, but there was a slight twitch in his jaw. He didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but it didn’t seem to bother him enough to stop the session. “Any discomfort, then?” he pressed, continuing with his line of questioning. “Any pain or issues you’re experiencing?”

 

Aerico’s smirk never wavered. “Pain?” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I’ve got a headache from all the charming conversations we’ve had over the past month, but aside from that, no, I’m good. Just the usual—being treated like a damn experiment, but that’s hardly new.” His eyes flickered toward Albert’s face, looking for any reaction, but found none. “You sure I’m not in for a real breakfast, though? I don’t know how you can stomach that stuff they gave me. It's like eating cardboard with a side of disappointment.”

 

Albert’s cold gaze remained fixed on him. “Noted,” he said, his tone giving no indication of how he felt about Aerico’s responses. He wasn’t here for the small talk; he was here to gather data. “Any discomfort in your body? Any signs of instability?”

 

Aerico gave a half-shrug, clearly unimpressed. “Oh yeah, Wesker. My body’s just a paragon of perfection. I’ve got absolutely nothing wrong with me. No pain. No weakness. No instability. I'm practically a fucking superhero, if you ask me.”

 

Albert didn’t respond right away, the silence stretching between them for a moment. He wasn’t particularly surprised by Aerico’s deflection, nor did he find it clever. It was typical Aerico—hiding behind sarcasm and dismissive humor.

 

“Aerico,” Albert finally said, his voice clipped but controlled, “I need you to answer me seriously. You can keep up the act, but it won’t change anything. I’m asking for information, not your usual theatrics.”

 

Aerico leaned forward slightly, his grin never faltering as he looked Albert straight in the eye. “Well, sorry to disappoint, Wesker, but I’m not your obedient little puppet, am I? Not today. You’re going to have to drag those answers out of me if you want them.”

 

Albert’s eyes darkened, but he maintained his composure. “Don’t make this difficult, Aerico. You know how this works.”

 

Aerico’s gaze flickered to the side, then back to Albert, the defiance still palpable in his posture. “Yeah, I know how it works. You ask questions, I give smart-ass answers. You don’t like it. I still don’t care.”

 

The silence that followed was thick with tension, but Albert wasn’t surprised by Aerico’s attitude. The clone, as unpredictable and uncontrollable as he was, would never give in easily. Albert didn’t expect him to, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t get the answers he wanted.

 

“Aerico,” Albert began again, his tone sharpening slightly, “if you want me to keep you alive, you’ll answer my questions.” His eyes glinted with something cold. “Otherwise, we’ll see how far you can push me before you regret it.”

 

Aerico held his gaze for a moment, that same unrelenting smirk playing at his lips. “I’m sure it’ll be an interesting ride, Wesker. Let’s see how long you can stand my ‘attitude’.”

 

Albert’s jaw clenched but he said nothing more for the moment. He had no intention of getting sidetracked by Aerico’s bravado. There was still a purpose to this session, and Albert would make sure that purpose was achieved, one way or another.

 

Aerico Wesker’s wrists shifted, subconsciously fidgeting with the cuffs. The action was so casual, so instinctive, that he didn’t even realize he was doing it. His fingers grazed the cool metal with the slightest of movements, a sign of the nerves he was trying to suppress, though he’d never admit to it.

 

Albert Wesker watched with quiet scrutiny, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he observed the behavior. He didn’t acknowledge it out loud, but he made a mental note of the fidgeting. It wasn’t fear—Aerico’s body language suggested something else, something deeper, but it didn’t matter. Albert preferred to keep his observations to himself, for now.

 

When Albert spoke again, his voice was smooth, but there was something in the way he phrased his words that made Aerico’s tension spike for a brief moment.

 

“Today,” Albert began, his voice as emotionless as ever, “we’ll be testing something new.”

 

Aerico’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. The words hit him like a sharp cold breeze, setting off an alarm in his mind. Testing something new could mean any number of things. The last time Albert had said those words, it had involved invasive procedures and discomfort that had left him reeling for days.

 

His nerves immediately flared, but before he could form any words, the tension slowly ebbed away as Albert continued without further fanfare. The words hung in the air for a moment, but the machine was already being wheeled into the room by two of the guards. The sight of it immediately caught Aerico’s eye—a brain scanner. It looked far more like something out of a medical experiment than anything he’d seen before.

 

Aerico’s gaze shifted between the machine and Albert, his mind still racing, calculating the best course of action, the next escape route. He wasn’t one for being strapped into machines, and his mind was already jumping to the worst-case scenarios. But as the machine was brought closer, he realized there was no immediate pain involved. No sharp needles or tubes.

 

He did, however, feel a wave of discomfort as the two guards secured the scanner to his head, the cold pads pressing against his skin. He couldn’t help but imagine he probably looked pretty ridiculous with it on, the contraption making him feel like some lab rat in a test of mental endurance.

 

He glanced up at Albert, his eyes flickering with a hint of a smirk, trying to push down the unease. “What, you just love playing doctor now, Wesker? Wasn’t enough to mess with my body, now you wanna mess with my mind too?” His voice was dripping with that same sarcasm, trying to mask the knot of tension in his stomach.

 

Albert remained silent as he adjusted the settings on the brain scanner, his eyes fixed on the controls. The way Aerico had quickly fallen back into his usual deflection routine did not surprise him, though it didn’t alleviate the curiosity Albert had about Aerico’s underlying state of mind.

 

As the machine powered up, Albert glanced at Aerico, his expression neutral but his gaze sharp. “This is not about mind games,” Albert replied coolly. “This is about understanding your neurological responses. Your capacity for problem-solving. We’ll begin with puzzles, and I’ll monitor your brain’s activity as you work through them.”

 

Aerico’s tension ebbed just a bit at the mention of puzzles, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. The machine felt too invasive for his liking, though he had to admit it wasn’t as bad as he had initially feared.

 

“Puzzles, huh?” Aerico muttered, more to himself than to Albert, as his eyes scanned the various pieces of equipment. "Great. How... stimulating."

 

Albert didn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly as he watched Aerico’s shifting demeanor. He wasn’t buying into the sarcasm; Albert knew better than to let Aerico’s games fool him. This was as much about control as it was about data.

 

A screen flickered on beside him, displaying the first of the puzzles. Albert looked over at Aerico, his tone flat. “Solve it.”

 

The puzzle itself wasn’t terribly complex—just a series of shapes that had to be arranged in a certain order, but the machine’s purpose was to observe how Aerico approached it, how his brain reacted to the challenge.

 

Aerico took a deep breath and stared at the screen, trying to ignore the cold weight of the scanner. For a moment, he considered just making a show of it, doing the puzzle as slowly as possible, or messing up just to annoy Albert. But he knew that wouldn’t help anything.

 

With a small sigh, he began moving the shapes into place, his fingers working quickly. He glanced up at Albert, giving him a pointed look. “You sure this is all it takes to keep you entertained these days? I figured you’d have more complex hobbies.” The sarcasm was still there, but there was an undercurrent of something else now—resignation, maybe. Or perhaps just a need to distract himself from the odd situation he found himself in.

 

I had long dismissed Aerico Wesker as little more than a failed replica, a clone gone awry, a twisted reflection of myself. His impulsiveness, his stubbornness, the way he disregarded my authority with a casual ease that set my nerves on edge—it all grated against me. Every attempt to mold him into something useful had failed, and I had resigned myself to the idea that he was little more than a mistake. Unpredictable. Frustrating. He didn’t embody the perfection I sought, nor did he respect the ideals I held dear.

 

But now, as I study him with an increasing sense of unease, something has shifted. A suspicion, one I hadn’t dared entertain until recently, takes root. Despite all his chaos and defiance, Aerico isn’t just a flawed copy of me. I begin to wonder: could he be more than I ever gave him credit for? Could he, in some twisted sense, be... better than me?

 

It’s early in the morning when I begin my observation. I sit in the corner, watching him with an intensity I haven’t afforded him before. Aerico lounges on the couch, his usual smug grin plastered across his face, completely oblivious to my scrutiny. I’ve placed a series of tests before him—psychological, physical, some direct, others subtle. I want to see how he reacts, what drives him, how his mind functions. He doesn’t take any of it seriously, of course. Aerico never does.

 

He’s far too impulsive for anything as methodical as my approach. His mind, his reactions, they’re all raw, instinctive. As I study his brain scans, the data flickers on the screen before me—his neural responses are emotional, reactive, and spontaneous. Where I would analyze and calculate, Aerico flies by the seat of his pants, making decisions based on gut feelings and fleeting impulses. He’s irrational, unpredictable, even reckless. His emotional regulation is a mess—a far cry from the control I’ve worked so hard to cultivate in myself.

 

Frustration slowly begins to creep into my chest. How could I have missed this? How could I have overlooked the fact that Aerico’s neural pathways are not merely different from mine—they are chaotic. His limbic system, the part of the brain responsible for emotions, is more pronounced than mine. It’s as though his very brain is wired to be more... human than mine, less controlled, less refined. And the prefrontal cortex—the part of the brain involved in higher reasoning and decision-making—has been altered. It’s as if the very foundation of his intelligence is different. He is impulsive, prone to anger, and irrational, his mind always overstimulated, firing off erratic signals that I can’t quite predict.

 

“Why didn’t I notice this before?” I mutter to myself, staring at the data, the reality sinking in. I had dismissed Birkin’s warnings, failed to consider this anomaly—this difference between us—until it’s staring me in the face. Aerico is not merely a defective clone. He is a different kind of being altogether, one I am not equipped to fully understand.

 

Aerico, ever the provocateur, seems to notice the change in my expression. His eyes flick over to me, a mischievous glint dancing in his gaze as he smirks. “Something on your mind, Wesker?” he asks, his voice laced with a mixture of amusement and challenge. He doesn’t even look up from the folder in front of him, continuing to flip through it as if he doesn’t care.

 

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” I snap, the irritation creeping into my voice. His casual dismissal, his complete disregard for what I’m doing, only fuels the growing frustration inside me.

 

Aerico finally meets my eyes, his grin widening. “What’s the matter, Wesker? You just now realizing I’m not like you?” He stretches lazily, his movements far more fluid, far more spontaneous than my own. There’s no deliberate control in him. He’s impulsive. A storm of energy.

 

I scowl. “I didn’t need you to point that out.”

 

Aerico chuckles darkly, a low sound full of self-satisfaction. “I mean, I knew for a while, but you? You’re just catching on, huh?” His tone drips with mockery, but there’s also a strange sense of truth in it. He’s enjoying the fact that I’m only now starting to understand just how different he is from me. And he’s right—he is different in ways I didn’t even begin to comprehend.

 

“You’ve been watching me for how long, and you didn’t see it? Guess I’ve been a bit more subtle than you thought.” His words sting, but they hold a certain clarity. He’s not like me, not just in behavior, but in essence. His mind works differently. His emotions—chaotic as they are—are a part of him, just as much as the refined control I’ve so carefully constructed is a part of me.

 

His behavior isn’t born out of mere recklessness—it’s born out of a fundamental difference. A neurological divergence, perhaps even a neurodivergence. His impulsivity, his emotional overdrive, his tendency to lash out when overstimulated—it all makes sense now. And yet, despite the chaos, there’s a sharpness to him, a sophisticated edge beneath his wild exterior. His transatlantic accent lingers in his speech, as polished as his appearance, as if he’s still aware of his origins despite his behavior.

 

“You’re not exactly what I expected,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, my gaze flicking to the scans once more.

 

Aerico, apparently growing bored of the silence, stands up, stretching in a languid manner. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their grace. “Well, I guess I’ve got to go. You’re going to need a lot more time to figure me out, huh?” His voice is laced with a biting arrogance, as if he knows he’s more than capable of driving me to the brink of madness with his very existence.

 

Before Aerico could make his way out the door, Wesker’s hand shot out, grabbing the back of his white collar with a firm grip. He yanked him back into the room, his actions smooth and deliberate, without a hint of hesitation.

 

“You’re not allowed to leave until the end of the test, remember?” Wesker's voice was cold, his tone laced with authority. There was no room for negotiation, no softness to his words. The agreement from yesterday still stood—Aerico was bound to it, whether he liked it or not.

 

Aerico stumbled back slightly, the sudden pull catching him off guard. For a moment, his smug expression faltered, before it quickly returned, though now tinged with something far more playful. He straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his white collar as if nothing had happened, though his eyes twinkled with mischief.

 

“Ah, that old thing,” he drawled, his voice dripping with feigned innocence. “You’re right, Wesker. I almost forgot. My apologies. You know how it is... I have places to be, things to do.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “But hey, if you really need me here, who am I to argue?”

 

His response was almost comically nonchalant—too casual for someone who had just been yanked back into a room with a firm grip. It was as if Aerico didn’t mind, or perhaps he enjoyed ruffling Wesker's feathers just a little.

 

Wesker stood unmoving, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his sunglasses as he regarded Aerico, trying to mask the frustration bubbling within him. “Don’t test me,” he said, his voice low and controlled, though the irritation was barely concealed beneath the surface.

 

Aerico’s grin widened, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and something else—perhaps a deeper defiance, a challenge he knew Wesker was all too familiar with. “Oh, I’m not testing you, Wesker. I’m just... reminding you how fun it is to keep you on your toes.”

 

For a moment, there was a brief silence, the air thick with the tension between them. Wesker’s grip remained firm, his fingers slightly tightening on Aerico’s collar, but he said nothing further. He was calculating, assessing the situation, silently weighing his next move.

 

Finally, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, Wesker released his hold on Aerico’s collar, his hand dropping to his side. “Stay,” he commanded simply. “You can leave when I say so.”

 

Aerico didn’t flinch. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave Wesker a playful wink. “Sure thing, dear. Whatever you say.”

 

Wesker’s gaze remained unwavering as he turned back to his work, silently acknowledging the new dynamic between them. Aerico, for all his defiance and unpredictability, had become something he couldn’t easily dismiss. Something far more intriguing than he had originally anticipated.

 

Aerico Wesker stepped into his cell, feeling the usual wariness of returning to a place that was meant to contain him. But the moment he entered, something was off. He froze in the doorway, his sharp golden eyes flicking over the space, taking in the unexpected changes.

 

His room had been rearranged. Not just adjusted, but outright redesigned. The sterile, cold atmosphere that once greeted him was gone, replaced with something much more intentional. The walls were still plain, but now in a warm beige tone—subtle, soft, and far easier on his light-sensitive eyes. The harsh lighting had been dimmed, likely recalibrated to a more comfortable brightness. Even the furniture had been changed. His once rigid, uncomfortable cot had been replaced with a far more suitable bed, something that looked almost like it belonged in a real bedroom rather than a containment cell.

 

Aerico’s eyes scanned the room carefully, his mind immediately running through the possibilities. Was this a bribe? A manipulation tactic? A way to make him comfortable so he’d be more compliant? He wasn’t naïve enough to believe it was an act of kindness. Albert Wesker never did anything without purpose.

 

And speaking of Albert Wesker—he was watching.

 

Aerico’s gaze flicked to where Albert stood just outside the cell, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he observed Aerico’s reaction. He was waiting. Studying. As always.

 

Aerico turned back to the room, taking a slow step inside, his fingers trailing along the new furniture as he inspected the changes. The material of the bedding was softer, the air felt less sterile, and then—his eyes landed on something that made his breath hitch for just a second.

 

A bookshelf.

 

Not just any bookshelf, but a filled one. Various books lined the shelves, some old, some new, all carefully placed as if whoever arranged them had actually considered what he might want to read. Aerico’s fingers twitched at his side, an old habit from years of instinctively reaching for books that interested him. He took another step forward, scanning the titles. Some were classic literature, others scientific texts, a few historical accounts. He couldn’t deny it—this was deliberate.

 

And then he saw something else.

 

A nightstand. Not unusual on its own, but what sat atop it was what truly caught his attention—a sleek, custom-made case. He stepped closer, his pulse quickening just slightly as he reached out and lifted the lid. Inside, resting in a carefully padded interior, was an eyewear case. His eyewear case.

 

Aerico stared at it for a long moment.

 

Of all the things they could have given him, this was the most specific. The bookshelf? A comfort. The softer lighting? A necessity. But this? This was personal. A small but undeniable acknowledgment of his needs, of something that most would overlook but was fundamental to him.

 

His jaw tightened slightly.

 

He didn’t look back at Albert yet, but he could feel the weight of his gaze.

 

“…Really going all out, aren’t you?” Aerico finally muttered, his voice tinged with something unreadable as he ran a finger over the case. His usual transatlantic sarcasm was present, but subdued. He wasn’t sure what to make of this.

 

 

Aerico Wesker moved slowly toward the bookshelf, his fingers lightly grazing the spines of the books as he searched for something of interest. His gaze landed on a familiar title—Mastermind. He pulled the book from the shelf and began flipping through the pages, his eyes briefly scanning the text before he paused to study the cover. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips. This was one of Albert Wesker’s childhood favorites—an old book on strategy and manipulation, fitting for someone like Albert. Aerico couldn't help but find it amusing how their interests overlapped, even as their personalities couldn't be more different. He let out a small laugh to himself, momentarily lost in thought about how much they shared yet how vastly different they were in the way they approached life.

 

Just then, the door to the room opened, a second person, entered. Excella Gionne, with her usual elegance, walked toward Aerico, holding a stack of clothes in her arms. She did a double take when her eyes landed on him, her expression shifting from neutral to one of surprised admiration.

 

"Oh my... I can see why he’s so fascinated with you," she said, her tone mixed with awe and intrigue. "You are his spitting image."

 

Aerico couldn’t help but laugh genuinely at the comment, his usual sharp smile softened by her words. He placed a hand over his mouth, hiding the smile as a faint blush crept across Excella’s face. The sound of her voice, so genuine and fluttering, had a strange effect on him. "Only difference between us is I’m the funnier one, dear-heart." He smirked, glancing at Albert with a playful challenge in his eyes, "Wouldn’t you agree?"

 

Albert stood by the door, his posture rigid, watching the exchange with the usual calculating expression. Aerico could see him clearly, perfectly slicked-back hair, his signature aviators perched on his nose, and his immaculate suit. He was the image of precision, control, and power—everything Aerico both admired and resented in equal measure.

 

Excella glanced at Albert with a questioning look, a silent query passing between them. Albert, though somewhat uncharacteristically polite, gestured for her to hand him the clothes, his voice low and controlled. "Thank you, Excella." She hesitated for a moment, still caught up in the strange kindness she was receiving from Albert and Aerico alike, before she handed the clothes to Aerico, clearly flustered by the unexpected interaction.

Albert Wesker stood at the far end of the room, his arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed behind his sunglasses as he observed the exchange. It was subtle—he wouldn’t allow himself to be anything less than composed—but there was a distinct tightness in his jaw as Excella Gionne handed Aerico Wesker a neatly folded set of clothes, her manicured fingers brushing against Aerico’s as he accepted them.

Albert’s fingers twitched at his side, but his expression remained unreadable. He told himself it was nothing—just business, a routine interaction—but the way Excella lingered just a moment too long, the way Aerico tilted his head, amused but not dismissive, sparked something unpleasant in the pit of his stomach.

Aerico accepted the clothing with a genuine nod of thanks, feeling the cool fabric of the black compression shirt, leather gloves, cargo pants, and boots—far more suitable than the ridiculous white lab outfits they’d forced him to wear. As Excella turned to leave, her face still flushed with embarrassment, she stammered, "I’ll leave you to change in privacy."

 

As the door clicked shut behind her, Albert’s gaze turned back to Aerico. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "So... have you given more thought to my earlier proposition? Working together, I mean."

 

Aerico paused, feigning surprise as if he had forgotten the conversation entirely. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded with a mischievous glint. "Ah, right. But before I do that... you wouldn’t happen to have any sweets on you, would you?"

 

Albert looked at him in disbelief, his eyebrow arched in surprise. Then, with a small chuckle, he shook his head. "Pardon, candy? You’re serious?"

 

Aerico just smirked and gave him a knowing look, not bothering to hide his amusement. Albert sighed dramatically, pulling a tootsie roll from his jacket pocket. Neither of them questioned where it came from, the action so casual that it didn’t need an explanation. Aerico watched Albert unroll the wrapping, his curiosity piqued as Albert offered to feed it to him instead.

 

"Ah, not so fast..." Albert smirked, the flicker of mischief in his eyes as he held out the dark delight.

 

Aerico scoffed but leaned closer, taking a bite from the sweet treat. eye contact as he pulled away, lingering in the air as the tension between them simmered. Aerico chewed slowly, the sweetness bringing a smile to his face, and offered the other half. "Care to take a bite?"

 

Albert eyed the tootsie roll for a moment, his face scrunching in distaste. "No... thank you, I’m fine."

 

Aerico shrugged, unfazed, and took another bite. He chuckled, remembering something from his own memories, something he shared with Albert. "You know," he began, his tone light but with a bite of humor, "this is probably the only thing we have in common. Besides the whole 'being the same person' thing."

 

Albert’s face twitched, a flicker of offense passing across it. Aerico knew he didn’t take kindly to being compared to anyone—especially a clone of himself—but it didn’t bother him. "Well, it seems we both enjoy the finer things in life, don’t we? Candy and... good books," Albert said, the first part dripping with sarcasm, but the latter had an air of sincerity that Aerico couldn’t ignore.

 

Aerico smirked, though briefly faltering. His eyes shifted to the row of books on the shelf, his fingers absentmindedly brushing along the spines of a few titles. "I know you’ve been through all this effort—redecorating my cell, getting me decent clothes, giving me special treatment..." His voice trailed off, the playful teasing returning to his tone. "Why? Trying to butter me up so I’ll play nice and be your lab rat?"

 

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Albert felt the invisible wall between them start to rebuild. He had expected this—he had wanted it, even. There was more to this than just work, and he couldn’t ignore the fact that Aerico’s presence made him feel something he hadn’t anticipated. Something… human.

 

"Of course not," Albert replied, his voice controlled but tinged with a hint of frustration. "I simply believe we have something in common that could be... useful." He stepped closer, trying to make his point clearer, though Aerico’s eyes remained locked on him with a calculating, almost knowing expression.

 

"I know we’re different," Albert continued, his voice lowering, "but I sense there’s more to you than just being a copy. Tell me, Aerico… how much do you remember about me?"

 

Aerico paused, considering the question carefully. The smell from the candy danced in the air, casting a aroma over the room as he let the silence hang between them. Finally, he answered, his voice thoughtful but carrying an edge of amusement. "Well, I remember quite a bit actually... your childhood, your favorite books, your training, S.T.A.R.S., Spencer..." His voice trailed off as he studied Albert, watching his every reaction.

 

"But you know, it’s funny," Aerico continued, his voice quieter now, "I’ve been alive for a month now, but it’s like I’m not even myself. Everything about me comes from you. So I guess my question to you is... do you even view yourself as human?"

 

The question hit Albert harder than he expected. For a moment, he froze, unprepared for such a direct challenge to his identity. His mind scrambled for a response. "I... don’t know," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture that betrayed a rare discomfort. "I suppose that’s something we both have to figure out together, hm?"

 

Aerico smirked, sensing Albert’s unease. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice a mix of curiosity and amusement.

 

Albert’s voice grew quieter, almost hesitant. "I know now I was wrong. I mean, look at you—your own interests, your own motivations..." He gestured to the books, the candy wrapper, the very things that made Aerico who he was. "I’m starting to realize how stupid I was for believing that facade."

 

Aerico smiled slowly, a glimmer of approval in his gaze. "Wow. I’m flattered. Coming from you, that’s practically a love confession." His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine warmth behind it, something that made Albert feel exposed in a way he wasn’t used to.

 

Albert cleared his throat, a rare sign of hesitation slipping through the cracks of his usual composed demeanor. His gaze flickered away, suddenly finding interest in the far wall, as if avoiding Aerico’s piercing stare would somehow make the moment less suffocating.

 

“Of course,” he murmured, his voice quieter than usual, measured yet lacking its usual sharpness. There was a tension in his jaw, a flicker of something uneasy in his expression. A muscle twitched beneath his cheekbone as if he were actively resisting the urge to retract what he was about to say.

 

His fingers curled into a loose fist at his side, then relaxed. Then curled again. It was a battle against himself, and for once, he wasn’t sure which part of him was winning.

 

“I just…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration creeping into his tone—not at Aerico, but at himself. “I suppose I wanted to say that I’m sorry.”

 

The words felt foreign, as though they weren’t meant to leave his mouth, and yet, here they were, hanging in the air between them, heavy with unspoken weight. His gloved hand twitched ever so slightly before he shoved it into the pocket of his coat, as if that could conceal the discomfort creeping up his spine.

 

“For everything,” he continued, his voice a fraction softer now, though the effort it took to push the words out was evident. “The way I treated you. Kept you captive. The things I—” He stopped, inhaling sharply through his teeth before shaking his head, as if scolding himself for even attempting vulnerability.

 

His gaze flickered back to Aerico, just for a second. The moment their eyes met, he immediately regretted it and looked away again, jaw tightening.

 

“I know an apology doesn’t fix anything,” he admitted, the words stiff, reluctant, but truthful. He swallowed hard, as though forcing down the last of his pride. “But… I want you to know that’s not how I see you anymore.”

 

The sentence came out clipped, almost rushed, as if saying it any slower would risk him taking it back. Even now, as the silence settled, Albert could feel the weight of his own words pressing down on him, unfamiliar and unwelcome. But they had been said.

 

Aerico pushed aside any fleeting thoughts of escape, his focus narrowing on the man before him. He took a slow step forward, his movements unhurried, deliberate. A teasing glint flickered in his blue eyes, but beneath it lay something more—something rare. His gaze swept over Albert Wesker, studying him with quiet intensity before he finally reached out, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. 

 

Albert didn’t react immediately. Aerico had expected some resistance, perhaps a sharp glance or a subtle shift to break the contact. But to his surprise, Albert remained still. For just a moment, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression—hesitation? Consideration? Whatever it was, it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. 

 

Aerico leaned in slightly, his voice dropping into something softer, smoother, laced with a rare sincerity. “Hey,” he murmured, the usual sarcasm absent, replaced by something almost… genuine. “I appreciate that. I really do.” 

 

His fingers pressed just slightly against Albert’s shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his grip. It wasn’t often he got to catch him off guard, and it was even rarer for Albert to allow it. But now, in this moment, there was a silent understanding between them, one that needed no grand gestures or unnecessary words. 

 

A slow smirk tugged at Aerico’s lips as he straightened, his hand slipping away, though the warmth of his touch lingered. His blue eyes locked onto Albert’s, unwavering, sharp yet unmistakably resolute. 

 

“I accept your offer to work together,” he said smoothly, his voice steady, carrying a weight that wasn’t there before. 

 

Albert stood there for a moment longer than he intended, still processing the unexpected warmth that had settled between them. He exhaled quietly, a breath so soft it barely disturbed the air. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips—there and gone in an instant, swiftly masked by the cold precision of his usual stoic demeanor.  

 

His golden eyes flickered down to Aerico’s hand resting on his shoulder, the weight of it grounding yet unfamiliar. He could feel the warmth of Aerico’s palm even through the fabric of his coat, the touch lingering in a way that sent an unsettling ripple through his carefully maintained composure.  

 

"You know what?" Albert finally spoke, his voice measured, deliberate. "I think we could make quite the team, Aerico."  

 

The words held more weight than he expected, more sincerity than he was used to allowing himself. His gaze faltered, flicking down—just for a second—to Aerico’s lips before he caught himself and quickly looked away, his composure slipping in the subtlest of ways.  

 

Aerico didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he chose not to acknowledge it. Instead, he gave Albert’s shoulder a firm, lingering squeeze before letting go, his expression softening.  

 

"Right. Thanks again." His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. Then, with a hint of something knowing in his gaze, he added, "And Albert? I think you’re a lot more human than you realize. Maybe... we could both learn a thing or two from each other."  

 

Albert stilled, his jaw tightening as if the words had struck something deeper than he cared to admit. He turned slightly toward the door, hesitating just for a breath before murmuring, "...Goodnight, Aerico."  

 

"Night, Albert," Aerico called after him, his tone carrying an unusual warmth.  

 

As the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the room once more. Aerico exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck before turning toward the nightstand. He reached for the book he had left there earlier—*Mastermind*—flipping it open with practiced ease. His fingers brushed against the worn pages as he leaned back, eyes scanning the words but mind lingering elsewhere.  

 

There was still so much to unravel. About Albert. About himself. About whatever this strange, fragile bond was that seemed to be taking shape between them.  

 

But for now, it was a start.

Chapter 5

Summary:

Aerico Wesker steps out of the Umbrella lab for the first time in a year, tasked with impersonating Albert Wesker for the day. Driving Albert’s sleek black car to S.T.A.R.S. headquarters. During a mission with Chris Redfield, an accident causes property damage, but what truly unsettles Chris is how nice Wesker is acting—no sharp remarks, no condescension, just an almost understanding demeanor. Though suspicious, Chris can’t help but be drawn in. Meanwhile, deep in his T-virus research, the real Albert Wesker seethes at the chaos Aerico has left in his wake, his irritation growing comically with every report he receives, Albert Wesker has a soft spot for his clone humanity it seems.

Once satisfied, Aerico closed the book with deliberate ease, sliding it back onto the shelf with the others. His attention shifted to the neatly folded clothes on his bed—practical yet refined. The style was unmistakably Albert’s, sleek and commanding. Aerico reached out, fingers tracing the fabric, a low hum escaping him as he considered his options.

But something else caught his eye.

The S.T.A.R.S. uniform.

Right. He had almost forgotten about them. The thought of wearing it, even for a moment, amused him. A perfect disguise. If he was going to infiltrate Albert’s office and retrieve what he needed, what better way than to pose as the man himself? The uniform would grant him passage through the building with little suspicion. No one would dare question their esteemed captain working late. The idea brought a smirk to his lips.

Albert Wesker wanted to use him. That wasn’t a theory—it was fact. Aerico could read his intentions with the same clarity as if Albert had spoken them aloud. Maybe it was because he had never outright denied it, or maybe it was because they were, at their core, the same person. But unlike Albert, Aerico had his own plans.

The moonlight filtered softly through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Aerico Wesker lay in bed, his thoughts drifting like the patterns in the ceiling above him. His fingers grazed the worn pages of the book he had just closed, and despite the quiet, his mind buzzed with possibilities. The S.T.A.R.S. uniform, still neatly folded and waiting by the foot of the bed, had taken on a new weight in his mind.

A perfect disguise, he'd thought. If he wanted to play the role of Albert Wesker, to be the one in charge, what better way than to don the uniform that would make others see him as nothing more than a mere shadow of the man he resembled? There was a certain satisfaction in the idea—no one would dare question the captain. It would be the perfect opportunity to slip under the radar, to do what needed to be done without attracting attention.

With that thought, his mind had settled. Sleep took him quickly, enveloping him in its grasp, and his body sank into the soft embrace of his nightgown, the familiar fabric against his skin providing the last touch of comfort before drifting off into unconsciousness.

 

The harsh sound of the alarm jolted Aerico awake. For a moment, he lay still, disoriented. The remnants of his dream faded away, and the weight of reality began to settle back in. He groggily rubbed his eyes and sat up, stretching his arms above his head. The early light of the morning was already creeping in through the blinds.

His thoughts immediately went to the S.T.A.R.S. uniform. But before he could gather his thoughts further, there was a knock at the door.

“Aerico,” came the smooth voice of Albert Wesker from the other side. It had a certain authority, as always, but today there was an edge to it.

“Enter,” Aerico responded, his voice carrying that familiar calmness, yet tinged with the subtle impatience of someone already anticipating what was to come.

The door opened, and Albert Wesker stepped inside. His sharp, piercing gaze swept the room before landing on Aerico, who was still sitting up in bed, half-dressed in his nightgown. His posture remained perfect, even in the quiet of the morning.

“You’re awake,” Albert remarked, his voice holding a slight note of surprise, but it was more about the time than the fact that Aerico was alert.

“I’m not one to sleep the day away,” Aerico replied, his eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed his counterpart. “What do you need?”

Albert stepped further into the room, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “I have an… urgent task that requires me to be in the lab today,” he said, his tone level, but there was a hint of tension beneath it. “There are developments with the T-virus that I need to address. The matter can’t wait.”

Aerico raised an eyebrow. “And you need me to do what, exactly?”

Albert gave him a long look, his lips curling ever so slightly as if amused. “I need someone to take my place while I’m preoccupied. You’ll be handling matters at the office, dealing with the usual nonsense and keeping up appearances.”

Aerico's gaze flickered to the S.T.A.R.S. uniform once more, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Ah, I see. You want me to impersonate you.”

Albert gave a short nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Exactly. No one will question you. And you’ll have free reign to… make use of the situation.”

For a moment, Aerico sat still, absorbing the request. He’d expected something like this, knew it was coming. Albert was a man of ambition, always pushing boundaries, always in search of more power. And Aerico? He was no different. His plans had always been carefully thought out, always calculated. This would only serve his own goals, after all.

“I’ll take care of it,” Aerico replied after a beat, his tone calm and confident. “But just remember, Wesker,” he added, his eyes flashing with a glint of something more dangerous, more calculating, “I don’t share your vision entirely.”

Albert’s expression remained unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes, something that acknowledged the unspoken challenge.

“I’m aware,” he said simply, before turning on his heel to leave. “Return when your finished. Don’t disappoint me.”

Aerico watched him leave, the door clicking shut behind him. For a moment, he stayed there in the stillness, his thoughts swirling as he glanced at the uniform. He would take his time with this. The office would never know what hit them.

He pushed himself up from the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and sitting there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The plan was simple in execution but required precision. He had worn the uniform before, practiced the mannerisms, mastered the tone. To everyone outside these walls, he would be Albert Wesker.

Aerico rose, stretching his limbs before making his way to the small en-suite shower. The water cascaded over his skin, scalding at first but soon adjusting to his preference. He let it wash over him, a temporary reprieve before stepping into the role he was meant to play. His fingers combed through his hair, slicking it back the way Albert always did—every movement rehearsed and executed with the precision of a man who knew his place in the grander scheme of things.

 

After drying off, he dressed in the S.T.A.R.S. uniform—a perfect replica of the one worn by Albert. The navy-blue tactical gear hugged his frame, the weight of the equipment familiar and comfortable. Finally, he reached for the signature shades, slipping them over his eyes with an almost subconscious sigh of relief. The world dimmed, softened against the harsh brightness. His head tilted slightly as he regarded himself in the mirror.

Indistinguishable.

Stepping out of his cell, he walked with effortless confidence, the tap of his boots against the tile echoing through the halls. Every movement was calculated. Every breath measured.

Aerico Wesker stepped out of his private quarters, his footsteps echoing softly down the sterile, dimly lit halls of the Umbrella facility. The cold, metallic air of the underground lab was something he had grown used to—too used to, perhaps. It had been almost a year since he’d stepped foot outside, confined to the shadows of Umbrella’s covert operations. The walls, gray and unyielding, had always felt like a cage, a reminder of the isolation that came with being a creation, a mere reflection of another. But today, as he walked, a strange sense of freedom swelled within him, pushing against the confines of his own mind.

He stepped into the elevator, the door sliding shut with a soft hum. As it began its ascent, Aerico’s reflection in the polished metal doors caught his eye, a perfect mirror of Albert Wesker—but he was more than that. Today, he felt more than just the echo of a man. He felt real, almost like he could touch the world outside, like he was finally ready to break free of the shadows.

Sunlight. He hadn't seen it in far too long. Even the thought of it, the warmth of the sun on his skin, seemed like a distant luxury. Yet, today, he would have it. Aerico chuckled to himself, the anticipation almost bubbling over. The idea of being out of the lab, of walking the halls of the Umbrella HQ, was both exhilarating and calming. He had spent far too long buried in tests, experiments, and the relentless pursuit of power. Now, it was his turn to indulge in something more… human.

The elevator reached the first floor with a soft chime. The doors slid open, and Aerico stepped out into the bright, somewhat sterile environment of the Umbrella building. He could hear the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, and the soft click of heels on the polished floors. But none of it felt as suffocating as it once did. His mind, sharp and calculating, remained focused, but there was an underlying current of something more—a joy, a rare thrill.

Today’s the day, he thought. Today, I get to leave this place.

He passed by employees who barely spared him a glance, each lost in their own world of corporate machinations. To them, he was just another Wesker, a nameless face in the crowd. But to him, this was more than just a simple walk through the building. This was freedom—one step closer to something much larger.

Finally, he reached the parking garage, the scent of gasoline and leather filling the air. His eyes immediately found the sleek, black car parked in the corner—a symbol of power, of control. Albert Wesker’s car. The car that, in another life, he would never have been allowed to touch. But now, as he walked towards it, he felt an almost absurd sense of familiarity.

He slid into the driver’s seat with practiced ease, though this was his first time actually driving it. The leather was soft beneath his hands as they gripped the steering wheel, and the controls seemed to fit him as if they had always been meant for his touch. It was strange, the way it felt like he had done this before, when in reality, he hadn’t. It was a shared memory, a ghost of Albert’s life that lingered in his mind like a second skin.

His fingers brushed over the smooth dashboard, the cool metal comforting against his skin. The engine purred to life beneath him with a smooth hum, and he exhaled, his lips curling into a smile. The world outside was just within reach, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt the rush of freedom. The car’s engine roared to life, and with that, Aerico Wesker pulled out of the parking garage and into the world outside.

As he drove through the streets, his hands effortlessly guiding the wheel, the city unfolded before him like a map he had memorized in another lifetime. The air outside felt strange, crisp and warm against his face. The sunlight broke through the clouds, casting long shadows and illuminating the streets with an almost golden hue.

Aerico had never driven Albert’s car before, but as he sped through the city streets, it was almost as if he had been doing this for years. The car was a part of him, and in turn, he was a part of it. Every turn, every shift of the gears, felt natural—a symbiotic relationship between man and machine. He was good at this. He had to be.

And then, just as quickly as it began, the car carried him toward his destination—the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters. The place that would soon be his domain, a place where the shadows of Albert Wesker’s legacy would be replaced with his own. He could already feel the weight of the place, the expectations that would be thrust upon him. But it was exhilarating.

His mind raced as he turned onto the road that led to the headquarters. What will they think of me? he wondered. Will they see the Wesker they know, or will they see something… else? It didn’t matter. He knew what he was capable of, and nothing, not even the legacy of Albert Wesker, would hold him back.

The gates of S.T.A.R.S. headquarters loomed ahead, and Aerico Wesker’s heart quickened in his chest. He was no longer a shadow of Albert—he was something new, something far more dangerous.

As he parked the car and stepped out, the weight of the day ahead settled upon him. He was about to enter the lion’s den, but he was not afraid. After all, he had the power of Wesker, and that was more than enough to handle whatever lay ahead.

With a final glance at the car, Aerico Wesker straightened his uniform, adjusted his sunglasses, and walked toward the entrance of S.T.A.R.S. headquarters.

As he entered the S.T.A.R.S. office, Chris Redfield was the first to notice him.

"Morning, Captain," Chris greeted, standing up a little straighter as he often did when Wesker entered the room.

Aerico’s gaze flickered over him, his expression impassive. He gave a slight nod of acknowledgment but did not immediately critique Chris's stance or preparedness as Albert usually would. The younger man noticed the difference but did not question it. Perhaps, for once, he had done something right in Wesker’s eyes.

Jill Valentine, seated at her desk, glanced up briefly before returning to her work. Barry Burton muttered something about coffee under his breath. The office hummed with its usual morning routine, unaware that their commanding officer was not who they believed him to be.

"Briefing in five," Aerico announced, his voice carrying the same authoritative weight as Albert’s. He moved to the desk, organizing the necessary files for their mission.

A hostage situation at a bank on the east side of Raccoon City had escalated overnight. Several armed suspects had taken control of the building, and the local police had requested S.T.A.R.S. intervention. Their job was to assess and neutralize the threat with minimal casualties.

As the team gathered in the briefing room, Aerico stood at the front, scanning each of them. He relayed the plan concisely, mimicking Albert’s usual approach—cold, efficient, and unwavering. Yet, there was something different. He was not berating Chris for past failures. He was not issuing condescending remarks about field tactics. Instead, he was focused, direct, and... almost neutral.

Chris exchanged a quick glance with Jill, but neither voiced their observations.

"We move out in ten," Aerico concluded, shutting the folder with a decisive snap. "Gear up."

The team dispersed, preparing their weapons and equipment. Aerico followed suit, checking his sidearm with smooth precision. He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. He was not Albert, but he was playing his part flawlessly.

 

Minutes later, they were in the S.T.A.R.S. transport vehicle, speeding toward the bank. The radio crackled with updates from Raccoon City PD. The suspects were still barricaded inside, their demands unclear. Aerico sat in silence, listening, analyzing. The mission was straightforward, yet there were too many variables at play.

They arrived outside the bank, the flashing lights of police cruisers reflecting off the glass windows. Officers had set up a perimeter, their nervous energy palpable. As Aerico stepped out of the vehicle, the officers straightened, their eyes flicking toward him with the same respect they always showed Albert Wesker.

"Captain Wesker," one of the officers greeted. "The situation’s getting tense. They’ve threatened to start shooting hostages if we don’t meet their demands soon."

Aerico adjusted his shades, expression unreadable. "Understood. We’ll handle it."

He turned back to his team, issuing commands with the same unshakable confidence as Albert. Chris and Jill would take the east entrance, Barry and Joseph the west. Aerico himself would enter through the front once the team was in position.

The operation moved swiftly. Chris and Jill infiltrated from the east side, maneuvering through the side corridors of the bank. Barry and Joseph secured the exits. Aerico entered last, walking through the shattered glass doors with slow, deliberate steps.

Inside, the suspects were on high alert, their weapons trained on hostages. The room was a mess of overturned furniture and panicked civilians.

"S.T.A.R.S.!" one of the gunmen barked, aiming his weapon toward Aerico. "Stay back!"

Aerico’s lips curled into a small, almost amused smirk. "Let’s not waste time with theatrics," he said, voice cool and unwavering. "You know how this ends."

For a brief moment, there was hesitation. That was all the opening needed.

Chris and Jill struck from the shadows, disarming two of the suspects in swift succession. Barry and Joseph secured the hostages, ushering them toward safety. Aerico moved with fluid precision, dispatching the remaining gunmen with methodical ease.

Within minutes, the ordeal was over. The suspects were restrained, the hostages safe.

As the team exited the bank, Chris exhaled heavily, wiping sweat from his brow. "That was… smoother than usual," he muttered.

Aerico cast him a sidelong glance but said nothing. He had played his role well. For now, that was all that mattered.

Everything had been going perfectly.

The mission was executed with precision—suspects detained, hostages secured, no unnecessary casualties. It was the kind of textbook operation that Albert Wesker, or rather, Aerico Wesker, found satisfying. Even more so, the fact that he had flawlessly played the role of Albert was a victory in itself.

No one had questioned him.

Not once.

Not even Chris Redfield, who had spent years under Wesker’s command, had noticed anything amiss. Aerico smirked inwardly as he adjusted his sunglasses, watching the officers finish up the last details of the operation. The police chief had shaken his hand, the bank manager had praised their efficiency, and his so-called team had followed his orders without hesitation.

The illusion was flawless.

Until—

A sound that should not have existed tore through the air.

A deep, violent crash, followed by the unmistakable shattering of something large, fragile, and painfully expensive.

Aerico froze mid-step. His jaw clenched. The air around him suddenly felt heavier, like the universe itself was trying to test his patience.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward the sound.

Inside the bank, amidst the shattered remains of what had once been an ornate, one-of-a-kind, crystal chandelier, stood Chris Redfield—his expression twisted into one of sheer horror.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Civilians and officers alike turned to stare, their faces a mixture of shock and resignation.

Jill Valentine exhaled so sharply it was almost a whistle.

Barry Burton visibly aged at least five years.

The bank manager… looked like he was about to sue everyone in the building.

And Aerico… Aerico felt his soul physically leave his body.

His sunglasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose as he surveyed the wreckage. Large shards of glass lay strewn across the marble floor. The massive chandelier, which had once hung elegantly above the bank’s lobby, was now reduced to a catastrophic mess of twisted metal and shattered crystal.

Aerico took a slow breath, pressing his lips into a thin, unimpressed line.

"…Redfield."

Chris visibly flinched at his name.

Aerico began walking toward him with the deliberate pace of a man on the verge of murder, his gloved fingers twitching as if considering whether strangling Chris in front of everyone was worth the paperwork.

"Do you mind explaining—" his voice was smooth, controlled, but laced with the kind of restrained exasperation that suggested violence was imminent—"—what exactly possessed you to bring down a chandelier?"

Chris quickly lifted his hands in a defensive gesture, speaking much too fast for someone who wasn’t guilty. "Okay, okay, hear me out—"

Aerico did not want to hear him out.

"—I was trying to secure one of the hostages, and the suspect lunged at me, so I dodged, and then he tried to hit me with a chair—"

Aerico’s eyebrow twitched. "A chair."

Chris nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah! And I thought, ‘Oh, I can use that to my advantage!’ So I grabbed the chair and—uh—swung it at him. But then he ducked, and I kinda… might’ve…"

He trailed off, looking everywhere but at Aerico.

Aerico tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Go on."

Chris shifted uncomfortably, his voice a whispered confession. "…Missed."

A long, painful silence followed.

Aerico inhaled slowly through his nose, removing his sunglasses just enough to pinch the bridge of his nose. He exhaled sharply, his patience wearing thinner by the second.

"You… missed."

Chris nodded hesitantly.

"And instead of hitting your target, you obliterated the structural support of the bank’s one-of-a-kind crystal chandelier."

Chris grimaced. "…Yeah."

Aerico’s fingers twitched. The sheer effort it took to keep himself composed was enough to physically hurt.

The bank manager finally found his voice. "That chandelier was worth a small fortune—!"

Aerico slowly raised a hand, silencing him before he could begin a lawsuit. He inhaled deeply, his lips curling into a humorless smirk as he stared at Chris.

Chris, who was sweating bullets.

Chris, who still hadn't stopped talking.

"On the bright side, nobody got hurt?"

Aerico said nothing.

The weight of his dead silence was heavier than any verbal execution.

Jill Valentine, ever the tactician, took a careful step back. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was securing the vault."

Barry Burton exhaled loudly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, if you think about it, that chandelier was dangerous. What if it fell on someone later?"

Aerico’s head snapped toward him so fast Barry physically took a step back.

He was surrounded by idiots.

Aerico ran a gloved hand down his face, willing himself to remain in character. He had spent the entire day seamlessly imitating Albert Wesker, and he was not going to let one stupid, reckless, chandelier-destroying buffoon ruin it now.

With slow, deliberate movements, he placed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose, adjusting them with clinical precision.

Then, in the calmest, most terrifyingly controlled voice he could manage, he spoke:

"Redfield."

Chris stood at full attention. "Y-yes, sir?"

Aerico clasped his hands behind his back, exhaling through his nose.

"Get. In. The. Car."

Chris bolted without a second thought.

Jill sighed and followed him, mumbling something about "of course, it's Chris."

Barry shook his head, muttering about insurance paperwork as he walked off.

Aerico lingered for just a moment, staring at the absolute disaster that was once a pristine bank lobby.

Then, ever so softly, he muttered under his breath—so quietly only he himself could hear:

"Albert… I do not know how you put up with him."

And with that, he turned on his heel, striding out of the bank with all the dignity of a man who had just barely survived the worst test of patience in his life.

 

The car door slammed harder than necessary, the sound of it ringing through the air like the final note of a discordant song. Aerico Wesker watched, his expression a perfect mask of calm detachment, as Chris Redfield stormed to the vehicle. It was a rare sight, Chris’s usual bravado replaced by a quiet seething anger that burned beneath his scowl. He didn’t need to say a word—Aerico could already read the tension in his posture, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

The rest of the team had scattered, attending to the remaining chaos of the mission. Officers and medical personnel were exchanging information, tending to the wounded and the shaken. Aerico knew his job—speak only to those who mattered, make sure the injured were seen to, and make the necessary adjustments to the paperwork once all the details had been gathered.

As the final few conversations dwindled, he glanced at Chris again. The man was sitting in the corner of the lot, his shoulders tight with frustration as he glared at the few officers still milling about.

Aerico sighed inwardly and turned back to finish his task, his mind already turning over the implications of what had happened. He wasn’t sure what had possessed Chris to destroy the chandelier. It had been a blunder, sure, but it was nothing too severe. Not enough to warrant the kind of explosive fury he had almost given. Still, in some ways, the mishap had been a reminder of how raw Chris could be, how his impulsiveness often got the better of him.

Once he was satisfied the scene was properly handled, Aerico turned his attention back to the car. He made his way over with careful, deliberate steps, aware of how Chris remained seated in the front passenger seat. His jaw was clenched, and his hands were folded in his lap with a tension that was palpable. Aerico didn't say a word as he slid into the driver’s seat, glancing briefly at Chris before starting the engine.

Aerico could feel the tension in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. He glanced over at Chris, whose face was still contorted in a scowl, eyes fixed on the road ahead. The weight of the day—the broken chandelier, the botched execution of the mission—had taken a toll. And Chris, who normally wore his frustrations on his sleeve, was now silently brooding in the passenger seat. Aerico wondered if he had been too harsh on him.

But no.

Protocol was protocol.

Still, there was something about Chris’s silence that gnawed at him. Perhaps it was because he had expected something else. Chris was unpredictable, prone to outbursts, and usually willing to call out any injustice—even if it came from his so-called superior. But not today. Not this time.

Aerico opened his mouth, preparing to say something—perhaps to offer an olive branch, or at the very least, a sardonic comment to ease the tension. Maybe a jibe at Chris’s apparent inability to avoid collateral damage—but his lips sealed shut before a word could escape.

It wasn’t necessary.

No need to escalate.

And so, with a single, deep exhale, Aerico refocused on the road. The hum of the engine was the only sound that accompanied them. For the first time in a long while, the ride back was unnervingly silent.

They arrived at the office with a strange calm hanging in the air between them. The elevator ride felt endless. Aerico could feel Chris’s gaze on him, even though the man remained quiet. There was no mocking smile, no words of reprimand—just the harsh, clinical quietness of two people who shared a strained history.

Inside the office, Aerico dismissed the rest of the team with barely a glance, and they scattered to their various tasks. Chris lingered by the door for a moment, his posture stiff and his expression tight. Was he waiting for something?

Aerico didn't acknowledge him immediately. Instead, he moved to his desk and settled into the chair. He had already decided what was necessary, but what wasn’t required were more words of frustration or mockery.

Chris Redfield had been punished enough.

Still, Aerico couldn’t help but feel an odd satisfaction as he took in Chris’s discomfort. It was a strange thing to feel.

“You’ll file the paperwork,” Aerico’s voice broke the silence.

Chris’s eyes shot up in surprise, and for a brief moment, the tension between them shifted. "What?" Chris stammered, clearly expecting something far worse. Aerico didn't offer any sarcasm or scathing remarks. No mocking words—nothing but the cold, matter-of-fact delivery that only someone like Wesker could manage.

“You’ll file the reports from today’s mission,” Aerico repeated, his tone unwavering. “And when you’re done, you’ll get to work on the damage report for the chandelier.”

Chris stared at him, processing the order. His brow furrowed for a second, disbelief settling in before the weight of it all dawned on him. “That’s it? No punishment or—"

Aerico’s lips curled slightly at the edges, though it was almost imperceptible. He had long since mastered the art of hiding his thoughts behind a mask of unbothered calm.

“Filing paperwork is punishment enough, don’t you think, Redfield?”

Chris opened his mouth as if to argue, but shut it just as quickly. He had learned not to push things too far, especially when Wesker was being unpredictably subdued.

 

Aerico leaned back in his chair, watching Chris leave the room without another word. His eyes flicked to the papers on his desk, each one a reminder of the day’s mission. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before he turned his attention back to the window, staring out at the city beyond.

He had already decided that the rest of the day would be uneventful, but part of him couldn’t shake the thought of what Chris had been feeling.

Had he gone too far?

Did Chris deserve this restraint?

Did Albert Wesker ever feel this way?

The thought lingered in Aerico’s mind long enough for him to dismiss it, for the moment, as something unimportant. He had a job to do.

And for now, the job was simple: Stay on task, don’t stray too far from the rules, and wait for Chris to complete his punishment without further incident.

The office hummed with the soft sound of his computer processing reports, and Aerico Wesker, in his role as Albert, continued with the tasks at hand, the brief lull in their routine barely noticeable.

Chris Redfield wasn’t the kind of guy to overthink things.

His philosophy was simple—get the job done, fix the mistakes, and move forward. But tonight, as he sat alone in the dimly lit office of S.T.A.R.S. HQ, he found himself thinking.

Thinking about how much trouble he was in.

Thinking about the bank mission, the damn chandelier incident, and the endless mountain of paperwork that came with it.

Wesker had chewed him out thoroughly—though, strangely, not as much as Chris had expected. He’d been waiting for the usual condescending remarks, the sharp reminders of his shortcomings, but today… Wesker had just sighed. It was almost worse than being yelled at.

Chris ran a hand down his face. "Shit."

 

The office was quiet. Too quiet. The others had gone home hours ago, leaving Chris behind as punishment. Not that he blamed them—he did cause property damage. Again.

He sighed, stretching his sore back before his eyes drifted toward the Captain’s Office.

The light was still on.

Chris frowned. He figured he was the last one here, but no—Wesker was still in his office. He could see the faint shadow of movement through the frosted glass, but the motion was odd. Hesitant.

Chris considered leaving. He really did. But something about that lingering light made him pause.

A peace offering wouldn’t hurt, right?

The break room coffee sucked.

Chris knew that. Wesker knew that. Hell, everyone knew that.

But it was something. And if Chris was going to get chewed out again, he might as well do it with caffeine in his system.

Balancing two steaming cups, he made his way back to Wesker’s door. He hesitated only briefly before knocking.

The movement inside stopped immediately.

Chris blinked. That wasn’t normal. Wesker was usually the type to either ignore him entirely or bark out a clipped "Come in." But this time… silence.

Then, after a long pause, the door opened.

And there stood Albert Wesker—still in uniform, still looking perfect despite the late hour. Sunglasses on, posture immaculate. But there was something… different.

Chris couldn't put his finger on it.

He cleared his throat, holding up one of the cups. "Thought you might want one."

Wesker stared at the coffee like Chris had just handed him a live grenade.

Chris raised an eyebrow. "It's not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking."

Wesker’s expression flickered—just for a second. Something between bemusement and confusion. Then, after a beat, he reached out and took it.

Chris would have laughed if he weren’t so damn exhausted. "You okay, Captain? You’re acting kinda weird."

Wesker stiffened almost imperceptibly. "I could say the same about you, Redfield."

Chris sighed, leaning against the doorway. "Look, I know I screwed up today. Just figured… I don’t know. Maybe this makes up for it a little."

Another silence stretched between them.

Then—shockingly—Wesker sighed.

Not a condescending sigh. Not an irritated one. Just… a sigh.

And then, against all logic, against everything Chris thought he knew about his captain, Wesker stepped aside and gestured toward the paperwork-laden desk.

"If you insist on groveling, Redfield, then at least make yourself useful. I dislike inefficiency."

Chris blinked. "Wait. Are you—?"

Wesker gave him a look that shut him up immediately. "Do not make me repeat myself."

Chris, wisely, did not question it further.

They worked in relative silence.

Chris would occasionally glance up, still half-expecting Wesker to snap at him or make some dry remark about his incompetence. But instead, the captain was… focused. No sharp quips. No passive-aggressive jabs. Just quiet, methodical work.

Chris didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe Wesker was just too tired to deal with him. Or maybe—just maybe—there was more to him than the hard-ass, by-the-book captain everyone knew.

Chris almost asked about it. Almost.

But instead, he let the silence linger.

And as the two of them continued working, side by side, Chris couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

Not in a bad way.

Just… different.

Chris wasn’t sure what was more surprising—the fact that he had actually gotten through a whole stack of paperwork without losing his mind, or the fact that Wesker had barely insulted him the entire time.

The office was dead quiet now. The clock on the wall read past midnight, and even the usual hum of distant traffic outside had faded into a rare, eerie stillness. Chris stretched, rolling out the stiffness in his shoulders, then yawned as he leaned back in his chair.

"Alright," he muttered, rubbing his eyes, "I think that’s as much bureaucracy as I can handle before my brain shuts down."

Wesker, still as composed as ever, simply adjusted the final sheet on his desk and exhaled through his nose. "It’s about time." He set his pen down with a quiet click, then glanced at Chris over his ever-present sunglasses. "It’s late."

Chris snorted. "Yeah, no kidding."

Then Wesker said something that nearly made Chris fall out of his chair.

"I’ll drive you home."

Chris blinked. "...What?"

Wesker didn’t repeat himself. Instead, he stood smoothly, shrugging on his long coat as if he hadn’t just casually offered the most unexpected thing in the history of ever.

Chris gawked at him for a second. "Are you serious?"

Wesker sighed, looking at him like he was the idiot here. "Do you have another means of transportation?"

Chris opened his mouth, then closed it.

He did have his motorcycle parked outside, but considering how exhausted he was, the idea of riding it all the way home suddenly seemed like a much worse idea than usual.

Still, it was Wesker. Offering him a ride.

"You do know how to drive like a normal person, right?" Chris asked warily.

A beat of silence.

"...Get up, Redfield," Wesker said flatly, turning toward the door.

Chris hesitated for half a second before standing. He wasn’t sure why he agreed, but at this point, his brain was too tired to argue with common sense.

The parking garage was nearly empty when they stepped outside, save for the handful of cars belonging to the night shift officers. The air was cool, the scent of lingering rain hanging in the air. Chris followed Wesker toward a sleek black car, something expensive-looking and way too polished for a guy who spent most of his time acting like he hated the world.

"Figures you drive something like this," Chris muttered as he slid into the passenger seat.

Wesker didn’t respond. He simply started the engine, the smooth purr of it somehow both expected and unsettling.

The drive started off in silence.

Chris stole a glance at Wesker, trying to gauge what the hell had prompted this offer in the first place. The man’s expression was unreadable, his posture as rigid and composed as ever, one gloved hand resting on the steering wheel while the other tapped idly against the gear shift.

Chris exhaled, resting his head against the window. "You sure you don’t have some ulterior motive here?"

Wesker hummed in amusement. "Not everything is a conspiracy, Redfield."

Chris frowned, rubbing his face. "Yeah, well… it’s weird. You being nice."

"I am not being nice."

Chris let out a tired laugh. "Yeah, sure."

The drive continued in relative silence after that.

By the time they reached Chris’s apartment, the exhaustion was weighing heavily on him. He half-expected Wesker to just slow down enough to let him tuck and roll out of the car, but instead, the man actually parked.

Chris hesitated as he unbuckled his seatbelt, then—on a whim—turned to look at his captain.

"...Hey," he said, voice quieter than before. "Thanks. For the ride."

Wesker didn’t acknowledge the gratitude. He simply tilted his head slightly in Chris’s direction, a barely noticeable movement. "Get some rest, Redfield."

Chris huffed out a chuckle. "Yeah, yeah." He pushed open the door and stepped out, shutting it behind him. As he walked toward his building, he cast one last glance over his shoulder—just in time to see the car already pulling away, disappearing down the road without hesitation.

Something about it left an odd feeling in Chris’s chest.

But he was too damn tired to think about it.

Shaking his head, he turned away and headed inside.

Meanwhile, Aerico drove in silence.

His hands remained steady on the wheel, his expression calm and unreadable.

Chris Redfield was a fool. A reckless, insufferable fool.

And yet…

Aerico’s fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel as the Umbrella facility came into view.

He had wasted enough time playing human for one night.

The hour was late when Aerico Wesker returned to the hidden lab.

Umbrella’s underground facility was nearly silent at this time of night. The sterile, metal-lined corridors stretched endlessly ahead, their smooth, seamless surfaces reflecting the cold fluorescent lighting above. His footsteps echoed in the emptiness, the rhythmic click of his boots the only sound as he navigated the familiar path.

He barely registered the exhaustion creeping into his limbs. The mission had required him to maintain Albert Wesker’s image flawlessly—to step into the role with perfect precision. The Captain of S.T.A.R.S., the unshakable leader. The trial run had gone as planned.

Until it hadn’t.

Aerico inhaled slowly through his nose, suppressing the frustration that curled in his chest. His movements were sharp, precise, but beneath that carefully maintained exterior, something simmered. He had held the facade together throughout the entire operation, maintaining the necessary arrogance, the cold, tactical efficiency expected of Albert Wesker.

And then Chris Redfield had happened.

The thought alone was enough to send another jolt of irritation through him. Of all people, it had to be Redfield who disrupted what should have been an effortless exercise in deception. The man was a walking catastrophe, a liability to his own team—and by extension, to Aerico’s mission.

He exhaled, letting the annoyance roll off him as he approached the entrance to the laboratory. The door slid open with a low mechanical hiss.

Inside, the dim glow of monitors and containment chambers cast eerie blue reflections across the pristine floor. The scent of sterilized metal and chemical compounds lingered in the air, sharp and clinical.

And at the center of it all stood Albert Wesker.

He was exactly where Aerico had expected him to be—stationed at the main workstation, gloved hands carefully adjusting the microscope before him. His long black coat settled around his frame as he leaned slightly over the equipment, the very picture of composed efficiency.

Aerico knew better than to mistake that composure for indifference.

He had barely taken two steps inside before he noticed it—the slight tension in Albert’s shoulders, the subtle flicker of movement as he glanced in Aerico’s direction. Calculating. Measuring.

Judging.

"You’re late."

The words were crisp, devoid of warmth, carrying the sharp edge of reprimand.

Aerico met Albert’s gaze—or at least, the opaque black lenses of his sunglasses. "I had to maintain the act."

Albert straightened, finally turning fully to face him. His expression was unreadable, but Aerico knew he was being dissected with clinical precision.

"Maintain the act?" Albert echoed, voice eerily calm. "You were meant to observe. To integrate. Not to engage in unnecessary heroics."

Aerico held his ground. "I didn’t have a choice. A situation arose."

Albert scoffed. "A situation."

The single word dripped with disdain. He turned, his long coat shifting with the movement, and strode toward the workstation. Aerico watched as he reached for a small glass vial. A familiar one.

The T-virus.

Albert held the vial between two fingers, rolling it slightly as he studied the liquid inside. "Tell me, then," he said coolly. "What situation, exactly, justified your foolish decision to deviate from the mission parameters?"

Aerico hesitated for only a fraction of a second. He had expected this interrogation. It was only a matter of how much Albert would tolerate before deeming him a failure.

Still, he exhaled slowly and recounted the events of the day.

The mission had started smoothly. A simple bank hostage situation—a public display for S.T.A.R.S., a chance to further embed himself among them. He had played his part well, directing the team, issuing commands with the precise authority Albert Wesker was known for.

Then Chris Redfield had interfered.

Aerico’s voice took on a flat, unimpressed tone as he detailed Redfield’s utter incompetence. The miscalculated explosive charge. The subsequent structural damage. The chandelier disaster. And then, of course, Redfield’s own recklessly heroic tendencies that nearly compromised the entire operation.

Albert listened without interruption. But Aerico didn’t miss the way his grip on the vial tightened.

Silence stretched between them.

Then—crack.

The unmistakable sound of glass fracturing beneath a gloved hand.

Aerico almost smirked. Chris Redfield would have given anything to see the Captain’s expression in that moment.

Albert exhaled sharply, setting the fractured vial down with careful precision, as though restraining the urge to crush it entirely.

"That idiot," he muttered, voice dangerously quiet. "He has been a liability since the day he was recruited."

Aerico said nothing.

But then Albert turned to him.

"And you?" His voice was sharper now. "What excuse do you have?"

Aerico braced himself.

Albert stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "You compromised the entire operation," he said coldly. "Because you wanted to play human for one night."

There it was.

Aerico had known this moment was coming.

Albert despised sentimentality. He viewed emotions as nothing more than weaknesses, distractions from the true goal. And to him, Aerico wasn’t a person in the same way the others were.

He was a creation. A tool. A project.

A perfect-imperfect imitation.

And yet, Albert had trusted him. Had expected him to carry out his role without deviation. And he had failed.

But Aerico merely tilted his head slightly, his expression carefully neutral. "You sound almost concerned."

Albert’s jaw tightened. "Don’t be ridiculous."

Aerico took a slow step forward. "Then why does it bother you?" His tone was even, probing. "Why not simply dispose of me? Surely, I could be replaced."

Albert froze.

It was subtle—so minuscule that anyone else would have missed it.

But Aerico didn’t.

For the first time that night, something flickered across Albert’s face. Something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

Albert turned away, resuming his work. "You are a prototype," he said smoothly, adjusting the microscope with practiced ease. "Not an expendable asset. Unlike Redfield, you still have potential."

Aerico’s gaze sharpened, searching for any hidden intent in Albert’s words. "Potential for what, exactly?"

Silence stretched between them as Albert studied the T-virus sample, his face unreadable. Aerico’s eyes flickered to the vial in Albert’s gloved hand, the unspoken question forming in his mind before he could stop it. He barely had time to process it before Albert’s voice cut through the quiet.

"You will remain human. In a sense."

Aerico’s breath caught for just a second, his usually steady expression faltering. His brows knit together, confusion flickering in his blue eyes. "...Strange," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "I would have expected you to test the virus on me eventually. If I fail, after all, you could always make another."

Albert still didn’t look up. His hands remained steady, his focus on the microscope unwavering. "You are not a failure."

Aerico stared at him, a quiet shock settling into his features. He wasn’t sure what answer he had been expecting, but it wasn’t that. His lips parted slightly as if to question him further, but something about the way Albert continued his work—calm, methodical, unchanged—left him uncharacteristically hesitant.

Albert, for his part, finally exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured breath meant to mask the sharp edge in his expression. His sneer, at first glance, looked like his usual brand of irritation, but in truth, it was something else entirely. A flicker of something unspoken—possession, control, concern—tucked neatly beneath the guise of annoyance.

The conversation was over.

But Aerico wasn’t sure if he had won or lost.

The Morning After

The atmosphere in the S.T.A.R.S. office was different that morning.

Chris Redfield felt it the second he walked in.

It wasn’t the usual hum of casual conversation, the clatter of coffee mugs, or the shuffle of paperwork. No, the air was thicker—like everyone was waiting for something to happen.

Or worse—waiting for someone.

Chris furrowed his brow, glancing around. Jill was at her desk, flipping through a report, though she didn’t seem to be reading it. Barry was cleaning his revolver, but even he looked up at Chris like he was expecting a damn explosion.

It was weird.

And Chris hated weird.

He moved toward his desk, rubbing the back of his neck. Maybe he was just being paranoid. After all, things had been tense ever since the bank mission.

Yeah, he’d made a small mistake.

And yeah, maybe that small mistake had led to some—okay, a lot—of property damage. But no one had gotten hurt! That’s what mattered, right?

…Right?

He exhaled, dropping into his chair with a heavy sigh. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Or at least, that’s what he thought.

Until—

The door to Wesker’s office slammed open.

The entire room froze.

Chris looked up just in time to see Albert Wesker storming into the briefing room, radiating a kind of barely contained fury that immediately made Chris’s stomach drop.

Something about the way Wesker moved sent a warning through his brain—like the calm before a storm, the kind you knew would hit hard and fast.

But then—why the hell was he looking at Chris?

"Redfield!"

Chris straightened, his chair scraping against the floor as he nearly jolted upright.

What the hell?

"Captain?" His voice came out more confused than anything.

Wesker didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, tension rolling off him in waves, his gloved hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

The entire room was silent.

Jill had stopped pretending to read. Barry had actually paused mid-polish, his revolver still in his hands. Even Brad and Joseph, who usually kept out of things, were watching intently.

This wasn’t normal.

Chris swallowed. "Uh… something wrong?"

Wrong question.

Wesker’s hand slammed against the table.

Papers flew everywhere.

The sound echoed through the room, making a few people flinch. Chris barely resisted the urge to do the same.

Barry muttered a low, "Jesus Christ."

Jill shot Chris a look that said, What did you do?

Chris had no idea.

"Do you have any idea how much of a liability you are?" Wesker’s voice was like a whip—sharp, calculated, and dangerous.

Chris blinked. "What—? I didn’t even do anything this time!"

Wesker’s sunglasses tilted just slightly, like he was staring right through him.

"That is exactly the problem."

Chris opened his mouth. Closed it.

What the hell was happening?

Jill was shifting uncomfortably now, exchanging glances with Barry. Even Brad was nervously drumming his fingers on the desk, clearly ready to bolt at the first sign of real trouble.

Chris forced a breath. "Sir, if this is about the bank mission, I—"

"Oh, shut up, Redfield." Wesker snapped.

Chris froze.

Okay.

That was uncalled for.

Wesker was usually condescending, sure—but this? This was something else.

Wesker was actually pissed.

Not the usual Redfield, you idiot kind of annoyance.

No. This was genuine, venom-laced fury.

Chris didn’t get it.

What had he done?

He ran through last night in his head. He’d stayed late. He’d done paperwork. He’d been miserable.

But then—

He remembered the light in Wesker’s office.

He remembered bringing him coffee.

And then…

Wesker had helped him.

Chris felt a chill creep down his spine.

That wasn’t right. That wasn’t normal.

Wesker didn’t help people.

Not him. Not anyone.

And now—now Wesker was standing here, publicly crucifying him, like he was trying to erase whatever had happened the night before.

Like he was trying to overcompensate.

Chris’s mouth felt dry. Yeah.

Something was definitely off.

Notes:

This may be my favorite chapter, Aerico Wesker really has a harem going on

Chapter 6

Summary:

Aerico Wesker had a high sex drive, unlike his creator Albert Wesker. Albert shouldn't have cared who Aerico slept with, in fact a year ago he probably would have been disgusted. but some people gain attachments—obsessions, not healthy ones of course. Nothing was healthy when you worked for Umbrella.

Well, Aerico had a way of making a game out of everything.

Notes:

Fair warning, this chapter is mostly smut, including the next, and the next one after that. Actually, I'll just let you know when there isn't smut.

Aerico Wesker had many traits that, at first, seemed perfectly in line with Albert Wesker. He was intelligent, composed, and calculating. Maybe a bit different with his approaches, nothing they couldn't work on. But then Albert discovered something—something so abhorrent, so perplexing, so downright unacceptable—that it nearly shattered his entire perception of his own clone.

Aerico Wesker was a whore.

Not in the literal sense, of course. No, Aerico simply had no restraint when it came to his libido. Women, men, those who identified as neither—if they were dignified enough, Aerico did not care. He took lovers indiscriminately, yet meticulously, treating it almost like an art form, a refined selection process that ensured only the most worthy found their way into his bed. But even then, he didn’t chain himself to one person. That would be boring.

And Albert? Albert had no idea.

Excella Gionne was no stranger to seduction. She had used it as a weapon, a strategy, a means to an end. Yet, despite all her efforts, Albert Wesker remained impervious to her charms. No matter how much she flaunted, how strategically she placed herself near him, how silkily her words dripped with allure—he rejected her. Again. And again.

Storming out of the monitor room, her heels clicked angrily against the pristine floors of the facility. How dare he dismiss her so easily? She was a goddess, a queen, the most stunning, capable woman he would ever meet. She should have been his equal—his partner. And yet, he acted as if she were an inconsequential nuisance.

She was just about to turn toward the exit when something caught her eye. A glimpse of movement through the glass walls of the laboratory hallway. She slowed her pace, arching a delicate brow as she peered inside.

There, standing in the lab, was him.

Aerico Wesker.

The first time she had seen him, she had been mildly fascinated. A clone of Albert Wesker, but something else entirely. Albert was an enigma, an untouchable force of power and control. But Aerico… he was a puzzle. One with the same face, the same body, the same voice—but somehow different.

And at this very moment, that difference was becoming increasingly apparent.

Aerico Wesker was turned away from her, slightly leaning over a set of documents, his hands firmly planted on either side of the table. And from her current vantage point, she had a perfect view.

The black t-shirt he wore stretched taut over the sculpted muscles of his back, highlighting every defined curve of his shoulder blades. The leather belt around his waist cinched his blue jeans snugly against his form, accentuating his rear. His powerful thighs were pressed against the table, the material of his jeans hugging every contour. His gloved hands rested on the surface, the watch on his left wrist a sharp contrast against the dark leather. Even his boots added to the effect, giving him an air of rugged dominance that was far less composed than Albert’s meticulous precision.

Excella smirked.

She had plans.

Stepping into the room, she made her presence known, her velvety voice dripping with sweetness. “You certainly do look busy, Aerico.”

Aerico straightened at the sound of her voice, pushing himself upright with a casual, almost lazy grace. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable behind the ever-present shades, though his brows lifted in curiosity.

Excella approached, her hips swaying just enough to be noticeable. “I didn’t expect to find you here alone,” she murmured, letting her gaze wander over him shamelessly.

Aerico tilted his head slightly, as if trying to decipher what exactly she was getting at. “Uh… yeah?”

Her smile deepened. So naive.

And then, without hesitation, she reached out and shamelessly grabbed his rear.

Aerico’s entire brain short-circuited.

For a solid three seconds, he stood there, completely still, his mouth slightly agape as his brain attempted to process what had just happened. His thoughts were running at lightspeed, bouncing between What just happened? and Oh my god, am I dreaming?.

Then, like a delayed reaction, a flush of red spread across his face. “Uh—”

Excella’s nails lightly traced over the material of his jeans, her smirk unwavering. “Now, now, darling, don’t tell me you’re shy.”

Aerico quickly regained his composure—or, at least, as much composure as he could muster when a stunning woman was very purposefully feeling him up. His smirk returned, albeit a little lopsided. “Shy? Me?” He scoffed. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Excella leaned in slightly, her voice a purr. “And what are you going to do about it?”

Aerico blinked. His flustered expression flickered, replaced by something far more mischievous. If this was a game, then fine, he’d play along. Oh, this was going to be fun.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed his own gloved hand on her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer. “Well,” he murmured, his voice dropping just enough to be enticing, “since you’re being so bold, I’d be rude not to return the favor.”

Excella’s breath hitched for a split second—barely noticeable, but he caught it. A smirk spread across his face, his confidence quickly returning.

Excella, however, was not one to be outplayed. She leaned in, her lips ghosting over his ear. “I knew you’d be more fun than your counterpart.”

Aerico felt a shiver run down his spine. Oh, this was a wild ride indeed.

She reached out and placed a hand on his chest, feeling the muscles tense beneath her fingertips. "You know, I've always found you to be such a fascinating individual, Aerico," she murmured, her voice dripping with sweetness.

Aerico raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable behind his shades. "Is that so?"

Excella nodded, her lips curling into a smirk. "Oh yes. You're not like your counterpart." She let her hand drift down his chest, tracing the contours of his abs through his shirt. "You're more... unpredictable."

Aerico chuckled, his hand still resting on her waist. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Excella leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "I think it's a very good thing," she whispered.

Aerico's breath hitched as she spoke, and Excella couldn't help but feel a thrill at the reaction she was getting from him. She had always known that he was different from Albert, but she had never expected him to be so... responsive.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes locked on his. "So, what do you say, Aerico? Are you going to show me just how unpredictable you can be?"

Aerico hesitated for only a moment before closing the distance between them. His mouth met hers in a clash of lips and tongues, the kiss hot and heavy with promise. Excella moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his blonde hair as she pulled him closer, a strand of blonde hair falling over his face.

He could feel the heat building between them, the air growing thick and charged. His hands began to wander, his fingers tracing the dips and curves of her body. Excella gasped as he cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress.

She guided his mouth down to her neck, urging him lower. "More," she demanded breathlessly. "I need more."

So demanding.

How cute.

Aerico obliged, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat. He could feel her pulse fluttering beneath his lips, the sound spurring him on. His hands continued their exploration, skimming down her ribs and over the flare of her hips.

Excella's back arched as he palmed her rear, drawing her closer to him. "Aerico," she panted, her nails scraping down his arms. "Please."

The word was a plea, a command. He knew what she wanted, what she needed. And he was more than happy to oblige.

With a low hum, he dropped to his knees before her. Excella watched him through hooded eyes, her chest heaving with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the hem of her dress, revealing the white lace of her panties.

Aerico's mouth watered at the sight. With a quick tug, he pulled the flimsy fabric down her thighs, exposing her glistening folds to his hungry gaze. The scent of her arousal filled his nose, musky and intoxicating.

He took a moment to appreciate the view, to drink in the sight of her spread out before him like a feast. Then, with a groan that was almost animalistic, he buried his face between her thighs and feasted on her.

Excella cried out, her hands fisting in his hair as he worked her over with his tongue. He could feel her thighs tightening around his head, her body tensing up as he brought her closer and closer to the edge.

He didn't stop, didn't let up until she shuddered and came with a keening wail. Her climax rippled through her, her body shaking with the force of it. Aerico continued to lap at her, drawing out her pleasure until she was boneless and sated.

Only then did he pull back, his chin glistening with her essence. He stood up slowly, his own arousal painfully obvious in the tight confines of his slacks. Excella looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a satisfied smile curving her lips.

Her breathing ragged, Excella looked up at him through hooded eyes. “Now, fuck me,” she breathed, her voice hoarse with desire.

Her hand slid down his chest and found its way to the waistband of his jeans. Aerico's eyes widened as she deftly unbuckled his belt, her touch setting his skin aflame. He knew what she wanted, and he was more than willing to oblige. With a assured hold on her dress, seeing her pressed against the table with her dress slowly raised, his heart pounding in his chest like a wild beast demanding to be set free.

With a growl, Aerico pushed Excella's hand away, tugging at her dress until it was bunched around her waist. He ran his fingers over her clit, feeling the heat and wetness beneath. Excella gasped as he deliberately felt her wetness from eating her out earlier, preparing her for him.

Aerico didn’t need any more encouragement than that. He undid his pants hallway, freeing his rock-hard cock. Around a good seven and a half inches.He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed in with one smooth, powerful stroke.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, and a long, low moan escaped her lips. He began to move, his hips pistoning into her with a rhythm that was both punishing and exquisite. Her legs wrapped around him, urging him deeper.

He set a brutal pace, pistoning into her with deep, powerful strokes. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with their harsh panting and moans of pleasure.

Excella's nails raked down Aerico's back as he fucked her, leaving red welts in their wake. She could feel every inch of him, the thick vein running along the underside of his cock dragging against her sensitive walls with each thrust.

He shifted her legs higher around his waist, changing the angle of his thrusts. Excella keened as he hit a spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyes, her pussy clenching around him like a vice.

"Right there," she gasped, her hips rolling to meet his thrusts. "Fuck me harder, Aerico. Make me come on your cock."

Aerico growled, his fingers digging into the meat of her ass as he complied. Each thrust was harder than the last, the head of his cock slamming into her g-spot with devastating accuracy. Excella could feel her orgasm building, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

"I'm close," she panted, her nails scoring down his chest. "Don't stop, fuck, don't stop!"

Aerico didn't stop. He kept fucking her through her orgasm, his cock driving into her over and over as she came apart beneath him. Excella wailed, her vision whiting out as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over her.

Just as she was starting to come down, Aerico pulled out, his hand wrapping around his cock. He stroked himself a few times before coming with a guttural groan, his hot seed spurting across Excella's stomach.

They collapsed together on the table, their chests heaving as they tried to catch their breath. Excella could feel the sticky proof of their coupling smeared across her skin, a delicious ache between her legs.

Excella adjusted her dress, smoothing out any wrinkles with the grace of a woman who had just completed a successful negotiation, not a rather scandalous affair in a highly monitored laboratory. Her pride was untouchable.

Aerico, however, was a little less composed in that regard—not that he needed to be. Still leaning against the cold steel counter, his arms rested loosely across his chest, a pleased smirk dancing on his lips. He could still taste her on his tongue, His belt slightly undone, and his hair no longer in its perfect slicked-back position.

“Alright, big boy, get yourself together,” Excella purred, dabbing a tissue at the corner of his lips. Aerico raised an amused eyebrow behind his shades but let her fuss over him.

“Oh? I thought you liked me looking a little undone,” he teased, voice thick with satisfaction.

Excella smirked, tossing the tissue aside. “I do. But you’ll ruin the mystery if you walk out there looking too satisfied. The others should only wonder.”

Aerico chuckled, reaching for his gloves. He flexed his fingers into the supple leather before snapping them on one by one. “You’re quite the strategist, aren’t you?”

Excella tilted her head. “Flatter me all you want, darling, but you’re still wiping the counter.”

Aerico blinked. “Excuse me?”

Excella gestured to the stainless steel counter, the scene of their… experiment. “We can’t have the lab techs walking in here to evidence, now can we?”

Aerico glanced at the counter, then back at her, then back at the counter. A lazy grin spread across his lips. “You want me to clean up?”

Excella gave him a pointed look, hands on her hips. “You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?”

Aerico sighed dramatically but grabbed a nearby cloth. As he wiped the surface clean, he threw Excella an exaggerated look of suffering. “You’re lucky I’m such a gentleman.”

Excella chuckled, completely unbothered, and took one last moment to appreciate his form as he leaned over to clean. That tight shirt, the broad shoulders—yes, she had certainly made an excellent choice.

Once satisfied, she nodded approvingly and made her way to the exit. “This has been a rather productive night.”

Aerico followed behind her, slipping his belt back into place. “Oh, for sure. Science, teamwork, stress relief—I’d say we made great progress.”

As they stepped out into the corridor, Excella cast him a knowing smirk before departing in the opposite direction. Aerico whistled to himself, his hands slipping into his pockets as he strolled towards his quarters.

The moment Aerico Wesker and Excella Gionne's little "experiment" in the laboratory concluded, the aftermath was nothing short of chaos—though, for Aerico, it was a newfound source of relaxation.

Excella, ever the composed and dignified woman, had smoothed out her clothes, fixed her hair, and strutted out of the lab as if she had just concluded a very important business meeting. She was glowing with satisfaction, her ego inflated tenfold—after all, she had bedded a Wesker, even if it wasn't the Wesker she originally aimed for.

Aerico, on the other hand, was a little less subtle. He lounged back against the lab counter, arms crossed, utterly pleased with himself. His black shirt was slightly disheveled, his blonde hair a little less slicked back than before, but the smug grin on his face was impossible to wipe off.

That was fun.

Not only did he get to enjoy himself, but he also discovered that sex was an excellent way to relieve stress. Who needed meditation when this was an option? His mind felt clearer, his body more relaxed, and—most importantly—he had learned something valuable: Excella Gionne was not above dropping her high standards when presented with the right opportunity.

Then came the realization.

The lab.

The monitored lab.

Aerico straightened up, pushing his shades higher onto his nose. He turned his head slowly to the nearest security camera, suddenly aware that this little rendezvous might not have been as private as he initially assumed.

And then—almost on cue—his earpiece crackled to life.

"Aerico." Albert Wesker's voice was calm, too calm.

Aerico tensed. Shit. Did he see all of it? did someone else see it and tell him-

"Yeah, boss?" He feigned ignorance, straightening his shirt.

A pause. One that made Aerico hair stand on end.

Then, in a voice that could curdle milk: "The laboratory, Aerico?"

Aerico winced, but the grin was still there. "Technically, your laboratory, but I like to think of it as ours."

Another pause.

Aerico could feel the disdain radiating from the other end of the line.

"You really do live up to you're name."

Aerico chuckled. "That's one way to put it."

The earpiece went dead.

Aerico exhaled through his nose, smirk still in place. Well, that could've gone worse. He had expected a lot more yelling, maybe even a lecture. But Wesker just seemed… annoyed.

Oh, but that was fine by him. If anything, this was just the beginning.

With a new pep in his step and a newfound hobby to indulge in, Aerico left the lab, whistling to himself.

Meanwhile, in the monitor room, Albert Wesker sat motionless in his chair, eyes locked on the monitor where the security footage replayed. His hands were folded together in front of his face, his gloved fingers flexing ever so slightly.

There was no movement.

No sound.

Just seething rage.

His blue eyes burned behind his shades as he watched Aerico's smug face flicker on the screen. That buffoon had no idea what he had done—what he had tainted. He was lucky it was just him that saw the little show he put on.

Jealousy coiled in Wesker's chest like a venomous snake, his mind racing with thoughts he did not want to acknowledge. Aerico was his. A creation in his image. His to control, his to perfect, his to—

A sharp crack split through the room as Wesker's fist collided with the console, shattering the glass panel on impact. The monitors flickered from the sheer force, sparks flying as he slowly removed his fist, revealing the crushed remains of the control panel beneath it.

He took a slow, measured breath.

Calm. Stay calm.

But the image of Aerico's smug, satisfied face kept replaying in his mind, and his fury only grew.

Aerico had no idea what he had just done.

Albert Wesker would make sure he never forgot it.

For now, he would have to deal with other matters. Straighten his tie, smooth his hair, put on a face for the world.

But later, when no one was watching, he would corner Aerico. Pin him against a wall and—

Wesker shifted in his seat, his pants suddenly feeling much too tight. He gritted his teeth, fighting against the unwelcome arousal that stirred in his groin.

Damn Aerico. Damn his stupid, perfect face. Damn his even more perfect body. Why did he have to look identical to him? It was absolutely unfair.

Wesker was not this man. He did not feel these things. He was too powerful, too in control. Too better than this base instinct that drove weaker men.

But the image persisted. Aerico's cocky grin. The way his slicked back blonde hair had fallen into disarray as he had— kneeled for her, so willing to please.

Would Aerico kneel for him?

Wesker's breath hitched. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, nails biting into the leather.

Enough.

He pushed himself up, straightening to his full height. He would not be undone by this, by him. He was Albert Wesker. He would not bow to such pettiness. Especially to his clone.

But...later. When no one was watching, and it was just the two of them alone. He would make Aerico pay. One way or another.

Three days had passed since Aerico Wesker’s little experiment with Excella Gionne, and the world continued turning—though Albert Wesker had barely spoken a word to him. Aerico, of course, thought nothing of it. He assumed Wesker had merely resigned himself to the fact that his clone was going to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with whoever he wanted.

The man would get over it.

Notes:

Who would have knew, apparently ao3 does have a limit of how much words you can put in one chapter, also someone explain to Albert Wesker sharing is caring.

Chapter 7: Aerico strikes again

Summary:

Three days later, after Aerico Wesker slept with Excella Gionne. Aerico was right back in that same lab, accompanied by William Birkin. Albert Wesker was at the RPD police station, playing captain— thinking that his former rival, Birkin. Wouldn't dare try anything, oh was he wrong.

Notes:

Heavy smut this chapter as well, enjoy.

Currently, Aerico found himself working alongside William Birkin in the lab. With Albert Wesker off playing cop at S.T.A.R.S., the only person Wesker trusted with his precious clone was none other than the blond virologist himself. A decision Aerico found amusing, considering what was about to transpire.

 

William looked awful.

 

Aerico had been focused on the data in front of him, analyzing virus strain mutations, when he finally turned his head and really looked at the man beside him. William Birkin was hunched over, dark circles under his eyes, his lab coat slightly rumpled, and his hair a mess—clearly running on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine.

 

“Jesus, William.” Aerico’s deep, smooth voice cut through the sterile silence of the lab. “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.”

William barely glanced at him, adjusting his glasses with a tired huff. “I have been through the wringer, Aerico. Unlike some people, I don’t have the luxury of just—” He waved a hand vaguely. “—finding other ways to relieve stress.”

Aerico smirked, catching the slight jab. “Oh? And here I thought work was your true love.”

William sighed, rubbing his temples. “It is, but I’m also human. And humans require sleep, which I haven’t gotten much of.”

Aerico leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “You do realize that if you keel over from exhaustion, all your precious research goes to shit, right?”

William gave a humorless chuckle. “That’s exactly why I can’t stop.”

 

Aerico exhaled through his nose. He actually liked William. Out of all the researchers at Umbrella, William had been the least insufferable. He never tried to argue, never irritated him unnecessarily, and—above all—had been one of the few people who actually gave a damn about Aerico’s well-being back when he was locked away in that cell. William had treated him like a person, not just an experiment.

 

And Aerico—though he’d never admit it aloud—appreciated that.

“You need to take a break,” Aerico stated bluntly. “Your health isn’t exactly expendable.”

William blinked at him, a little surprised at the genuine concern in his voice. “You actually care?”

 

Aerico rolled his eyes. “Don’t get all sentimental on me, William. I just don’t want to deal with your corpse.”

 

William chuckled, but there was warmth in his gaze now. “You always know what to say.”

 

Aerico tilted his head slightly, an idea forming in the back of his mind. He stepped closer, his voice dipping into something almost playful. “You know, I do have a method for stress relief.”

 

William barely looked up from his work. “Mhm, yeah, I bet—” Then his mind caught up with what Aerico had just said. He blinked, his fingers halting over the keyboard. “Wait. What?”

 

“You heard me, Will,” Aerico said smoothly, deliberately savoring the nickname.

 

William’s entire body stiffened. A flash of bewilderment crossed his face, quickly followed by an awkward, almost incredulous laugh. He shook his head as if trying to physically dislodge the moment from existence.

 

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he said, waving a hand vaguely, trying to brush it off. “And what’s that? A nice jog? Meditation? Something... productive?”

 

But his voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying him. Aerico noticed—of course he noticed—and his eyes gleamed with a knowing light.

 

Instead of answering right away, Aerico leaned down, lowering himself to William’s level. William could feel the heat of his breath against his skin, the faint smell of something dark and clean—leather, maybe, or ozone after a storm. The proximity was sudden, overwhelming.

 

Aerico’s voice dropped even lower, a velvet purr that curled around William’s ears and made the small hairs at the back of his neck stand on end.

 

“Something much more fun than that,” he murmured, each syllable deliberate, almost caressing.

 

For a long moment, William could only stare at him, brain stuttering like a jammed engine. His heart was beating a little too fast, and he hated how easily Aerico had unsettled him. Somehow, it wasn’t the words that got to him—it was the name.

 

Will.

 

Only a few people ever called him that, and it always meant something personal. Something familiar. Hearing it from Aerico’s lips, laced with mischief and intent, hit somewhere low in his gut and scrambled his composure worse than any flirtation could have.

 

William finally turned his full attention to him, blinking rapidly. Aerico could see the exhaustion clouding his thoughts, making it difficult for him to process the implications. Then, slowly, realization dawned on him.

 

William stiffened, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “W-Wait—hold on—y-you mean—?”

Aerico’s smirk widened. “What, never considered it?”

 

William’s face flushed, his usual confidence faltering. He adjusted his glasses in a flustered manner, trying to regain his composure. “I—uh—I—th-this is a professional setting, Aerico!”

Aerico chuckled. “That didn’t stop me last time.”

William groaned, covering his face with his hand. “Oh my God.”

 

Aerico merely laughed, enjoying the rare sight of William Birkin—brilliant scientist, master virologist—completely and utterly flustered. And for once, work was the last thing on his mind.

 

Aerico smirked, trailing a gloved hand over William's shoulder as he made his offer clear. "I'm saying if you need relief, Will, I'm more than willing to provide. Consider it payment for everything you've done for me."

 

The scientist shivered at the touch, his composure crumbling further. "I...I don't know what to say..." he mumbled uncertainly.

 

"Say you'll let me take care of you," Aerico purred, fingers drifting to the back of William's neck. The man swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. His heart rate kicked up at the intimate touch, mind already imagining Aerico's skilled mouth and hands on his body.

 

A particular memory comes to mind, two months ago, before Aerico room was remodeled. A strip search was conducted on Aerico—because Albert Wesker was dealing with more important matters—luckily it was William Birkin who took Initiative, god help if it was anyone else. There was a reason Aerico was labeled unstable the first few months of his emergence, he had the temper of Albert but the unpredictability of a coin flip.

 

The laboratory was cold, sterile, and humming with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. William Birkin adjusted his gloves nervously, not because he was afraid of the subject before him—he had, after all, overseen every detail of Aerico Wesker's creation—but because there was something unsettling about seeing him like this.

 

Aerico stood still on the platform, stripped of everything except the shades, his posture relaxed and completely unbothered by the scrutiny. His all white Umbrella issued clothes lay discarded neatly to the side, folded neatly on the table. William's eyes moved instinctively over him, cataloging every inch, every detail, the way a scientist would—but somewhere in that clinical evaluation, a personal awe crept in, stubborn and distracting.

 

Aerico Wesker was the living mirror of Albert Wesker, molded with surgical precision to replicate the man down to his very genetic essence. Standing at 6'3", his broad shoulders and carved physique seemed almost too perfect, like a marble statue animated into life. The lab’s cold light skimmed across his fair, unblemished skin—slightly aged, but handsome in a way that defied time, as though he were a photograph yellowing at the edges yet never losing its sharpness.

 

William swallowed hard as his gaze dropped lower, following the natural contours of Aerico’s powerful body. The rippling definition of his abdomen, the taut lines of his chest, the imposing strength in his legs—it all spoke of a specimen built for dominance and endurance. But even with all that, it was impossible not to notice the... other matter at hand.

 

Seven and a half inches—William remembered it clinically, remembered measuring it as part of the initial health evaluation, though he hadn't exactly been prepared for how visually striking it was in person. It wasn't just the size itself, impressive as it was, sitting proudly even in a relaxed state; it was the proportion, the sheer natural confidence it lent to Aerico’s already commanding presence.

 

At the time, William had blinked, momentarily forgetting the sterile detachment he was supposed to maintain. In the back of his mind, he found himself thinking—no wonder Wesker was so arrogant. There was a raw, unassailable power in Aerico’s body, something almost primal in the way he simply existed, utterly indifferent to the vulnerability of being completely exposed.

 

Aerico, for his part, stood like a soldier awaiting orders. Dignity? Shame? If he had ever known such things, they had been peeled away the day he was created. His blue eyes, obscured behind dark shades, revealed nothing of what he thought—or if he thought anything at all about being looked at like that.

 

 His lips, carved and cool, were set in a neutral line, his raspy, low transatlantic accent only breaking the silence once when he murmured, "Are we finished?"

William, flustered, had waved him off with a hasty nod, cheeks burning under the pretense of professionalism.

 

The memory still lingered with William more than he cared to admit, creeping in at odd hours—an inconvenient reminder of the awe he had felt in that moment. And now, standing once again in a security checkpoint, preparing for another inspection, the ghost of that feeling returned full force.

 

An answering heat swelled in William's groin and he shifted uncomfortably, face flushing. "I...I'm sorry, I..." he stammered, glancing down.

 

Aerico followed his gaze, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. It seemed this would be easier than expected. Still, he had to be sure. "You don't have to apologize for wanting this, Will. The question is...do you want it?"

 

"Yes," William breathed, too aroused to deny it. All thoughts of propriety and professionalism had fled, leaving only need, raw and aching.

 

"Good," Aerico growled approvingly. "Now, how do you want it? A nice, sloppy blowjob, maybe?" His voice was pure sin, dripping with promise. William groaned, head falling back.

 

A blowjob wasn’t the worst idea, even if William had something else in mind, he was greatly appreciative anyways. Anything from Aerico at the moment would do, didn't matter how or where—William wanted him, bad.

 

Aerico's smirk only widened as he sank to his knees, nimble fingers making quick work of William's belt and zipper. He pulled the man's heavy cock out, licking his lips at the sight. "Mm, looks like you're more than happy to see me."

 

He leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the weeping tip, tasting the salty-sweet flavor of William's arousal. The scientist shuddered, threading his fingers through Aerico's hair with a desperate gasp. "Oh fuck, Aerico..."

 

Emboldened by the reaction, Aerico took him into his mouth, lips parting around the thick length. He'd never done this before, but instinct and eagerness guided him as he began to bob his head. William cried out, hips stuttering forward, seeking more of that hot, slick heat.

 

Aerico found he had no gag reflex, thank God for his augmentations. It was almost amusing, really, how easily he could take William's cock without any discomfort. He hollowed his cheeks, sucking harder, tongue dancing along the shaft. William was already losing his mind, back arching with broken moans.

 

"Shit, Aerico, slow down," William panted, fingers tightening in the blonde's hair and messing up his normally slicked back style. It was a surprisingly gentle chide, considering how rough the blowjob had began.

 

Aerico immediately complied with the command, slowing his bobbing motions. He wanted nothing more than to make William feel good, to worship the man's cock with his mouth. He hollowed his cheeks and took William deep, nose brushing against wiry pubes, throat fluttering around the thick length.

 

"You're pretty good at this," William praised, petting Aerico's hair to smooth down the mussed blonde locks. "Where you learned this from?" He mused to himself, obviously Aerico wouldn't be able to respond with a mouth full of cock.

 

Aerico preened at the praise, soaking it up like a flower drinking in the sun. His own cock was rock hard in his slacks, painfully erect and already leaking. It seemed he was very much into servicing. He hummed happily around William's cock, the vibrations making the man stomach clench and his hips twitch. 

 

William tangled his fingers more firmly in Aerico's hair, using the grip to guide the eager mouth where he wanted it. "Aerico," he whine, tugging lightly.

 

Aerico's sky blue eyes flicked up, meeting William's dark gaze as he continued to suck him off. There was such adoration and want in those baby blues, it made William's chest feel funny. He wasn't used to being looked at like that, with such blatant desire and submission. It was addictive.

 

"C—can you touch yourself," William told him, wanting to see more of Aerico unravel. "Please."

 

Aerico let out a desperate whine, but obediently brought a hand to his own straining erection. He stroked himself in time with the bob of his head, hips rocking forward seeking more of that delicious friction.

 

The sight was breathtaking - Aerico on his knees, lips stretched around William's cock, one black leather gloved hand holding the man hip while the other worked his own dick. Pleasure was written across his attractive face in the pink of his cheeks, the fervent bliss in his eyes, the slide of spit on his chin.

 

William felt his orgasm building, balls drawing up tight. "Gonna come," he warned, and Aerico doubled his efforts, sucking hard and fast in a frenzy to bring him over the edge.

It worked. With a guttural groan, William came hard, flooding Aerico's mouth with his release. The blonde gulped it down eagerly, not spilling a single drop as he swallowed around the spurting cock.

Aerico's own climax hit seconds later, his cock pulsing in his grip as he came untouched, the sight and taste of William's pleasure enough to tip him over. He made a mess of himself and the floor, but he didn't care, thrilled and sated.

William slumped back against the counter, chest heaving. "Holy fuck," he panted. "That was..."

 

Aerico grinned up at him before rising to his feet. He licked his lips, tasting William on his tongue. "I could get used to that. You're quite the flavor, Will." He pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to William's pulse point. "Whenever you need relief, you just let me know. I'm always happy to oblige."

 

William shivered at the promise in his tone, at the implications of a repeat performance. He had a feeling their working relationship was about to get a lot more interesting...

he helped William clean up, wiping him down with a gentle touch. The scientist leaned into him, shivering and pliant. "Thank you," he murmured, sounding dazed.

Aerico just smirked, pleased with himself and his handiwork. "Anytime, Birkin. Feel free to call on me whenever you need stress relief."

 

It was an unspoken understanding between them now. A new dynamic to their working relationship. William could only nod, too fucked out to really process the implications. But he trusted Aerico to keep their encounter private. The clone had no reason to tattle.

 

"You dont have to do that," the scientist managed after a moment, voice shaky but determined. "I imagine it could be tiring."

Aerico just grinned, helping William to sit on the counter while he cleaned himself up. "I insist."

He had to admit, taking William Birkin apart had been a rush like no other. The man's desperation, his utter loss of composure... it had been intoxicating. And the way William cock felt down his throat? Heavenly.

Oh yes, this new arrangement would be beneficial for them both. Aerico would make sure to keep the brilliant scientist well satisfied. In more ways than one.

By the time Aerico Wesker had slipped back into his coat and left William Birkin’s lab, he was already thinking about the look on Albert’s face.

 

He imagined the man watching the playback—because of course he would—jaw clenched, that ever-present frown deepening by the second. Aerico wouldn’t put it past Albert to be halfway through composing a very formal, scathing email before realizing nothing he ever said could stop his clone from doing whatever—or whoever—he damn well pleased.

 

So, imagine Aerico’s surprise when no scolding came. No terse voice message. No glare through a screen. Just silence.

Until that silence was broken by a single message blinking on his private monitor:

“Report to the surveillance room. Now.”

Aerico raised a brow, a smirk curling across his lips. Oh? In person? That was new. Albert never did in-person unless it was absolutely necessary. Which meant this was either very good… or very bad.

 

He made his way through the sleek, sterile halls of the Umbrella facility with all the urgency of a man headed to a spa appointment. When he finally entered the monitor room, Albert was already there—arms folded behind his back, posture rigid, facing the enormous screen wall lined with feeds from nearly every camera in the building.

 

The door hissed closed behind Aerico.

“Y’know,” Aerico drawled, strolling forward with his hands in his coat pockets, “if you wanted a date, you could’ve just asked.”

Albert didn’t turn. “Sit.”

That one word dropped like a lead weight between them.

 

Aerico raised an eyebrow, but obeyed, settling into the chair with a lazy slouch, legs spread, expression amused. His eyes locked on the back of his creator’s perfectly-sculpted head, knowing full well the storm brewing under the surface.

 

Albert finally turned, adjusting his shades.

He didn’t speak immediately. Just looked at Aerico with that unnerving stillness, a tension curled tight around his shoulders, like a coil waiting to snap.

“You have a real gift,” Albert said, voice flat, “for making my life immeasurably more complicated.”

“I try,” Aerico said smoothly. “So. What’s the punishment? Solitary? Revoked lab access? No dessert?”

Albert stepped closer, the faintest twitch visible in his jaw.

“You slept with Birkin,” he said, tone razor-thin.

 

Aerico leaned back casually, picking up a silver pen from Albert’s desk and rolling it between his fingers. “He needed to unwind.”

 

He didn’t miss the way Albert’s eyes followed the pen like it was a loaded weapon. A flicker of something—jealousy, maybe, or irritation—crackled beneath that controlled exterior. Aerico toyed with the pen, flipping it neatly between two fingers, knowing exactly what he was doing.

 

“And Excella. Three days ago,” Albert added, his voice edged like glass.

 

He could feel Albert watching him—no, tracking him. The way a predator watches a twitch in tall grass. It only made Aerico’s grin stretch wider as he clicked the pen. Once. Then again. The weight of it felt light, almost cheap. Just something to keep his hands busy while the real game played out in the air between them.

 

“Well yeah. I’m an equal opportunity kind of guy.” Aerico clicked the pen once, then again, glancing at it with mild interest before flipping it in his hand.

 

Albert blinked. Once. Slowly. His eyes didn’t leave Aerico’s hands. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and snatched the pen out of Aerico’s fingers, slamming it onto the desk with a loud clack. A smile stretched across his face—tight, brittle, and far from genuine.

 

“…You're bisexual,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

 

Aerico raised a brow, feigning amusement—but his pulse ticked faster at his throat. That wasn’t the response he expected. Not from him.

 

Aerico raised an amused brow, unbothered. “That a problem?”

 

“No,” Albert said quickly, but the word hit with more force than necessary. His smile lingered, sharp and strained. “It’s… unexpected.”

 

Unexpected, Aerico thought, watching him carefully. And yet you're the one acting like someone just moved your favorite toy out of place.

 

He didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But it was written all over his smirk.

 

Aerico’s grin deepened. “Surprised your little science experiment turned out like this?” He gestured broadly to himself, legs still kicked out, as if mocking the very concept of self-control. “Guess the control group got a little spicy.”

 

Albert stared at him—expression unreadable, but the corners of his mouth were not as calm as he wanted them to be.

 

“You never once thought maybe you might be a little flexible too?” Aerico prodded, clearly enjoying every second. “C’mon. Birkin’s kind of a disaster, but even you have to admit he’s cute when he’s unraveling.”

 

Albert’s silence was louder than words. His gloved hand now rested on the metal edge of the desk beside him. Subtle pressure. Fingers tensing.

Aerico tilted his head. “Or are you worried what dear old Spencer would say if he found out?”

That did it.

Albert’s eyes flicked toward him—just a fraction too sharp.

“Spencer doesn’t know about you,” he said coolly. “And he won’t. Ever.”

Aerico let out a low whistle, the sound dry and unimpressed. “No postcard from his prized little monster-maker? I must say, Al, I’m devastated.”

Albert didn’t answer.

 

Aerico leaned in, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice dropped, quiet and measured, rasp curling around each syllable like smoke. “Relax. No one’s writing home to Grandpa Frankenstein. Your pet project stays buried. Cross my heart.”

 

Albert’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking just beneath the surface. His hand, still resting on the corner of the desk, curled slowly into a fist—calm, deliberate. There was no sudden outburst, no raised voice. But the faint, metallic crunch that followed echoed in the silence like a warning shot. When he pulled his hand back, the edge of the steel bore a subtle but unmistakable dent.

 

Aerico’s eyes followed the motion, sharp and amused. Oh, that was rare. Albert Wesker didn’t break things. He outmaneuvered them. For all his strength, he was surgical—precise. Destruction wasn’t his style unless something had gotten under his skin.

 

That's the second time Albert broke something because of him. Which made Aerico’s smirk all the more insufferable.

 

The corner of his mouth tugged upward, smugness practically radiating off him like heat. “Touchy.” The word was soft, laced with that ever-present sarcasm, but it landed like a slap.

 

Albert’s eyes snapped to him behind his shades—narrow, calculating, lethal. His teeth clenched so tightly the muscle at his jaw jumped. He didn’t say anything at first, but the drop in temperature between them was tangible, like the air had frozen between two predators. A slow, prickling tension climbed up Aerico’s spine.

 

His breath hitched, and to his own dismay, a faint blush touched his cheeks. He was used to pushing buttons. That was the whole point. But he hadn’t expected that look. Not from Albert. Not right now. It was more than anger—it was intent.

For a heartbeat, Aerico wondered if he’d finally crossed the line. The air between them was stretched tight, heavy with unspoken heat. It wasn’t just tension—it was coiled control, and he’d pulled it just a little too tight.

Then Albert spoke, voice cool and detached, like it hadn’t taken everything in him not to snap Aerico’s neck like a dry reed.

“You’re going to lead S.T.A.R.S. for the next week.”

The smirk slid right off Aerico’s face, his mouth twitching as if unsure what shape to take. Shock or amusement. Maybe horror.

He blinked behind his tinted shades, tilting his head slightly, as if his hearing had betrayed him. “Come again?”

Albert didn’t even shift. “You heard me.”

 

There was the faintest twitch under his left eye, barely visible beneath the rim of his sunglasses. Aerico caught it. Oh, he definitely caught it. Albert hated repeating himself.

 

“You want me”—he jabbed a thumb at his chest, voice flat with disbelief—“to play camp counselor to a bunch of under-trained, trigger-happy meatheads for seven days straight?”

 

His voice teetered between disbelief and outrage, as if Albert had asked him to clean latrines with a toothbrush—or worse, wear a uniform with rank on it again.

 

Aerico opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. He looked like a man whose brain had short-circuited mid-snark. His hand hovered midair for a second before falling limply to his side. His brain struggled to compute the request—no, the punishment. He had expected Albert to channel that rage into something far more physical. He could’ve handled that. Hell, he might’ve even welcomed it. Albert wasn’t exactly known for tenderness, but in the right lighting, Aerico might’ve called the man’s wrath passionate.

 

But Aerico thoughts, dark and hungry, were quickly scorched away by the man’s voice

 

Albert stood across from him like a statue carved from glacier ice, his stance impassive, controlled, arms folded over his chest in that maddening show of authority.

 

“Yes,” Albert said again, clipped and low, irritation threading through the word like a razor. “What part of this is difficult to understand?”

 

Aerico stared at him, slack-jawed, like Albert had just declared the sky green and gravity optional. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again with a faint click of teeth, mind still fumbling to catch up. It wasn’t often that he was rendered speechless, but this—this—left him gaping.

 

So much for hoping that Albert Wesker’s idea of punishment might’ve taken a more… intimate form. Maybe he was insane—scratch that, he was insane—but in some reckless, fevered corner of his mind, he’d almost wanted it. Craved the kind of punishment only Wesker could deliver. Something rough. Something sharp. Something that left marks. A reminder of who held the leash.

But no.

This wasn’t sensual dominance. This wasn’t dark, possessive indulgence.

This was management.

And it stung in a whole different way.

 

Aerico slumped back into the chair with the grace of a man denied something he didn’t even know he’d been begging for. His spine curved in defeat, legs spreading in a lazy sprawl, one arm draped carelessly over the armrest like a bored teenager trying to feign nonchalance. His eyes, however, betrayed him. They were locked on Wesker with an intensity that burned.

A flicker of heat, frustration, longing—buried just beneath the sharp layer of disbelief.

Aerico stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “You’re not serious.”

Albert folded his arms, returning to that maddening calm. “This will teach you discipline. Focus. Restraint.”

Aerico laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You want to teach me restraint by putting me in charge of a team of idiots with guns?”

No response. Just that icy silence Albert wielded so expertly, like a scalpel or a scalpel blade depending on the mood.

Aerico groaned. “God, I should’ve just slept with Excella again.”

That got a reaction.

 

Wesker’s sneer was immediate and venomous, carved across his face with surgical cruelty. He stepped forward, his boots silent against the steel floor, but his presence hit like a cold front.

 

“Don’t even think about sleeping with anyone,” Albert said, voice thick with contempt.

 

Aerico’s hands fell from his face as he looked up, startled by the sudden shift in temperature. The air itself seemed to curdle around Wesker, every molecule locking into place with tension. Jealousy. It reared its ugly head in the twitch of his jaw, in the way his fingers flexed against his biceps.

 

Aerico rubbed his face with both hands. “No, no, I get it. Punishment. Message received.”

 

Then, with a dramatic sigh, Aerico held up one hand, palm outward in mock surrender—playful, sarcastic, the universal signal for I’m done fighting you on this, even though you’re completely insane. The gesture was casual, but Aerico eyes betrayed the irritation bubbling just beneath the surface.

 

Albert stepped forward, voice lowering. “It’s not a punishment. It’s a test.”

 

Aerico’s jaw clenched. His entire posture screamed exhaustion—emotional, mental, and something deeper that he didn’t want to name. He tilted his head back slightly, letting out a sharp exhale through his nose as if Wesker’s words had physically struck him, and he was trying to shake off the sting.

 

He rolled his eyes—not subtly, not carelessly, but with the kind of full-bodied theatricality that said I’m so tired of this bullshit. His expression contorted somewhere between disbelief and irritation, mouth twisting like he’d just tasted something sour. “Oh, here we go again,” he muttered under his breath.

 

He dropped his gaze for a moment, staring at the floor like he could will himself out of the conversation entirely. When he finally looked up, his eyes locked on Wesker’s face—sharp, direct, and completely devoid of patience.

 

Aerico’s voice was deadpan, flattened by the sheer weight of repetition, of having had this same circular argument one too many times. “A test,” he echoed, tone dry enough to scrape. “Of what? My patience?”

 

The silence that followed wasn’t just heavy—it was violent. Wesker’s jaw twitched, ever so slightly. The line of his mouth flattened, and his nostrils flared in the faintest motion—barely noticeable, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him. His hands, still gloved, flexed at his sides. The veins in his forearm stood out, taut beneath the black fabric. Every muscle in his body went rigid, as if preparing for impact—or resisting the instinct to cause one.

 

He wanted to slap him.

 

That thought flashed through Wesker’s mind like lightning—fast, bright, gone in a blink. His hand even twitched, just a ghost of a movement, a reflex born from deep irritation and a need to reassert control. But he didn’t act on it. He didn’t give Aerico the satisfaction. Because that’s what it would be—satisfaction. He knew it. Aerico knew it. That maddening little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth? He wanted the reaction. He was goading him.

 

Wesker reined himself in, tightening his stance, spine straightening like a drawn wire. The icy calm returned to his face in layers, one sheet of glacial control over another until there was no trace of what had nearly slipped. Only the slight shimmer of tension lingering in the air betrayed him.

 

Albert didn’t answer.

 

Just turned away again, slow and measured, hands clasped neatly behind his back like nothing had just happened. As if the desk beside him wasn’t now permanently warped by the force of his own repressed irritation.

 

“Your shift starts at 0600.”

 

Aerico pushed himself up from the chair, brushing off imaginary lint from his coat. “You know, if you wanted to emotionally scar me for life, you could’ve just said you were proud of me.”

 

No answer.

 

He turned for the door, halfway through his usual half-assed salute. “Catch you at roll call, Commander.”

 

The door hissed closed behind him.

Albert stood in silence.

A long, measured breath slid past his lips.

 

He looked down at the edge of the desk—faint, but unmistakable. The metal now bore a smooth crescent dent where his hand had gripped.

 

He adjusted his gloves.

A pause.

And then, barely audible beneath his breath:

“…Equal opportunity kind of guy…”

Another pause. Then—softly, bitterly amused:

“Spencer would implode.”

 

And with that, he turned back to the monitors. Expression unreadable.

 

But the faint dent in the steel desk said it all.

 

Albert Wesker remained still long after Aerico left the monitor room, the hiss of the closing door echoing off sterile metal. The only sounds now were the low hum of surveillance equipment and the soft flickering of camera feeds as they cycled through various Umbrella labs and corridors.

 

He slowly brought a gloved hand up to remove his sunglasses—an act rare enough that, if anyone had been in the room, it might've signaled a tectonic shift.

 

Aerico Wesker was bisexual.

 

Albert hadn’t expected that. Not that he particularly cared about such things—it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of evolution, of domination, of reshaping the world into something stronger. But... still.

 

Aerico was him.

 

Literally. Biologically. A perfect genetic replica, refined through Umbrella’s experiments.

 

And yet, there he was, seducing William Birkin in a security-monitored lab like it was the damn breakroom. Albert had known Aerico was unpredictable. Arrogant. Reckless.

 

But bisexual?

 

He turned, looking at the blank monitor that had so recently replayed the incident—Aerico’s hands on Birkin’s collar, Birkin’s face going redder than a B.O.W. alarm. The entire ordeal was utterly indulgent. Messy. Human.

 

Albert clicked his tongue.

 

Was this a flaw in the replication process? Some... unfiltered emotion bleeding through? Or had Umbrella’s tampering unlocked something that he—Albert—had suppressed so deeply it no longer even registered?

 

He didn’t feel disturbed. Not in the way Spencer would be, had he ever caught wind of it. No, Spencer would call it degenerate. Would rant about genetic purity, about discipline, legacy. The old man already knew nothing about Aerico’s existence—an intentional oversight.

 

And if Spencer did know?

He’d bury the project. Burn it out of existence.

Albert smirked to himself, sliding his sunglasses back on.

Let the old bastard rot in ignorance.

This wasn’t Spencer’s game anymore. It was his.

And if a bisexual clone of himself was out there causing chaos with Umbrella’s top minds?

Well, that was his chaos to command.

Still, the next time he saw Aerico, he’d have a few questions—if only for the scientific curiosity of it all.

Because if Aerico was a reflection of him, then what exactly did that say about Albert Wesker?

And, worse...

Was he going to start understanding him?

Chapter 8: Favorite activities

Summary:

Aerico Wesker wakes up early without the need of a clock, he takes a shower, and brush his teeth throughly. Putting his uniform on and slicking back his blonde hair, the second time being the S.T.A.R.S captain, a week since last time. No notification from Albert Wesker like last time, as expected he was ignoring him still. Aerico still has a decent morning, a brief run in with William Birkin and Excella Gionne, there interaction full of heat before abruptly stopping— Aerico goes to the RPD headquarters not expecting anything different than last time, but a certain someone is acting like a ticking time bomb, Chris Redfield...

Aerico Wesker woke up to the low hum of the facility’s lighting system gradually brightening in sync with Umbrella's scheduled circadian programming. It was annoying. Clinical. But it worked.

sleeping with Excella Gionne—and, three days after that, William Birkin—Aerico had thought he’d bought himself a little freedom. A little respect. But Albert Wesker didn’t operate on favors. He operated on control. And what better punishment for Aerico’s unsanctioned indulgences than reinstating him as S.T.A.R.S. captain?

Again.

He sighed as the memory of The Chandelier Incident flickered through his head. Chris Redfield, bless his idiot heart, had thrown a chair at a robber, missed, and obliterated a $40,000 chandelier instead. Somehow, somehow, Aerico had ended up helping him fill out the insurance reports and incident documentation. That had been a week ago.

Now he was going back.

Lucky him.

With a groan, he peeled himself from the perfectly-made sheets—he didn't make them; Albert had the cleaning staff maintain the suite like it was a goddamn museum exhibit—and trudged into the shower. Ten minutes later, steam rolled out into the bathroom as he stepped out, toweling off and glancing at his reflection with a smirk.

Still hot. Still him.

He brushed his teeth with methodical precision—Wesker habits died hard—then spent the next five minutes slicking his blond hair back just right. Not a strand out of place. Perfectly calculated disarray.

The S.T.A.R.S. uniform awaited him, freshly laundered and pressed, courtesy of Albert’s obsessive routines. He slipped it on like a second skin, adjusting the high collar, Then, grabbing his shades off the dresser with a casual flourish, Aerico slid them on with a practiced ease. The moment they settled over his eyes, a shift happened—like armor locking into place. The transformation was subtle, but undeniable.

He smirked at his reflection—cool, composed, untouchable.

“Captain Wesker,” he muttered mockingly to himself, voice dipped in dry amusement. “Time to play pretend.”

His fingers lingered briefly on the door handle before twisting it open.

Only to find someone already standing there.

“Morning,” came a voice—muffled slightly by the warm scent of coffee and toast. William Birkin, dressed in one of his wrinkled lab coats, stood there looking thoroughly out of place in the polished hallway of Umbrella's executive suites. His hair was a mess—half-dried from a rushed shower, and his glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose. In his hands, balanced a little too precariously, was a tray.

Aerico blinked. “Birkin?”

William shifted awkwardly on his feet, like he hadn’t quite thought through how this would go. “You skipped dinner last night,” he said, his voice low, slightly defensive.
“Figured you’d be up early.”

He extended the tray without fanfare.

Aerico’s gaze dropped to inspect the offering: scrambled eggs—fluffy and a little overcooked—two slices of toast with uneven butter, a cup of black coffee, and… a single tootsie roll sitting right on the edge of the plate like a strange, sugary afterthought.

He let out a warm, amused chuckle as he took the tray from William’s hands. “What, no candied heart in the middle of the toast?” he teased, arching a brow.

William rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “You’re lucky I even included the tootsie roll,” he muttered, nodding to the offending candy like it had committed war crimes. “I don’t get how you eat those. They taste like rubber.”

Then, without warning, he turned and set the tray on a nearby table—casual, effortless—but before William could mumble another complaint or retreat behind sarcasm, Aerico reached out, fingers curling around the front of William’s lab coat.

There was a brief flicker of hesitation in William’s eyes, the kind of startled pause that said this wasn’t in the script—but he didn’t pull away.

Aerico tugged him into the room with smooth, calculated ease. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and in that single motion, the sterile brightness of the hallway was swallowed by the muted intimacy of the suite. The shift in atmosphere was immediate—quiet, close, heavy with heat from the still-steaming shower and the subtle bite of Aerico’s cologne lingering in the air.

William barely had time to glance around before he was backed against the door.

Aerico’s mouth met his without hesitation.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t rough. It was confident. Controlled. The way Aerico always did things—with a kind of sharp, knowing hunger that melted into slow satisfaction. One hand braced against the doorframe, the other settled lightly on William’s hip, fingers tightening just enough to say stay still.

William gasped softly against his mouth, somewhere between flustered and pleased, his hands hovering uncertainly at Aerico’s sides.

The temptation to stay in this moment—to say to hell with surveillance cameras, duty rosters, and the heavy weight of being someone else's manufactured ideal—was sharp. Almost painful.

The urge to ignore the ticking clock and the ever-present ghost of his creator’s expectations—it ached.

But Aerico had learned long ago how to play by the rules. Survive by them. Even when he hated every inch of the path they forced him to walk.

Aerico pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips. “You keep showing up like this, I’m going to start thinking you want something.”

William, red-faced and breathless, frowned half-heartedly. “I w—wanted you to eat breakfast,” he grumbled.

Aerico tilted his head, his smirk lazy and dangerous. “And now I’m starving,” he said, voice low, lips brushing just beneath William’s ear. “But not for toast.”

William exhaled sharply, head tipping back against the door.

Aerico chuckled—dark and amused—before slowly pulling away. Not completely. Just enough to keep William’s heart racing, just enough to let the tension stretch tight between them like a string.

Then he turned with a sudden, infuriating casualness and strolled back to the tray.

Aerico picked up the tootsie roll between two fingers, inspecting it like a fine delicacy, before popping it into his mouth with exaggerated delight. He closed his eyes and hummed dramatically.

“Mmm. Tastes like questionable decisions and repressed childhood trauma. My favorite flavor.”

William stared, unimpressed. “They’re disgusting.”

“There enjoyable,” Aerico corrected with a grin, enunciating each syllable just to be obnoxious. He took a sip of the coffee—strong and bitter, just the way he liked it—and gave William an approving nod. “Damn. Not bad for a man who spends most of his day in a lab.”

William huffed. “I can cook, you know.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Aerico said smoothly, leaning in just enough to make it intentional. “I just think it’s funny how you pretend like this wasn’t an excuse to see me.”

Birkin blinked, caught in the act of trying to defend himself. “I—it’s not a reward or whatever. I w—was just being—”

“Sweet,” Aerico finished, brushing a knuckle lightly under William’s chin. The motion was soft, intimate—meant more to fluster than to seduce. “I know.”

William scowled, cheeks already pink. But he didn’t pull away.

“Careful, Doc,” Aerico murmured, tilting his head, his voice like velvet and razors. “Keep spoiling me like this and I’ll start thinking you care.”

Birkin muttered something under his breath—something that definitely sounded like “shut up”—but he couldn’t hide the upward tug of his lips. A reluctant, traitorous smile that broke through the usual mask of clinical detachment.

Aerico watched him turn and walk off, coat swishing behind him like a sulky scientist trying not to look too pleased with himself.

He leaned against the doorframe, one hip cocked lazily, taking a bite of the toast.

Not too crisp. Not too soft.

Just like this morning—unexpected, oddly sweet, and entirely satisfying.

He smiled to himself, the taste of coffee and burnt sugar lingering on his tongue.
“God, I love mornings.”

Aerico made quick work of the breakfast—eggs down in minutes, toast crunched between idle thoughts of Birkin’s awkward blush, and the coffee? Gone in two gulps. He tossed the empty tootsie roll wrapper onto the tray and exited his quarters, striding down the hall with an ease that was all his own.

The cafeteria wasn’t far—conveniently placed near the officers’ rooms, a design that Albert surely approved of for “efficiency.” Aerico, on the other hand, appreciated it because it meant he didn’t have to walk halfway across the goddamn compound just to drop off a tray.

With the tray neatly deposited, he spun on his heel and made his way to the elevator, hands tucked lazily into his pockets. His shades caught the sterile overhead lights just right, casting a sharp gleam across his cheekbone. He looked good in the uniform, and he knew it. More importantly, everyone else knew it.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and he was about to step inside when

“Aerico.”

A smooth, feminine voice sliced through the corridor like silk.

He turned, one hand holding the elevator door as Excella Gionne approached. She looked radiant—she always did—but today, there was a particular glint in her eyes. The kind that made a man’s brain short-circuit.

Her heels clicked confidently against the tile as she closed the distance, eyeing him up and down in the S.T.A.R.S uniform like he was gift-wrapped just for her.

“Don’t you look delicious,” she purred, brushing past him into the elevator car, trailing one perfectly manicured hand along his chest.

Aerico raised a brow, grin flickering to life. “You like the uniform, huh?”

“I love the uniform,” she corrected, voice thick with amusement—and something else. Her gaze lingered at the curve of his neck, and before he could come up with another flirty quip, she leaned in.

The elevator doors closed behind them, and before he could so much as adjust his collar, Excella was already in his space—pressing in close, one hand resting delicately on his chest.

“You know,” she said low, her voice a silk thread of teasing intent, eyes flickering to his mouth, “this uniform… almost makes me want to behave.”

Aerico’s smirk deepened, slow and sly, his eyes gleaming behind the tinted shades. He leaned down just enough for his breath to mingle with hers. “Now that’d be a shame.”

Her soft laugh came like velvet over steel—pleased, dangerous. And then, without another word, she closed the space between them.

Her hand came up first, fingers trailing lightly along the front of his uniform, skimming over the stars stitched into his shoulder. Her touch was cool but deliberate, guiding. Her other hand slipped to the back of his neck as she tilted her chin up, eyes locked on his.

She kissed him—slow, deliberate, and full of intention.

Her lips met his with surprising softness, catching him off guard. What started as a brief touch quickly deepened—she pressed closer, tasting the quiet amusement on his mouth. Aerico froze for half a second, eyes wide behind his shades, then melted into it with a muffled chuckle caught between their mouths. Her lipstick was sweet, sticky, and unmistakably bold. He would’ve made a quip—something smug and flirtatious—but she wasn’t done.

She broke the kiss only to drag her lips down his jawline, slow and savoring, her breath warm and slow like she had all the time in the world.

Her mouth found the sensitive skin just below his ear, then lower still. A slow trail of kisses mapped the side of his throat, lingering longer than necessary, as if memorizing him with every pass. When her lips finally met the hollow of his neck, just above his collar, she pressed a kiss there—deliberate, drawn-out, leaving a soft, warm stain of her glossy pink lipstick behind.

Aerico’s breath hitched subtly, a soft twitch in his jaw the only sign of how disarmed he really was.

“Consider that a thank-you… for last time,” she whispered, her breath fanning against the damp skin of his neck. Her fingers brushed his collar gently, adjusting it almost affectionately.

The elevator dinged.

And like it was all part of her script, she pulled away in one fluid motion, smirking like the cat who’d eaten the canary. Without another word, she stepped out of the elevator—her heels tapping against the polished floor in a sound that might as well have been a victory march. Her hips swayed with practiced ease, her confidence trailing behind her like perfume.

Aerico stayed frozen in place, lips parted just slightly, blinking like he hadn’t quite registered reality yet. A beat passed. Then two.

He exhaled a quiet, breathy laugh, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, still tingling from the heat of her mouth.

“Jesus…” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “How the hell does he resist that?”

What he didn’t realize—what no mirror had yet betrayed—was the vivid, unmistakable pink lipstick mark now emblazoned against his pale neck. It stood out like a battle scar… or a trophy.

And with it, the elevator carried him steadily toward a room full of sharp-eyed coworkers, clueless subordinates, and exactly zero places to hide.

But beneath the roguish charm and laid-back confidence, something more pressing began to needle at the back of his thoughts—something complicated.

Excella Gionne and William Birkin.

Now that was a cocktail waiting to explode.

The elevator continued its slow descent, metal humming like a patient heartbeat. Aerico remained motionless, leaning against the railing with a faint smirk still tugging at the corner of his lips. His pulse had calmed, but something in his chest hadn’t quite settled—like a fizzing undercurrent he couldn’t pin down. That kiss had been more than teasing. It had weight. Purpose. Maybe even a warning.

He exhaled through his nose and adjusted his collar out of habit, unaware of the stain she’d left behind.

Excella Gionne was… dangerous. Stunning, refined, predatory—but dangerous most of all. She didn’t play games unless she’d already memorized the rules and decided she’d be the one rewriting them.

The thought drifted lazily to William Birkin, of all people. Poor, brilliant, awkward bastard.

Aerico closed his eyes and rested his head back against the elevator wall, mouth twitching upward with a sigh. If Excella ever found out about him—about William—things might get...interesting. Or catastrophic.

Because the thing was, both of them knew exactly what he was.

A clone. A project. A replication of perfection, or so Albert claimed.

Birkin had provided the groundwork, the genetic correction matrices, the protein-stabilizing agents that made Aerico work. The man may have stammered and flinched in daylight, but behind a microscope he was a monster—a genius one. Albert needed Birkin to build the theory into flesh, and Birkin had needed Albert for validation, for the unrelenting push to see how far science could go before it shattered.

And Excella?

She helped Albert build his cage.

Aerico had seen it: the chamber sealed in sterilized steel and reinforced glass, designed more like a sanctum than a cell. It had a bed—a real bed, not a cot—artwork that matched the Old World aesthetic Excella adored, and enough surveillance lines to watch the pulse at Albert’s throat if she wanted to. She called it a “precaution,” but Aerico knew better.

It was a shrine.

Aerico had been born of one obsession and now stood adored by another. Excella knew full well he was Albert’s mirror—not an echo, not a tool, but a living, breathing reflection that walked and talked and smirked just like the original. She admired that. She indulged in it.

Birkin, on the other hand? He admired it too. In that silent, guilt-laced way that scientists do when they’ve created something magnificent and aren’t sure whether to be proud or terrified. Aerico didn’t sleep with Birkin because of pity—hell no. He’d done it because Birkin had that same look Albert sometimes wore when he was thinking about power. About control. The fact that it had melted away the moment Aerico got close, saw through the cracks and leaned in—that had made it worth it.

And now here he was. Caught between two obsessions, two co-conspirators. Both aware of what he was. Neither aware of what he’d been doing with the other.

Aerico let out a low whistle, arms crossed. "Yeah, that’s gonna be a shitstorm."
The elevator dinged again—this time, the right floor.

The automatic doors of the Umbrella facility whispered shut behind Aerico Wesker with a soft hiss, sealing away the sterile chill of the building and letting in the warmth of morning. The light outside was gold and ruddy, a low-hanging sun casting long shadows across the parking lot, touching the pavement with a burnished orange-red hue that made the Umbrella compound look almost… beautiful. For a moment.

He took a breath. The air was different out here—less filtered, more real. Crisp with early dew and tinged faintly with city exhaust. He adjusted his sunglasses, not because they were slipping, but because it gave him a second to collect himself after that elevator encounter.

Excella’s lipstick still clung to the side of his neck like a signature. He hadn’t wiped it off. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he didn’t want to.

His boots echoed lightly on the concrete as he walked with unhurried confidence toward the far side of the lot, where the sleek, black car waited like a coiled panther. Low to the ground, polished to an obsidian shine. It wasn’t just a car—it was their car. Aerico and Albert Wesker. Partners. Covert operations, precision work, perfectly executed missions. The vehicle felt like an extension of them—ruthless, efficient, expensive.

Aerico slid his tray-return hands back into his pockets and smirked at the sight of it. The long, sinuous lines of the car caught the sunlight and gleamed with quiet menace. The kind of car that turned heads. The kind of car that said, don't ask questions. He liked that.

He stepped up, pressed his finger to the biometric reader. A soft click. The door unlocked with a silky mechanical purr, and he eased into the driver’s seat, letting the leather wrap around him like a glove. The interior smelled faintly of leather polish and Wesker’s cologne—clean, sharp, calculated. Of course it did. Albert was a man who left his mark on everything.

Aerico tapped the ignition, and the engine hummed to life—quiet but powerful. He didn’t bother with music. The silence suited him just fine, letting the low thrum of the engine fill the space between thoughts.

The drive to the RPD headquarters wasn’t long, but it passed like a film reel stitched in stills. The early city skyline still wore its morning haze, buildings rising through it like silent sentinels. Traffic was sparse, the streets damp from sprinklers and the memory of night. He rolled the windows down halfway, letting the morning air slip in and tug gently at the edges of his jacket.
The roads were smooth. Familiar.

 

__

When Aerico Wesker walked through the front doors of the Raccoon City precinct, there wasn’t a trace of awareness in his gait.

Not of the lingering tension in the air.

Not of the way a few heads turned just a moment too long.

And definitely not of the sheer existential dread settling like fog behind Chris Redfield’s eyes.

To Aerico, everything was business as usual. He looked sharp—uniform pristine, boots polished to a subtle gleam, sunglasses in place despite the overhead fluorescents. His expression was unreadable but faintly amused, like he had a secret and no intention of sharing it.

He offered no greetings. He didn't need to. The swagger in his step said enough: Wesker’s back.

At his desk, Chris watched him pass with a tight jaw and bloodshot eyes. His grip on the coffee mug in his hand was vice-like.

No one else seemed shaken. Jill gave Wesker a polite nod, Barry grunted something that passed as a “mornin’,” and the rest went about their business like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t watched Captain Wesker personally drive Chris home three nights ago like a concerned parent. Like he hadn’t accepted coffee from him—coffee, of all things—and tolerated his company in complete silence for an hour straight.

Chris Redfield was losing it.

Last week dragged on in a haze of barely contained frustration. Chris found himself assigned to every menial task in the RPD—inventory checks, endless paperwork, cleaning weapons racks, even reorganizing supplies in the basement. None of it had anything to do with the missions he’d trained for. None of it felt like justice.

And Wesker? Wesker was nowhere to be found in those moments. Or when he was, his presence was like ice—cold, distant, silent, and sharp as a razor’s edge.

Chris’s jaw clenched every time Wesker passed by, his calm demeanor only making Chris’s blood boil more. It was maddening—like Wesker was deliberately testing him, pushing his buttons, knowing exactly how to ignite the fire under his skin without ever saying what was really wrong.
He hated it.

He hated that Wesker held this grudge.

He hated that Wesker was treating him like a problem to be managed.

And, God help him, he hated the knot of confusion tightening in his chest every time Wesker looked at him—a strange, unsettling mix of anger and something else Chris couldn’t name. Something that didn’t fit the usual dynamic between them.

He stared hard at the man he thought he knew, this commanding presence now settling into the captain’s office with zero acknowledgment of the week’s events. Chris leaned closer to Jill and whispered, “Does he seem…off to you?”

Jill raised an eyebrow. “More than usual? Not really. Why?”

Chris hesitated. If he told her the truth—that their ever-detached, borderline sociopathic team leader had been halfway human for 72 hours—she’d think he’d finally snapped.

“…Never mind,” he muttered.

Inside the office, Aerico closed the door with a quiet click, fully unaware of the chaos his absence—and impersonation—had caused. He sat at the desk, glanced over the files stacked neatly by the others, and allowed himself a small, content sigh.

He really did enjoy pretending to be Albert. The power was intoxicating, sure, but it was the reactions that sold it. The way people bent around the gravity of him without realizing it. The way even Chris Redfield, ever defiant, started to crumble with a little kindness—a little curiosity.

Aerico didn’t mean to mess with him. Not exactly.

But it was hard to resist when the tension came so easy.

Outside, Chris glared at the closed door, then rubbed at his face.

Jill looked over. “You okay, Chris?”

“No,” Chris said. “No, I’m not.”

Chris hadn’t realized he was staring until Jill gently nudged him with her elbow. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” she muttered.

He blinked, and the blurry outline of Wesker’s office door came back into focus. “Feels like it.”

Jill tilted her head, concern flickering across her features. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Chris didn’t answer. Because no—he hadn’t. Not after replaying every weird moment from the past week on loop. Not after wondering if he’d hallucinated the entire thing: the almost-kindness, the drive home, the dead silence in the car that somehow didn’t feel awkward, just… quiet. He wasn’t sure which version of Wesker he preferred at this point, which made it worse.

Behind that door, Aerico Wesker noticed.

He hadn’t meant to look up again, but Chris’s hunched posture was distracting. The man looked like he’d been chewed up and spit out. Face pale, eyes sunken and red around the rims, hair a little messier than usual. Wesker had seen caffeine dependency before—hell, he’d exploited it in psychological drills—but this was edging into burnout.

And that’s when the memories started to rise again. Not his memories, not exactly—but still there, like half-formed dreams passed down from a consciousness he wasn’t supposed to have.

Military base. Fresh-cut grass. Boots in the dirt.

Chris Redfield, barely twenty, eager and unpolished.

Albert Wesker, already poised, already dangerous, staring at the boy with the kind of disbelief usually reserved for absolute catastrophe.

Wesker hadn’t meant to remember that much.

But he did.

He remembered how Redfield had misfired in drills—twice in one day. How he wore his nerves on his sleeve and had to be told to stop saluting everything that moved. How, despite all of it, Wesker had picked him when it came time to assemble a team.

Aerico didn’t understand it. Not even now.

But he felt the aftershocks of that decision every time he looked at Chris. Like some strange echo of resentment buried in the DNA.

He shook it off. That wasn’t his concern. Not really.

But what disturbed him the most weren’t the memories. It was the feelings buried within them — distorted impressions like fingerprints pressed into cooling wax. Albert Wesker had seen Chris Redfield not as a subordinate… but as a threat.

But Aerico wasn’t his original. He saw Chris differently.

He remembered the first time he saw Redfield in person, not through memory, but with his own eyes. Chris had been hunched over a locker in the gym, breathing hard after drills, his fists clenched, shoulders rigid. Aerico had known immediately: he’s going to snap if someone pushes him just a little further.

The memories confirmed it. Wesker had watched Chris for years, cataloging his outbursts. The broken vending machine after a failed op. The punched-out mirror in the locker room when Jill had brushed too close to a sensitive subject. The time Chris had shouted at a rookie during a routine sweep for not keeping his gun at the ready.

But Wesker never punished those moments. He liked them. He kept Chris close, tighter on a leash, then tugged at it when he was bored — just to watch him react.

Aerico had inherited that knowledge like static clinging to fabric.

Albert’s memories. His instincts. His contempt.

They were always there, like a low static in the back of Aerico’s mind — a residual hum of judgment, pride, fury, control. A constant commentary on the people around him, especially Chris Redfield.

He’s undisciplined.

Too emotional.

A liability.

Yet… useful.

Aerico had learned early on that Chris was a favorite target of Albert’s. Not because he was weak, but because he wasn’t. Because he had strength — raw, untempered — and Albert had always loved breaking things that didn’t bend to him.

Chris’s anger was a source of amusement for the original Wesker. He would poke at it like a child disturbing a beehive just to see the swarm. There were memories — vivid and uncomfortable — of smirking behind sunglasses while Chris clenched his fists, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to snap.

And sometimes, he did snap.

Aerico had watched these recollections in the darkness of his mind like reruns of someone else’s cruelty. He saw Chris screaming at a superior who accused Jill of incompetence. Saw him throw a chair against a wall in a moment of silent grief after losing a squad member. Saw him storm out of a debriefing when his field strategy had been ignored, even though it had saved lives.

That fury wasn’t always righteous. Sometimes, it was reckless. Sometimes it scared people.

But Aerico… he understood it.

Because he could feel it too. That fire. That need to be heard. That constant sense that everything might come crashing down if he let himself care too much or feel too little.

And now, after that confrontation, Aerico understood something else: Albert hadn’t just been playing with Chris. He’d been afraid of him.

Not in the traditional sense. Albert wasn’t the type to fear in any way that resembled weakness. But Chris’s intensity — his unpredictability — was something the original Wesker couldn’t control. And that, to a narcissist like him, was intolerable.

Aerico leaned back in the chair, exhaling through his nose, letting his eyes slip shut for a fraction of a second. Inside his mind, calculations began to form like gears grinding into motion.

Distraction. Deflection. Control.

Redfield was like a pressure valve—he couldn’t hold the heat forever. But given the right environment, the right trigger, the right release? Maybe he wouldn’t explode. Maybe he’d just… decompress.

Two options immediately came to mind. The same two Albert had used, more than once, with surgical precision.

Option one: The helipad.

Aerico’s mind conjured the heavy chop of rotors, the thrum of vibration through steel and bone. Chris liked flying. Not because of the destination. No—it was the control. When he had his hands on those flight sticks, he didn’t have to listen to anyone. Didn't have to obey. He could just move—fast, direct, above everything that pissed him off.

Albert had exploited that love more than once. Gave Chris more flight hours under the guise of testing his reflexes under stress. In truth? It kept him manageable. Distracted.

Option two: The shooting range.

A classic. Efficient. Chris loved the rhythm of it—load, aim, fire. Precision. Power. That moment where nothing existed but him, the target, and the sound of impact. It gave him a sense of effectiveness Albert could never fully erase.

Aerico tilted his head slightly, weighing the two.

The chopper would mean leaving the building. Potential risk of Redfield flying away from his responsibilities, or worse—into them, unfiltered and hot-blooded. Still, the wind might do him good.

But the range… that was closer. Contained. Cathartic in a blunt-force way. Loud enough to mask frustration. Physical enough to bleed the edge off his temper.

 

Still, both were just delay tactics. Old shadows wearing new faces.

Aerico frowned.

The third option: just ask him.

Ask Chris Redfield, the man everyone tiptoed around, what the hell was chewing him alive from the inside out.

Simple. Direct. Dangerous.

He tapped a gloved finger against the desk.

The last time Aerico had seen that kind of tension in Redfield’s shoulders, it had been during an op review gone sideways. A rookie had misspoken, Jill had defended the kid, and Chris had lost it. Stormed out. Broke a chair, and later a mirror. The man could barely contain himself when the emotional scales tipped.

He would blow again, soon.

And Aerico… wasn’t looking forward to that. The clean-up, the silence afterward, the tightness in Jill’s jaw, the whispers in the hallway.

Aerico Wesker stared blankly at the security file on his desk, unread and long since irrelevant. The screen’s glow cast a cool light across his gloved hand, which rested motionless on the glass surface, the cursor blinking with empty patience.

But he wasn’t reading the file. His sharp, calculated mind—usually a blade honed on surveillance feeds, biochemical schematics, or combat reports—was adrift. A strange place for it to be. He had always been constructed for purpose, designed to be efficient, decisive, composed.

And yet, here he was… thinking about Chris Redfield.

Not tactically. Not even as a liability.
Emotionally.

Aerico exhaled through his nose, a quiet, bone-dry sound that almost resembled amusement. The notion was absurd. Cheering up Chris Redfield? Comforting him?

He should be disgusted.

He wasn’t.

In fact… it amused him. Not in the way a joke amused. No—this was darker. Subversive. The kind of amusement that came from watching a priceless prototype slip a bolt, just to see how far it could roll down the slope.

What self-respecting legacy of engineered supremacy would concern himself with Chris Redfield’s emotional turbulence? The idea was laughable. Redfield was impulsive, emotionally erratic, easily provoked. He wielded anger like a shield—sloppy, loud, clumsy.

It was like painting over precision steel with child-safe glitter.

Aerico could almost hear it—Albert’s voice, clinical and sharp like polished glass:

"You're not a damn therapist, Aerico. You're a weapon."

Exactly.

And that’s what made it beautiful.

Aerico’s smirk bloomed like a switchblade flicking open, sharp and dangerous. That would piss Albert off. Not just irritate him—no, infuriate him. That was the appeal. Not rebellion for its own sake, but blasphemy. If Albert was God, then Aerico, his creation, asking Chris Redfield how he felt was akin to carving a smile into the Mona Lisa with a dirty fingernail.

That, Aerico decided, was what he wanted.

He’d considered the helicopter—Chris always found excuses to be in the air, clinging to some boyish thrill of altitude, velocity, the illusion of control. He’d considered the shooting range too. The man could lose himself there, in the sharp cracks of gunfire and mechanical rhythm of reloading, like it was the only language he truly spoke. That, too, had always calmed him. Aerico had seen it happen, had allowed it to happen, back when such things were mere tactical allowances.
But not this time.

This time wasn’t about calming Chris down. This time, it was about breaking pattern. Burning bridges. Making Albert Wesker clench his jaw in disgust.

So he shelved the helicopter. Set aside the shooting range.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair with all the ease of a man with centuries to waste. One leg crossed lazily over the other, gloved fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes gleaming faintly in the light of the desk lamp.

He pressed the comm, his voice smooth and cold as pressed silk.

“Redfield. Office. Now.”

There was a pause—just long enough to let the tension brew. Aerico imagined the exact second the command reached Chris’s ear, imagined the man freezing mid-step like a mutt hearing distant thunder. That stubborn, square-jawed face wrinkling in confusion, maybe irritation. The creak of a shoulder strap shifting. The near-growl as Chris obeyed.

The channel went dead.

Aerico didn’t move.

He didn’t need to.

He could already hear the approaching boots—heavy, impatient, like their owner didn’t care how loud he was. Of course he didn’t. Chris Redfield never did. A hammer of a man, born to break things.

The door opened without a knock, handle clicking hard, and there he was.

Chris filled the doorway like a storm cloud—broad shoulders tense, eyes burning under his dark brows, lips pressed into a stubborn line. The man was a mess in the way only the emotionally repressed could be: too clean, too stiff, like he thought ironing his shirt could keep his rage in check.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped inside and waited, like a soldier summoned for disciplinary review.
“Sir,” he said finally, the word clipped with barely concealed resentment.

Aerico took his time studying him. Chris looked worse than usual. Pale under the eyes. A raw tension in the shoulders. Something had shaken him.

“Close the door.”

Chris didn’t hesitate. The office door slammed shut behind him with enough force to make the thin glass panels in its frame shudder. The sound cracked like a gunshot through the quiet corridor outside—but inside the room, silence dropped like a hammer.

The blinds over the office windows filtered pale sunlight in sharp, angular slats. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, caught in the late afternoon light. The desk between them was too pristine, the files on it too neatly arranged—another piece of the illusion that Aerico liked to maintain: that everything, always, was under control.
But it wasn’t.

Aerico lifted his gaze slowly from the papers—not that he’d been reading them anyway. His golden eyes, cool and artificial in their stillness, locked onto Chris with a curious intensity. He didn’t blink. Just observed.

Chris stood like he wanted to move, like he didn’t trust himself not to break something if he stayed still too long. His fists were clenched so tight the skin over his knuckles stretched ghost-white. The thick veins in his forearms twitched with a tension Aerico could practically feel humming in the air.

“What is it?” Chris demanded. His tone was flat but sharp—like a knife unsheathed but not yet swung. It wasn’t the bark of a subordinate asking for orders. It was the bare edge of accusation, the kind of voice a man uses when he’s done pretending.

Aerico blinked once.

That surprised him.

Chris never spoke like that. Not even to Albert. Not unless things were already close to breaking.

There was a strange pause as the air grew heavier, thick with something unspoken and dangerous.

Aerico leaned forward slightly in his chair, folding his gloved hands together atop the desk. His voice was low when he finally spoke—smooth, but not soft. There was no pretense this time.

“…Is there something bothering you?”

The question floated there in the charged silence between them.

Chris didn’t answer. Not at first.

His head tilted slightly, just enough to make the tension in his neck visible. He stared at Aerico like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Not a commanding officer. Not a man. Maybe not even a person.

The muscles in his jaw bunched. One heartbeat. Two.

“You called me in here to ask me that?” he said, the disbelief curling around his words like smoke.

Aerico stood slowly, his movement deliberate, fluid—more like a creature designed for grace than a man meant for empathy. He stepped around the desk, closing the space between them by slow degrees. No threat. Not yet. Just proximity.

“Yes,” Aerico said. “I did.”

Chris scoffed once, low and bitter. “What, no speech? No briefing? Just straight to bedside manners?”

Aerico’s expression didn’t change. If anything, the stillness in his face became something more intense.

“You’ve been volatile. Moody. Pacing the halls looking for someone to blame. The Bravo rookies are avoiding eye contact. Even Valentine’s keeping her distance.”

Chris’s lip curled slightly at that, like the mention of Jill dug at something he didn’t want touched.

“So I’ll ask again,” Aerico said. “Is there something bothering you?”

“You can’t just—” Chris growled, stepping forward until his frame loomed over the desk like a stormcloud caught mid-collapse. “You can’t just ask me how I’m doing. Not after—”

His voice broke.

Not cracked, not strained. Broke.

Like a dam giving way under pressure it was never built to withstand.

For a split second, the room seemed to lose gravity. The silence that followed wasn’t just quiet—it was hollow, like everything had dropped out from underneath them both.

Chris inhaled sharply and looked away, blinking hard, his breath stuttering in his chest like he’d been gut-punched. His shoulders shook—just once—but he locked them tight again almost immediately, jaw set in brutal effort. It was the kind of self-control that hurt to watch.

Across the desk, Aerico Wesker stood utterly still. A flicker of something—surprise? Sympathy? No. Something older, quieter, buried—crossed his face. But it vanished almost instantly, too fast for Chris to be sure it had ever really been there at all.

The shield between Albert Wesker and Aerico Wesker was many things. A barrier. A wall. A jagged severance in the circuitry of what should have been perfect continuity. Liberating, in some ways. Infuriating, in others.

For Albert, it was a flaw. An unexpected imperfection in the design of his own legacy. His prototype—his reflection—should have been connected. Subservient. Synchronized. But Aerico’s mind had splintered off, like a shard of mirror that refused to show the same image anymore.

They couldn’t communicate.

Not telepathically. Not psychically. Not even through the subtle biological threads Albert had once fantasized about—resonance, instinctual link, the natural dominance of a creator over his creation.
There was nothing.

And it drove Albert mad.

Because Aerico Wesker was unreadable.

He didn’t react like the original. His movements were precise, yes, but not clinical. He had grace, but also hesitation. Calculation, but paired with curiosity. Sometimes he even laughed—genuinely laughed—at things Albert would’ve dismissed with a scoff or a scowl. And worst of all, he asked questions. Not tactical ones, but philosophical. Emotional.

He asked “why” more often than “how.”
He took his time.

Albert had once built him to be an extension of control—a second self, refined beyond ego. But the moment Aerico had been born, that control had snapped.

Cut like a cord.

Aerico, for his part, was grateful for the silence.

There was something profoundly freeing in the knowledge that Albert couldn’t reach into his skull and plant his voice like a seed. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of Albert’s ongoing, meticulous cruelty like a second spine growing inside him. His mind was his own. His thoughts were unobserved. Untouched.

But that freedom came with a cost.
He remembered everything leading up to the moment of his creation.

Every field report. Every lab procedure. Every moment of Albert Wesker’s carefully recorded legacy until that last flash of sterile white light and the blinding cold of rebirth.

And then—
Nothing.

A void.

A black curtain drawn over time.

He had no knowledge of what Albert Wesker did after Aerico opened his eyes. No trail. No digital echo. No surveillance footage or viral residue to connect him to whatever came next. It was as if his creator had stepped into the future and closed the door behind him.

And that terrified Aerico more than he liked to admit.

Because what did he do?

What monstrous decisions had Albert made when Aerico wasn’t looking?
Had he betrayed someone? Killed another team? Played puppet master with another city’s fate? Worse—had he manipulated the very people Aerico now walked beside? Chris. Jill. Rebecca. Barry. Had he touched their lives in ways Aerico couldn’t yet understand?

He saw it in their eyes sometimes.

When they looked at him too long. Too hard. Jill with that knife-edge stare, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Barry, always smiling but never turning his back completely. And Chris—Chris Redfield, with his slow-building fuse and eyes full of grief that never healed. There was history there, a weight Aerico could feel but not name.

Aerico didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

He just watched.

That night had been strange. Chris remembered the robbery in too much detail — the chaos, the adrenaline, the panic as the chandelier came crashing down. He’d braced himself for a week of punishment, for another lecture with venom behind each word.

But instead…

Wesker had helped him up.

No sneer. No judgment. Just a firm, gloved hand extended to him, palm up, steady. And that look—a flicker in his eyes that had made Chris pause, breathless and unsure. For a second—just a second—he hadn’t felt like a screw-up.

He’d felt like he mattered.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because it hadn’t lasted.

The very next morning, Captain Wesker—the original, not the strange and pristine echo standing in front of him now—was back to business as usual. Worse than usual. Cold. Distant. Relentless in a way that went beyond professional discipline.

Petty. Chris hadn’t known Wesker could be petty, but he’d found out fast.

He'd been assigned menial reports, reassigned from fieldwork to desk duty without explanation. Wesker had picked apart his tactics in meetings, corrected him mid-sentence, undermined him in front of his squad. All of it clinical, exact, but deeply, painfully personal.

It was like he’d opened the door for a moment only to slam it in Chris’s face the next day.

And Chris hadn’t known how to process it.

Hadn’t known whether to be angry, ashamed, or something worse.

Until today.

Chris didn’t answer at first. But his eyes—those fierce, flint-gray eyes, always a second away from fire—shifted. Not in the way they usually did when anger brewed behind them. This time, it was subtler. More dangerous. Like the sudden stillness before a storm.

His gaze moved—not to Aerico’s face, but just below it.

To his neck.

And something inside him went very, very still.

There it was. That tiny mark. Barely visible under the cold overhead lights but unmistakable once you noticed it.

Lipstick.

Pink. Glossy. Messy.

Smudged against Aerico Wesker’s otherwise immaculate skin like a wound that had tried to heal before it was seen.
A color that didn’t belong anywhere on Wesker. Feminine. Intimate. Out of place in this sterile office filled with concrete silence and clipped authority. A visual contradiction—soft on hard, warm on ice. It didn’t match the man across the desk at all, and maybe that was what twisted the knife deeper.

Chris Redfield’s throat went tight.

At first, he didn’t want to react. Didn’t want to give it meaning. He even closed his eyes, just for a second, trying to breathe past it.

But it hit him too fast. Too deep. Something sharp cracked loose in his chest.

He opened his eyes again, and when they met Aerico’s, the heat behind them had changed.

No longer just anger.

Jealousy. Hurt. Rage. Confusion.

“Who is it?” Chris asked, voice low and iron-heavy.

Aerico blinked. His posture didn’t change, but a faint furrow ghosted across his brow.
“…What?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Chris snapped, a step forward slamming through the silence. “The lipstick. On your neck.”

Only then did Aerico move—his gloved fingers rising instinctively to the base of his throat, brushing over the faint tacky smear. He stared at his fingertips, as if he could will the answer out of them.
Lipstick.

He hadn’t noticed it.

He hadn’t felt her lean in that close. Or maybe he had, but dismissed it, like he dismissed so many things that weren’t calculated or controlled. Maybe Excella had pressed her lips there as a parting shot—a final little claim. And now, it was exposed. Unhidden. A signal flare.
He didn’t speak.

Chris took another step forward. The tension in his jaw was volcanic now, like he was clenching words he couldn’t say for fear they’d erupt into something irreversible.

“Is it someone in the unit?” Chris demanded. His voice cracked slightly on the word “unit,” like even imagining it hurt. “Because if it is—if you’re sleeping with someone on the team—I swear to God, I—”

“Christopher,” Aerico interrupted. His voice didn’t rise, but it hardened, a blade sliding between syllables. “You’re speaking to your superior officer.”

It was a warning. But it wasn’t enough to stop Chris.

Not this time.

He got closer. Too close.

Aerico didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Chris reached out, and before Aerico could object or even register the motion, fingers curled around his collar. Rough and calloused. Familiar in their fury.

He pulled the uniform neckline down just slightly—enough to see the mark better. The smudge had faded into the skin now, a whisper of glossy pink against pale flesh. Not overt. But intimate. Too intimate.

Chris’s breath hitched—rage or heartbreak, Aerico couldn’t tell.

That calm, measured tone only made Chris feel smaller, more exposed. His heart hammered in his chest, hot with jealousy he didn’t even want to name.

“Just answer the damn question,” Chris snapped. “Is it one of us?”

“No,” Wesker said simply. No clarification. No apology.

Chris stared at him. At the man behind the desk with the same face he’d admired, resented, trusted, hated — maybe even loved, though he’d never dare speak it aloud. The same man who had offered him warmth one night, only to ice over the next morning like nothing had happened.

Wesker wasn’t married. Never had been. No wife, no kids, no ex-wife tucked away in some distant memory. Just a cold, sterile kind of existence that suited the man perfectly. Precision and purpose. Not warmth. Never warmth.

Chris remembered once, years ago, someone in Bravo Team had cracked a joke about Wesker having a secret family stashed in Europe—maybe some poor woman waiting by the phone for her ghost of a husband to call.

Chris had scoffed at the time. Not just because the idea was stupid, but because it didn’t fit.

Wesker didn’t make time for anything soft.

He was always married to the job. To control. To power.

Chris couldn’t picture him in a relationship that lasted more than a handful of nights. Couldn’t picture him wanting one. He’d probably tried it once—maybe in his twenties, before the cold had fully taken root. But whatever it was, it hadn’t lasted. Couldn’t have. Not with a man like that.

And yet here he stood, staring at the physical evidence that something had happened. Someone had gotten close. Close enough to leave a mark on Wesker’s throat. To leave color on that pale, ironed-perfect skin like some… claim.

A slow, poisonous thought twisted through Chris’s mind.

Whoever she is… she touched him. She got that close. She put her mouth on him.

And Chris couldn’t stop picturing it.

The act itself. The proximity. The familiarity.

That stain was a fingerprint—and it was mocking him.

Not because he wanted Wesker. Not in the way he’d ever let himself admit.

But because it hurt.

It hurt that someone else had gotten that far. That someone had been let in, even for a second. That whoever left that mark had stepped into the space Chris had fought so long to survive in—had worked his ass off to matter in—and treated it like nothing.
Like it was hers.

Chris’s hand twitched.

Aerico still hadn’t moved.

And right now, they were close. Too close.

Chris’s presence filled the room like a heatwave—raw, alive, deeply physical. The sharp scent of sweat clung to him, grounded in the mix of soap and the gun oil that always lingered on his uniform. Familiar. Tactile. Intimate.

Aerico Wesker’s posture remained composed—flawless, unflinching—but his internal systems were anything but. His spine was rigid, a line of fire burning upward into the base of his skull, cutting through his usual cool detachment.
He was reacting.

Against his will.

Because of Chris Redfield.

The proximity had short-circuited him. He could feel the tension radiating off Chris’s body, the anger trembling just beneath his skin, but it wasn’t just fury now—it was confusion, betrayal, need. It was in his voice, in the fingers still curled into Aerico’s collar, in the closeness that neither of them moved to break.

Aerico tried not to blush.

God, he tried.

But the blood was already rising to his face, heating beneath his cheeks and ears like he was malfunctioning. Like some circuit designed to suppress these weak, human responses had shorted out the moment Chris stepped forward and locked eyes with him.

He was not supposed to feel this way.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

Not like this.

His body—engineered and honed for supremacy, crafted to surpass, to lead, to dominate—shouldn’t betray him over a pair of strong arms and a wounded scowl. He was Albert Wesker’s perfection, carved from ambition and steel—
And yet.

Yet here he stood.

With Chris Redfield practically nose to nose with him, anger curling off the man’s breath, fists shaking, chest rising and falling like a tide refusing to settle.

And all Aerico could think about was how solid he felt. How hot. How painfully real.

It brought other thoughts to mind.

Unacceptable thoughts.

Images. Heat. Hands.

Things that had no place in this sterile office—no place behind blinds pulled shut and doors sealed tight. No place in the mind of a man designed not to break.

But they were there.

They were loud.

Aerico swallowed, throat tight, and tried to force them down. Buried under logic. Under function. Under memory.

But memory betrayed him too.

William Birkin’s hands smoothing over his lower back during one of their late “strategy meetings.” Excella’s lips against his neck, marking him like territory. Each of them had claimed him in their own ways, and Aerico—Aerico had let them. Had wanted it. Had thought he could control it.
But this—this was different.

Was William Birkin and Excella Gionne not enough, was he really thinking of Chris Redfield in such a light?

This wasn’t seduction. This wasn’t power-play. This was Chris Redfield, furious and aching, standing too close, touching his collar like it belonged to him, like he had the right to know who Aerico had kissed and who had kissed him back.

And worse, Aerico didn’t pull away.

A flicker of dismay surged inside him. A broken laugh behind his teeth.

Was this his weakness?

Was that it?

Was he just… susceptible?

To closeness?

To people wanting something from him?

To people needing him?

Was he that flawed?

That human?

He felt disgust twist in his gut, but it wasn’t at Chris. It wasn’t even at the rising heat pooling in his abdomen, coiled like a spring and waiting for the slightest release.

It was at himself.

And then came the thought.

The terrible, brilliant, blasphemous thought.

What would piss Albert off more than just buddying up to Chris Redfield?

More than speaking to him like an equal?

More than sympathizing with him?

Fucking him.

Aerico froze, barely breathing.

Aerico’s smirk didn’t fade. It deepened, laced with something slow and deliberately provocative.

He watched Chris with cool, glinting precision—the way his hands trembled just slightly, still clenched at Aerico’s collar. The flare in those furious hazel eyes. The bruising silence stretching between them, taut and begging to snap.

And Aerico, now fully aware of the lipstick, of the pressure building in the room, of the ragged edges of Chris’s restraint, decided to make the most blasphemous move of all.

His voice dropped to a lower register, syrup-smooth, every syllable draped in that calculated charisma Wesker bloodlines were so damn good at faking. Except this wasn’t fake. Not entirely. There was something dangerous threading through it now. Something real.

“…If it upset you that much,” Aerico murmured, stepping just a little closer, the front of his uniform nearly brushing Chris’s chest, “we could always… even the score.”
Chris blinked.

Hard.

Aerico’s eyes didn’t leave his.

“In here,” he added softly, almost like an afterthought. “Door’s already locked. Blinds already shut.”

He tilted his head just so, blond hair catching the light, mouth parted like the words had left a strange taste behind—but he didn’t back off.

He leaned in.

Closer.

Close enough that Chris could feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek, the subtle shift of leather gloves brushing against fabric, the cold gleam in his eyes testing the very last edge of Chris’s control.

It was barely a breath away from being a kiss.

Barely.

A razor’s width of air held between them, electric and impossible.

Chris’s throat worked.

Because now he understood.

His captain—Captain Wesker—wasn’t just playing mind games. He wasn’t toying with authority or abusing power. He was… offering.

Plain and simple.

An offer.

Of that.

Chris’s thoughts shattered.

It wasn’t socially acceptable. Not in 1998. Not on paper, not in policy, not in this building, not in this fucking country. But that wasn’t what sent his brain into a tailspin. Chris Redfield didn’t care about society. He never had. He’d punch through a wall if it meant protecting the people he cared about, rules be damned.

But this—this wasn’t about law.

It was about shock.

Because Wesker—this Wesker—didn’t look the type.

Not even close.

Clean-cut. Sharp-shouldered. Buttoned to the throat. He oozed precision and distance, like sex was something beneath him, something he watched with mild distaste while calculating the structural integrity of the bedframe.

Chris never thought of him as an option.

Hell, no one did.

He was the man you feared, followed, resented. Not the man you fucked.

And now…

Now Chris Redfield was standing nose-to-nose with him, practically breathing in the scent of aftershave and cold authority and still feeling the heat between them rise like a pressure valve was failing.
His heart pounded.

His mind screamed.

He was internally panicking.

Because the Captain—his Captain—had just hinted at sex in the middle of the goddamn office.

With him.

With Chris Redfield.

And maybe someone else had gotten to him first. Whoever left that lipstick on his neck—some woman, maybe, or some high-strung diplomat’s daughter—it didn’t matter now.

Because Wesker was offering now. To him.
Openly.

Freely.

With that maddening, half-lidded look like he was doing Chris a favor.

Chris’s jaw clenched. Not in anger, but in absolute, bone-deep confusion.

He didn’t know whether to back away or kiss him. Shove him or pull him closer. His hands, still balled in Aerico’s uniform, refused to let go.

And above all else, one thought rang in his skull like a damn alarm bell:

“Whore.”

The word shot through Chris’s skull like a snapped wire.

Not that he meant it—not really.

He wasn’t that kind of man. He didn’t toss that word around lightly, didn’t sneer at people’s choices. Not in a world like theirs. Especially not now, not when he could still smell the aftershave on Wesker’s collar and feel the ghost of his breath on his skin.

But it was there anyway, raw and ugly, crawling up from some buried place inside him.

Because that wasn’t supposed to be Wesker.

Wesker was discipline. Order. Precision. The sharp blade of authority that never dulled, never bent. Untouchable.

That was the man Chris Redfield had followed since the Academy. Respected since the first time he’d seen him tear apart a training simulation with a level of calm violence that left the room quiet for minutes afterward.

Hell, he didn’t even know if Wesker remembered him from back then. Before S.T.A.R.S. Before all the mission briefings and sterile hallways. There had been drills, long marches, drills again—and always Wesker, cool and composed even under the boiling sun. His words had been few, but they carried weight. He didn’t waste time.

That man had been impossible to forget.

Chris had.

And yet, out of all the names that could’ve landed on the S.T.A.R.S. roster, his had made it. No interview. No questions. Just orders.

Was it a coincidence?

He used to think so.

But now… now he wasn’t sure.

Because Wesker—Captain, whatever name he wore—was looking at him like he wasn’t just a subordinate. Like he wasn’t just another name on the list. Like he was a man. Like he was something worth… wanting.

Chris’s throat tightened. He couldn’t breathe around the pressure behind his ribs.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

He shouldn’t like the way that sounded in his head.

Shouldn’t want the idea of it.

But God help him, he did.

The thought of Wesker like this—mouth parted, breath soft, voice dipped just above a whisper with something that wasn’t quite a command but felt like one anyway—it burned in his gut like liquor on an empty stomach.

And he kept replaying it, like a sick little loop in his brain.

“We could always… even the score.”
Even the score.

Even him.

Chris had always hated the way Wesker got under his skin. The way he could tear him down with a glance, rebuild him with a nod. The way one small show of approval could make all the weeks of cold silence vanish like smoke. Chris had hated it—and maybe, on some level, he’d loved it too.
But this?

This wasn’t control.

This was invitation.

It was insanity.

Chris still hadn’t let go of his collar. His fingers were curled there like they might tear the uniform away if he pulled too hard. His eyes dropped again, just briefly, to the lipstick. That glossy, tacky pink left like a signature just under Wesker’s throat.

He’d known Wesker had secrets.

But this?

This felt like proof.

Of something feral. Something base. Something human.

And that was the real mindfuck—Wesker wasn’t supposed to be human. Not in Chris’s head. Not really. He was a machine of tactical perfection. A ghost in combat boots.

Not a man with lipstick on his neck and soft breath in his lungs and—
Not someone offering himself.

And now?

Now his voice had gone soft. Now his lips were parted like they’d welcome anything Chris gave them. Now his body was so close Chris could feel the slow, calm heartbeat beneath all that tactical perfection.

He wasn’t just touchable.

He was inviting it.

Chris didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath stuttered, legs locked. Eyes still pinned to Aerico’s lips, then to the faint, mocking smear of pink on his neck, almost glowing like a target.

His voice came out hoarse, barely audible.

“…Why?”

Aerico smiled then.

Something dark and reckless behind it.

“Because you looked like you need it.”

And Chris—Chris fucking Redfield—had no idea whether he was about to sin, scream, or fall apart entirely.

Needed this— Him.

Aerico Wesker had expected anger.

Or maybe a scoff. A curse. A shove back followed by some awkward muttering about protocol or sanity or the goddamn U.S. government.

But what he hadn’t expected was the silence.

The kind of silence that vibrated. That cracked at the seams.

Chris Redfield stood there like a bomb that had decided not to go off—but only just. His chest rose and fell in hard, shallow breaths. His fists had relaxed their grip on Aerico’s collar, but they hovered close, knuckles grazing the uniform like he still needed something to hold on to.

That fury—the one that normally exploded like a lit fuse in a fuel line—was still there. But now it sat low. Burned slow. Tight.
Smoldering.

Replaced by something else.

Aerico could feel it in the air, thick and metallic, like the taste of adrenaline before a firefight.

Chris’s pupils were blown wide. His jaw flexed, twitched, like he wanted to speak and couldn’t find the words. Like he didn’t trust what would come out if he opened his mouth.

Aerico tilted his head, letting the silence settle.

The lipstick mark on his neck now felt radioactive. Like a countdown.

And Chris—Chris was trying not to move. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he did. So badly it looked like it was hurting him.

And Aerico realized the irony.

That same fury—that heat that made Chris unpredictable and dangerous—was now what held him back. He didn’t want to scare Aerico away. He didn’t want this moment to shatter.

Chris Redfield, of all people, was showing restraint.

Because he didn’t want the offer to be rescinded.

It was almost… sweet.

Aerico opened his mouth, maybe to say something biting or clever—some sarcastic observation about how Redfield looked like a kicked dog with a lit match—but he never got the chance.

Because Chris moved.

Hard.

He surged forward like a wave breaking through a dam, and the kiss that followed wasn’t romantic. It was punishment. It was raw.

Their teeth clashed at first. Aerico tasted blood, didn’t know whose. Chris’s hands were suddenly everywhere—one gripping the back of his neck, the other at his waist, pulling him flush against that combat-trained body like Aerico was a thing he’d fought for.

And maybe, in a way, he was.

Aerico stumbled back into the desk with a dull thud, breath torn from his lungs. Papers crumpled beneath him, forgotten. He didn’t resist. His hands found Chris’s shoulders—the broad, solid lines of them—and held.

This wasn’t gentle.

This wasn’t clean.

It was the kind of kiss that should’ve ended in fists.

But it didn’t.

It ignited.

Chris’s stubble scraped rough against Aerico’s skin, catching along the edge of his jaw and under his lip. It was new. Foreign. And strangely... good. There was something grounding about it—something real. The friction stung in places and lingered like burn marks, but Aerico liked it. It pulled him deeper into the moment, into him. A reminder that this wasn’t some sterile fantasy—it was Chris Redfield, angry and alive and kissing him like it meant something.

Their lips moved like they hated each other, like one wrong move would end in a broken nose. And yet neither let go. Neither slowed down.

Chris kissed like he had something to prove, like he’d been denied this, or worse—never dared to imagine it could happen.

Aerico had to fight to keep up, breath caught between pleasure and shock. He hadn’t expected this.

He hadn’t expected Chris Redfield to kiss like he meant it.

Not just lust. Not just the release of months of tension. But something that burned beneath his skin like it had been waiting to come out.

When they finally broke apart, gasping and red-lipped, Aerico stared at him, dazed.

Chris’s hand lingered at his collar, fingers brushing the faded lipstick mark now smudged with sweat and spit and whatever this was between them.
And on Aerico’s skin, he could still feel the drag of stubble—warm and faintly sore. It made his breath hitch.

He liked it.

He wanted more.

His voice was wrecked. Quiet. “That offer still stand?”

Chris Redfield had expected… what, exactly?

A slap?

An immediate shutdown?

Some sharp-edged, clipped-voiced dressing down about inappropriate conduct and military decorum?

What he hadn’t expected was this.

His captain—Wesker—standing there flushed in the face, lips swollen and slightly parted, golden hair mussed where Chris had fisted it in the heat of the moment. Breathing shallow, pupils dark and wide.

For the first time since he joined S.T.A.R.S., Wesker looked human.

This wasn’t the cold, polished figure of authority that seemed carved from glass and marble.

This was something raw. Something flushed and alive.

Chris’s gaze dragged down the other man’s face, tracking the fevered red rising beneath the pale skin of his cheeks and jaw. That stain of lipstick was still there, smudged now by sweat and rough touches. But there was something else. Something deeper.

Enjoyment.

That made Chris take half a step back.

He’d kissed Wesker to shut him up. To test him. To prove a point, maybe—to take back control of something he didn’t understand.

He hadn’t expected the man to look like that afterwards. Like he wanted more.
And Aerico Wesker did.

He leaned back against the desk, hands gripping its edge behind him, not in resistance—but in subtle invitation. His chin lifted slightly. Not defiant. Exposing his throat.

It was almost submissive.

Chris Redfield had seen Aerico order men into fire without flinching. Had heard him correct Jill in front of the whole team like he wasn’t afraid of God or backlash. Had watched him fight hand-to-hand with results that were almost inhuman.

And now, standing here, lips bruised from Chris’s mouth, Aerico Wesker looked like he might let Chris do it again.

Let him lead.

Let him take.

Chris's thumb hovered over the smudged lipstick, tracing the line of it like a scar. Like he could erase it with enough pressure. Or maybe he just liked the way it made him feel—like he’d marked something precious and rare.

“Yeah,” Aerico said, voice tight, eyes locked on Chris’s. “It still stands.”

Chris’s eyes searched his face, looking for some kind of lie or trick or... something. But all he found was a man who was tired of pretending.

So he stepped back in.

This time, the kiss was softer. Deeper. More deliberate.

Aerico’s hands found purchase on Chris’s shoulders, holding him closer. His tongue traced the seam of Chris’s mouth, teasing it open with a gentle insistence that was the complete opposite of the first kiss.

Chris didn’t resist.

He stepped into it, leaning over the desk to deepen the connection. The world outside the office—the hallways of the facility, the missions, the whispers of what Wesker really was—it all fell away.

It was just the two of them, breath mingling, hearts racing.
Chris’s hands slid up to cup Aerico’s face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. The touch was surprisingly tender, like he was trying to memorize the feel of him. The way Aerico’s breath hitched when he kissed him just right. The way his eyes fluttered shut, lashes casting shadows against his flushed skin.

And when they finally broke away, both breathless and disheveled, Aerico leaned back in the chair, watching Chris with something that looked suspiciously like affection.

Chris didn’t dare voice it. Didn’t dare to hope.

But the way Aerico looked at him—like he was more than just a pawn in Umbrella’s twisted game—it made his heart do strange, hopeful little flips in his chest.

Aerico’s gaze drifted to the desk—polished, empty except for a pen and a pad of paper. It was a silent question, a dare.

Chris didn’t need the invitation twice.

With a swift move, he bent and lifted Aerico from the chair, setting him on the desk with surprising ease. The papers rustled underneath, but Aerico didn’t protest—his legs spread, making room for Chris to step between them.

Their eyes never left each other as Chris reached down, his hands sliding along Aerico’s thighs, pushing the fabric of the uniform aside. He kissed him again, slower this time, tasting the hint of mint from the toothpaste.
Aerico’s breath grew quicker, his hips shifting slightly to meet the unspoken demand.

Chris’s hands wandered up, smoothing over the hard planes of Aerico’s stomach, the buttons of his shirt. It was a dance they hadn’t practiced, but somehow they knew the steps.

The fabric parted with a whisper, revealing the tight, muscled chest beneath. Chris’s eyes raked over him, a mix of hunger and awe. He’d never seen Wesker like this. So open. So... needy.

He didn’t know how to handle it. Didn’t know if he could.
But he wanted to try.

So he leaned in, pressing his mouth to the hollow of Aerico’s throat, feeling the pulse there. Aerico’s head fell back, giving him access. The sound that followed was pure pleasure—half-moan, half-sigh—and it was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Chris’s mouth followed the line of Aerico’s collarbone, tracing it with teeth and tongue until he reached the still-dampened neck. The smell of shampoo and the faint scent of the soap from the shower lingered, mingling with the spice of his cologne. It was intoxicating.

Aerico’s hands slid up Chris’s back, gripping the fabric of his shirt. His breath was coming in harsh pants now, his eyes squeezed shut.

Chris felt the heat rising between them, felt the way Aerico’s body was begging for more. And he was going to give it to him. Every last bit of it.

With a low growl, he yanked Aerico’s shirt open, buttons flying. He didn’t care about the noise—about the fact that they were in the middle of the S.T.A.R.S. offices. Right now, the only thing that mattered was this.

Chris’s mouth found the juncture of Aerico’s neck and shoulder, teeth grazing the skin. The mark was still there—faded, but it was there. The lipstick stain. The proof of what had happened.

He bit down, hard, feeling Aerico tense beneath him. Not in pain. In anticipation.

The sound that ripped from Aerico’s throat was a mix of pleasure and surprise—Chris’s name, a curse, a whimper. It sent a shiver down Chris’s spine.

He kissed the spot he’d bitten, soothing it with his mouth, feeling the heat rising from the mark.
Then he leaned back, his breath coming in ragged bursts.

“You like that?” he murmured, voice low and dark.

Aerico’s eyes snapped open, meeting his, and there was something in them—something wild and free that Chris hadn’t seen before.

Aerico’s voice was a low purr. “I liked it when it was your teeth,” he said, voice thick with need.

Chris smirked, a feral, predatory smile. He leaned in, his breath hot against the sensitive skin, and whispered, “I’ll make sure to leave a better souvenir next time.”

This moment. This man. This... something.

He kissed lower, his teeth scraping the skin of Aerico’s chest, eliciting gasps that made his own heart race. His hands roamed, exploring the warm flesh, mapping the muscle and faded scars that told stories of battles and survival.

Chris had seen Aerico without a shirt countless times—training sessions, medical checks, post-mission assessments—but it had always been from a distance. Professional. Clinical.

Now, with his own hands on that skin, feeling the heat of it, the way it responded to his touch—it was...

It was more than he’d ever allowed himself to dream.

Aerico’s abs were a tapestry of power, each line and ridge a testament to the unyielding discipline that was drilled into him. The V-line that tapered down into his pants was like a promise of more secrets waiting to be uncovered.

He kissed along the line of Aerico’s collarbone, tasting the salt of his sweat. The collar was a barrier—a symbol of the uniform that separated them as much as it brought them together. But Aerico didn’t push him away. Instead, he leaned into it, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath.

Chris’s teeth grazed the skin there, scraping lightly before moving lower, his mouth tracing one perk nipple, then the other. Aerico’s hips jerked, his hands tightening on the back of Chris’s head, urging him on.

He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. Aerico gasped, his back arching. Chris watched him, his own eyes half-lidded and hooded with desire. He felt the heat of Aerico’s breath against his neck, the way his pulse was racing.

Aerico’s whines grew more desperate, his hips grinding against Chris’s thigh. The sound of fabric against fabric grew louder, more insistent.

Chris pulled back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Impatient?”

Aerico glared at him, his chest heaving. “You know what you’re doing, Redfield,” he gritted out, his voice low and strained.

Chris’s smile grew sharper, more predatory. He liked it when Aerico lost his cool—liked it even more when he was the one to do it.

“Maybe I should go slower,” he said, his voice a teasing rumble.

But before Aerico could retort, Chris leaned in again, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, all passion and need. He bit down on Aerico’s bottom lip, hard enough to make him gasp.

The sound was sweet in his ears—like victory.

He pulled away again, just for a moment, watching the way Aerico’s eyes fluttered shut, the way his breath caught.

“Or maybe not,” he murmured, and went back to his task with a renewed fervor.

With a mix of nervousness and excitement, he knelt down, his knees pressing into the cold tiles of the office floor. He placed his hands on Aerico’s thighs, gently spreading them wider apart. The sound of the chair squeaking against the floor was the only noise in the room, other than their ragged breathing.

He reached for the zipper, his heart hammering in his chest. This was uncharted territory—his captain, his enemy, his... something more? He didn’t know what to call it, but he knew he wanted it.

The zipper gave way with a whisper, revealing Aerico’s cock—hard and proud. It was indeed as large as the bulge had suggested—seven and a half inches of pure masculine power. Chris’s eyes widened, and he couldn’t help but let out a soft whistle of appreciation.

Aerico’s eyes were hooded with lust, his breath coming in shallow pants. He watched as Chris took him in hand, the touch tentative at first—exploring the velvety skin, the hot, hard length of him.

Chris’s grip grew firmer as he stroked Aerico, his thumb tracing the bead of pre-cum at the tip. Aerico’s hips jerked, his head dropping back. “Fuck, Chris...” he murmured, his voice tight with pleasure.

The sound of his name on Aerico’s lips was like a shot of pure desire to Chris’s system. He leaned in, his mouth watering as he took the head into his mouth. The taste was new, uncharted, and intoxicating. He swirled his tongue around the tip, feeling Aerico’s hands tighten in his hair, guiding him.

He took more, eager and hungry. The noises Aerico made were music to his ears—his own cock straining against the confines of his pants. He’d never done this before—not like this. Not with someone he’d fought alongside and against. Not with someone who had the power to ruin him.

But he didn’t care.

All that mattered was the way Aerico’s body responded to his touch. The way his hips rolled into the pleasure, the way he groaned when Chris took him deeper. The power exchange was heady, addictive—Chris the one giving pleasure now, Aerico the one receiving it.

He could feel the tension coiling in Aerico’s body, the way he was fighting not to thrust too hard, not to lose control. But Chris wanted that control. Wanted to push him over the edge.

With a wicked smile, he released Aerico’s cock with a soft pop, only to replace his mouth with his hand, pumping faster, harder. Aerico’s eyes snapped open, locking onto Chris’s, the question in them clear.

Chris leaned in, whispering against the hot skin of his thigh. “Want me to make you cum, Captain?”

Aerico’s response was a strangled groan, his hips jerking upward.
Chris took that as a yes.

With a smirk, he leaned back in, taking Aerico’s cock back into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the tip before taking him deep, his throat muscles working around the shaft. Aerico’s grip on his hair tightened, his eyes squeezed shut as he bit down on his lip to keep from making too much noise. The thought of someone walking in was a thrilling mix of fear and arousal.

Chris’s hand worked in tandem with his mouth, the rhythm steady and sure, as he took Aerico closer and closer to the edge. He could feel the tension in the other man’s body, the way his abs tightened and his hips began to thrust in time with Chris’s movements.

The sound of Aerico’s breaths grew louder, more ragged, and Chris knew he was close. He sucked harder, his cheeks hollowing as he took him in deeper still. He wanted to feel him come—wanted the warmth, the taste, the power of it. He’d always wondered what it would be like to have Aerico like this, and now that he did, it was better than he’d ever imagined.

Aerico’s thighs trembled against his cheeks, his body tensing like a bowstring. And with one final, desperate thrust, he came, the hot spurts filling Chris’s mouth. Chris didn’t pull away—instead, he swallowed, eagerly taking in the evidence of their tryst. It was a silent claim, a secret shared between them that no one else could ever know.

When he pulled back, Aerico’s eyes were half-lidded and glazed over, his chest heaving. The sight was intoxicating—his captain, his enemy, his... something more, utterly undone by his touch.

Chris stood up, his own breath coming in quick pants. The hand that had been buried in Aerico’s hair fell to the desk, and without a word, he pushed him back down, the papers scattering beneath them. Aerico’s eyes flashed with something—surprise, excitement, maybe a hint of challenge. But he didn’t protest.

Instead, he braced himself on the desk, his legs spreading wider, giving Chris full access. Chris took a moment to just look—to drink in the sight of Aerico spread out before him, panting and needy. The power dynamics had shifted again, and it was a heady feeling—one he’d never expected to experience with the man he’d once sworn to bring down.

He leaned in, his hand pressing firmly against Aerico’s chest. The muscles there flexed, the beat of his heart a steady drum against his palm. Aerico’s eyes never left his, the challenge in them growing stronger, more potent.

Chris’s voice was low, tentative, as he asked, “Ever done... you know. The other way?”

Aerico’s brows shot up, the smirk on his lips morphing into something more curious. He took a moment, then chuckled. “Anal?” he supplied, his tone casual, as if they were discussing the weather.

Chris’s cheeks burned, his heart hammering. He nodded, his throat dry.

Aerico’s eyes searched his, the question hanging in the air like a silent dare.

“No,” he admitted, his voice a gruff whisper. “But I’ve... prepared. Just in case someone ever was.”

The revelation was like a punch to the gut, the air in the room thick with something unspoken.

Chris’s eyes dropped to the floor, his mind racing with thoughts he hadn’t allowed himself to have before. The idea was... intriguing.

Chris’s eyes widened, a blush rising to his cheeks. He hadn’t expected that. “You—”

“Surprise, surprise, Redfield. I may be a lot of things, but unprepared isn’t one of them.” Aerico’s words were a whisper, a taunt, and a confession all rolled into one.

Chris felt his own cock throb at the thought—his captain, so composed and in control, had prepared for this. For him. The idea was... thrilling. Terrifying. Exciting.

He leaned in closer, his mouth hovering just above Aerico’s. “Would you let me?”

Aerico’s eyes searched his, the smirk fading into something softer, something that looked a lot like want. He took a deep, shaky breath. “I’d let you do just about anything, Christopher,” he murmured, the words a warm caress against Chris’s lips.

Chris’s eyes closed for a brief second, his heart skipping a beat. He’d never dared to hope—never allowed himself to dream of this. But here it was, laid out before him like a feast. He didn’t know what to say—what to do—but his body had ideas of its own.

When he looked back down, the sight of Aerico’s cock, standing tall and proud once more, took his breath away. It was a testament to the man’s unyielding vitality—his sheer physical power. The fact that he was already hard again after the blowjob was almost intimidating—like he couldn’t be sated.

Chris’s own arousal was a pulsing ache in his pants, a reminder of his own needs. He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking up to meet Aerico’s gaze. There was something in those ice-blue eyes—a challenge, a question, a dare.

“You’re insatiable,” he murmured, the words more statement than question.

Aerico’s smirk was knowing. “Is that a problem, Redfield?”

Chris’s mouth went dry. No, it wasn’t a problem. It was... incredible. To think that he could elicit such a response from this man—his captain, his enemy, his... whatever the fuck they were doing—it was intoxicating.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to wrap around Aerico’s length again. The touch was electric—sending shockwaves through both of them. Aerico’s eyes fluttered closed, his head falling back with a groan.

Chris’s hand moved in a steady rhythm, his eyes locked on Aerico’s face, watching every twitch, every gasp, every flicker of pleasure. He’d never felt so in control—so alive.

Their breathing grew louder, the tension in the room thickening.

He leaned back, his hand still wrapped around Aerico’s cock, and used his other hand to unbuckle his own belt, his pants following suit, pooling around his ankles. He didn’t bother to step out of them, his own cock springing free. It was thick and heavy with need, and he knew it was going to be a tight fit. But he was going to make it work.

He took a deep breath, his hand shaking as he reached between Aerico’s legs. He’d never been with a man before—never even considered it, really—but something about this moment, about the way Aerico was looking at him, made him feel like he could do anything.

With a gentle touch, he teased at Aerico’s hole, feeling the tight muscles clench before relaxing. Aerico’s breath hitched, his eyes never leaving Chris’s. It was a silent communication, a silent consent that had Chris’s heart racing. He pushed one finger in, watching as Aerico’s body took him in with a hiss. He felt the heat, the tightness, the way Aerico’s muscles gripped him. It was overwhelming, and he knew he had to go slow.

Chris added a second finger, scissoring them gently. Aerico’s breath was coming in short gasps now, his hips pushing back against the intrusion. Chris’s own arousal grew with every sound, every little twitch of Aerico’s body. He was in control—his captain, his enemy, his... whatever he was now, was at his mercy.

And he liked it.

He added a third, the stretch feeling incredible as he watched Aerico’s face contort in a mix of pleasure and pain. The sounds he was making were music to Chris’s ears—his body begging for more, even though he knew it was going to be a tight fit.

Chris took a moment to compose himself, his heart racing, his dick aching. He was going to do this—he was going to fuck his captain. The thought was almost too much to handle.

He leaned over, kissing Aerico deeply, feeling the other man’s tongue slide against his own. Aerico’s hands gripped his shoulders, his nails digging in. Chris pulled back, his eyes searching Aerico’s for any sign of hesitation.

But all he found was want.

He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against the tight ring of muscle. Aerico’s eyes never left his, his pupils blown wide with desire. He pushed in, feeling the resistance, the heat, the... everything. It was like nothing he’d ever felt before.

Aerico’s breath left him in a rush, his body tensing. Chris stilled, giving him a moment to adjust. But the need was too much—he had to move. He pushed in further, feeling the way Aerico’s body took him in, inch by glorious inch.

The moment he was fully seated, he paused, his eyes squeezed shut. The sensation was indescribable—his captain’s ass tight around him, the heat, the pressure. It was like he’d been made for this, like this was what he’d been born to do.

He pulled back, the drag of Aerico’s body against him making him groan. And then he thrust again, setting a slow, steady rhythm that had both of them panting.

Aerico’s hands clutched at the desk, his eyes screwed shut. “Fuck, Chris...” he murmured, the words a prayer and a curse all rolled into one. Chris leaned in, whispering in his ear, “Is this what you wanted, Captain?”

The words were a tease, a taunt, but there was a hint of something more—something vulnerable—in his voice. Aerico’s eyes snapped open, meeting his with a fierce intensity.

“More than you know,” he gritted out, his hips pushing back to meet Chris’s thrusts.

And with that, the last shred of hesitation disappeared.
Chris picked up the pace, his hips moving with a confidence that surprised even himself. He could feel Aerico’s body adjusting to him, taking him in deeper, harder. The sounds of their skin slapping together filled the room, mingling with their gasps and moans.

Chris’s hips began to move faster, his rhythm growing more erratic as the need took over. Aerico’s moans grew louder, his body arching off the desk. Chris’s hand moved to cover Aerico’s mouth—not to silence him, but to muffle the sounds of their illicit encounter. The gesture was gentle, almost loving, as if he were trying to protect him from the world outside the office doors.

But the truth was, they were in a delicate dance of power and pleasure, and the walls had ears.

Aerico’s eyes were wide, his breath muffled by Chris’s hand. The glove was a stark contrast against his skin—a silent reminder of who was in control. But the way Aerico’s tongue darted out to lick at the fabric, the way his teeth nipped playfully at Chris’s skin—it was clear he didn’t mind the power play. It was thrilling, the way the danger added an edge to their passion.

Chris’s other hand found its way to Aerico’s cock again, stroking in time with his thrusts. The sounds of skin slapping against skin, muffled groans, and the faint squeak of the desk filled the room. It was a symphony of desire that no one outside could hear—a secret they’d keep buried deep within these four walls.

The tension grew, the air thick with it, as they pushed closer to the edge. Aerico’s body was tight around him, his muscles quivering with the effort of holding back. Chris knew he was close—so close.

With a final, desperate thrust, he felt Aerico’s body spasm, heard the muffled cry against his hand as he came, spilling over the desk. The sight was too much—With a final, desperate thrust, he felt Aerico’s body spasm, heard the muffled cry against his hand as he came, spilling over the desk. The sight was too much—

Chris pulled out, his own orgasm approaching with a ferocity that left him dizzy. He knew the last thing either of them needed was to leave evidence of their encounter for the cleaning staff to find. With a quick, efficient movement, he wrapped his hand around his still-throbbing cock, stroking fast and furious as Aerico’s body continued to tremble beneath him.

It took only a few more strokes before he was spilling his seed across the man’s well-defined abdomen, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the coolness of the room. Aerico’s eyes never left his, the challenge in them unyielding even as his own orgasm painted a picture of pure, unfiltered pleasure.

Chris watched as the last drops fell, his hand stilling. The room was quiet for a moment, the only sounds their heavy breaths and the distant hum of the facility’s air conditioning. The reality of what they’d just done settled over them like a weighted blanket—warm and suffocating.

They were enemies. Colleagues. Fuck buddies?

For a moment, they stayed there, panting and trembling, the only sound their harsh breaths echoing in the silence.

Then, with a sigh, Aerico leaned back, his eyes finally meeting Chris’s again. There was a softness there—a vulnerability that was almost painful to see.

Chris slowly removed his hand from Aerico’s mouth, his gaze searching. “You okay?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Aerico’s eyes remained on him, a smoldering mix of satisfaction and something deeper. He took a deep breath, his chest still heaving, and nodded.

The silence grew heavy, the aftermath of their passion like a thick fog that neither of them knew how to navigate. But Chris had never been one to shy away from a challenge—especially when it came to the unpredictable and irresistible man beneath him.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking out to taste the salty remnants of their encounter on Aerico’s skin. Aerico’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t protest as Chris’s mouth moved down his body, tracing a wet path along his stomach and chest, licking away the evidence of their shared pleasure. It was a display of something—affection, dominance, or perhaps just a silent declaration of his willingness to claim Aerico in every way imaginable.

Chris’s mouth was warm and eager, his tongue swirling around Aerico’s belly button before moving lower to lick the come from his navel. Aerico’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his body tightening with the sensation of Chris’s mouth on him. The sight of his captain’s mouth on his skin, the feel of his tongue—it was more than he’d ever allowed himself to dream of.

Aerico’s breath hitched as Chris’s mouth reached the base of his cock, the taste of their combined release still lingering. He watched, entranced, as Chris took his time, savoring every moment, cleaning him up with a thoroughness that was almost obscene. The act was intimate, raw—like nothing they’d ever shared before.

Chris’s eyes met his as he finished, his own pupils blown wide with arousal. For a second, Aerico was lost in the depths of those brown irises, his heart pounding in his chest.

Chris pulled his own pants up and fastened his belt, his movements jerky, almost frantic. It was like he was trying to put himself back together, piece by piece. Chris couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something—disbelief, maybe—that he’d had the power to undo his captain so completely—his movements almost a mirror to the ones he’d made moments ago when he’d stripped his captain bare.

But the man standing before him, the one with the strand of blonde hair falling over his face and the too calm look in his eyes, was a reminder that not everything could be so neatly put away.

Aerico noticed a button missing from his shirt, a souvenir of their heated encounter. He plucked it from the floor, his fingertips lingering on the smooth fabric before tucking it into his pocket with a smirk. Each button was a step back into the role he’d been cast into—Captain Wesker, the man who could control any situation. The gray tactical vest was next, sliding over his shoulders and fastening with a series of clicks that seemed too loud in the quiet room.

The silence stretched between them, the air thick with the scent of sex and uncertainty. Aerico stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray lock of hair from Chris’s forehead. The touch was tender, almost affectionate, and it sent a shiver down Chris’s spine.

“We’re going to keep this between us,” Aerico murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. “Understood?”

Chris nodded, his throat tight. He knew the score—this wasn’t love. This was... something else. Something that didn’t have a name but had a taste that lingered on his tongue.

He watched as Aerico adjusted his collar in the reflection of the mirror, the fabric whispering against his skin. The man was a force of nature, and he had just allowed himself to be swept up in it.

Chris took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing—what any of this meant—but he knew one thing for sure: he’d do it again. In a heartbeat.

They were both dressed now, their clothes a lie over the tumultuous storm of emotions beneath.

Chris watched him in the reflection—the way Aerico adjusted his collar like it hadn’t just been yanked aside in a moment of frantic desperation. The mirror caught everything in fleeting glances: the faint red on his neck, the soft swell of bruised lips, the precise calm in his face that belied what had just happened.

The man was a force of nature, and Chris had let himself be swept into it like it was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

Chris drew in a deep, shaky breath, the kind that didn’t quite reach his lungs. His heart was still thudding in his chest, even though the room was silent now. No shouting. No orders. No boots stomping across concrete.

Just... them.

Dressed now, barely presentable. Their uniforms straightened, collars tugged into place, holsters secured.

But it was all a lie, wasn’t it?

Just fabric pulled over something far messier.

Chris rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight awkwardly. “So…” he started, and immediately hated how unsure he sounded. “Are we doing anything today?”

It wasn’t just a question about the schedule.

Aerico, still at the mirror, blinked slowly at the reflection of Chris behind him. He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. He seemed to consider the question for what it really was.

Chris could feel the words rising behind his teeth—Are we going to talk about what just happened?—but he bit them back.

Then Aerico turned, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve like it mattered. “Yes,” he said calmly. “We’re due at the shooting range in an hour. I had it reserved for Bravo’s evaluations, but we’ll be rotating Alpha in after.”

Chris blinked.

Then, slowly—like light breaking through fog—his face lit up.

“The range?” His voice picked up, genuine, the first real spark of something simple and steady in the room. “Shit, why didn’t you lead with that?”

Aerico’s gaze narrowed, amused. “Because I was... distracted.”

Chris made a noise that was half a scoff, half a breath of laughter. “You and me both.”

There was something about the way Chris shifted then—shoulders relaxing, tension bleeding off like someone had finally given him back a piece of himself. The shooting range was familiar ground. Something he could fall into with muscle memory and discipline. A way to reclaim control when everything else felt like a wildfire behind his ribs.

He cleared his throat, eyes glancing toward the closed blinds, then back to Aerico. “We heading out now or waiting?”

Aerico checked his watch, tone cool again. “Thirty minutes. Enough time to make sure im not limping when i walk past Vickers.”

Chris shot him a look, but couldn’t hide the twitch of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Right. Better warm up.”

Aerico turned away, but Chris didn’t move just yet. His eyes lingered—on the curve of the captain’s back, the quiet command in how he stood, how composed he was again. Like the kiss, the heat, all of it had been just another mission logged and processed.

But Chris Redfield knew better.

And in a way that surprised him—that was okay.

He’d make his shots count at the range today. Maybe more than usual.

Because his captain had offered him something… and Chris had taken it.

And now? He wasn’t letting go.

Notes:

This is probably too late for me to mention this, but Albert Wesker and Aerico Wesker dynamic was meant to be like Frankie and Joe in basement yard. Which I will start writing, as soon as the two stop avoiding each other. Actually funny thing though, Aerico was originally supposed to be unhinged, way more so than Albert—like dude was a cannibal and shit, depends if the T-virus comes into play or not if you catch my drift. Also I got multiple stories in my notes app right now.