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A meeting room that could not be marked on any map floated at the pinnacle of secular power.
Cold white light strips were embedded in the ceiling, casting an even glow that illuminated a massive, circular conference table polished from obsidian.
The tabletop was smooth as a mirror, reflecting the blurred and distorted silhouettes of the people seated around it.
There was no scent in the air. The extreme silence allowed one's eardrums to even pick up the drumming of their own heartbeat.
At this table, a figure was shrouded in shadow. Only his hand resting on the table's edge was visible, beside which lay a simple, rustic briarwood pipe, its bowl filled with unlit, dark-red tobacco.
Trant sat in the main seat to his left.
On the white screen behind him, a projection lit up, a cascade of ghostly blue data streams pouring down.
It displayed two intricate, intertwined double-helix structures.
One was a deep blue representing the g-virus, the other a sinister, eerie crimson symbolizing T-Veronica.
They were no longer opposing each other but were like two mating vipers. Crimson gene fragments were being broken down, devoured, and then re-encoded by the blue chains, integrating into their own structure.
"...Fusion rate 97.4%, activity stable."
"The g-virus cell colonies are actively'screening' and 'complementing' the genetic flaws of the t-veronica virus, transforming its violent, untamed reshaping power into a kind of 'nutrient' that can be slowly absorbed by the host cells."
"Preliminary conclusion: this is an unprecedented, near-perfect symbiotic evolution."
The cold, synthesized electronic voice echoed in the silent meeting room.
A man sitting opposite Trant, Drake C. Simmons, leaned forward abruptly.
His always meticulously groomed face twitched slightly with excitement, his eyes filled with undisguised greed and fervor.
"Perfect... evolution..." he muttered, his voice hoarse with emotion.
He suddenly looked up, his gaze burning as he stared at the screen, speaking in a commanding tone: "He must be naturalized! This power, this future potential, must, and can only, be in... our hands!"
Simmons habitually said "I" but immediately corrected himself to "we."
However, the response was not agreement, but a low, barely suppressed chuckle.
The laughter came from various corners of the table. It wasn't loud, but it greatly pricked Simmons's pride.
"Fool."
Trant didn't even look at him, merely toying with the gold-inlaid amber ring on his finger.
The word was soft, like a resounding slap across Simmons's face.
"You son of a..."
Simmons's face instantly flushed a liverish purple. He slammed his hand on the table, the obsidian surface emitting a dull, heavy thud.
Just as he was about to stand up, Trant's icy gaze slowly shifted onto him.
The rest of Simmons's words caught in his throat.
A chill from the depths of his Soul shot up from his tailbone to the crown of his head.
As if doused with a bucket of ice water, he instantly realized who he was speaking to.
In the blink of an eye, his back was soaked through with cold sweat.
He stiffly lowered himself back into his chair, his lips trembling as he squeezed out a few unwilling words.
"W... why..."
Trant seemed to find his reaction amusing, a mocking smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the silent old man with the pipe.
Only then did he begin to explain unhurriedly.
"Because your brain, blackened by power, can hold nothing but control and possession."
"What do you think Noah is? A lucky guy who happened to gain power? An experimental subject to be manipulated at will?"
"While you were scheming how to put a collar on him, the country behind him had already taken notice of his existence. They have sent their most professional people to have a friendly and... in-depth 'communication' with us."
Trant paused, savoring the increasingly ugly expression on Simmons's face.
"They are happy to see Noah become a member of BSAA and have promised to fully support him in becoming the overall head of BSAA for the entire Asia-Pacific Region in the future."
"A BSAA regional leader backed by a sovereign nation, possessing the potential for perfect evolution... Do I need to pry open your skull and explain the political value and strategic significance of that again, Drake?"
Simmons's face turned ashen.
He had climbed to his current position, so he was no true idiot.
He immediately understood the implications.
It was no longer just a bioweapon; it was a bridge connecting Eastern and Western powers, a player who could place a crucial piece on the global board in the future.
But he was unwilling.
He was unwilling to watch this grandest prize fly away from his very lips.
"But... our interests..."
"Silence."
A hoarse, aged, yet authoritative voice finally spoke.
The old man who had been silent all along picked up his pipe and gently tapped the table with its stem.
"Drake, if this is the extent of your vision, then I will have to reassess your position within the 'Family'."
The old man's voice was flat, yet it caused Simmons's body to tremble violently.
"Do not forget, you are merely the mouthpiece I use to speak to the outside world. You didn't... actually think you were the one at the helm, did you?"
Simmons hung his head, unable to utter a word.
He felt all the eyes in the meeting room fall upon him, filled with mockery, pity, or indifference.
He was like a clown stripped naked and thrown onto a judgment platform... After the meeting, Simmons returned to his office in a daze.
He swept all the files off his desk with one hand, letting out a hysterical roar.
Just moments ago, he discovered that several of his highest-level security clearances had been frozen.
Several of his handpicked confidants had also refused his meeting requests under various pretexts.
That invisible hand was reclaiming everything it had bestowed upon him.
He didn't want to lose it all.
He couldn't lose it!
Power was more addictive than any drug.
His eyes bloodshot, he paced the room like a caged beast.
Hatred, like a poisonous vine, grew wildly around his heart.
He hated Trant, hated that old relic clinging to his seniority.
He hated the woman who had abandoned him.
He hated Noah even more!
Yes, it was all because of that yellow-skinned monkey!
If not for him, how could he have been publicly humiliated, how could his power have been stripped away!
A mad and vicious idea took shape in his mind.
If I can't have him, then I'll destroy him!
He grabbed the encrypted phone and dialed a number.
"I don't care what method you use—kidnapping, murder, whatever! I want that woman named Claire Redfield and the little bastard named Sherry she adopted to disappear from this world! Now! Immediately!"
He wanted Noah to taste the pain of losing everything!
However, three hours later, his phone rang.
The screen showed an unfamiliar number.
He answered. The voice on the other end was not a mission completion report, but a man's voice, choked with sobs and on the verge of collapse.
"Sir... we... we failed..."
"Useless fools!" Simmons roared. "With so many of you, you couldn't handle two women?"
"No... it's not... they're not women... they're monsters! Monsters!!" The voice on the line was filled with absolute terror.
"We just forced their car to stop. That red-haired woman... she... she just got out of the car and threw a Harley-Davidson Motorcycle parked by the roadside... like it was a toy! Two of our cars were smashed on the spot!"
"And another one... that sweet-looking girl who seemed only fifteen or sixteen... my God... she... she walked up to our overturned car and just grabbed it with her hand... she tore off the entire car door, frame and all, with her bare hands... and she smiled at us... that smile... it was terrifying..."
"Our place... it looks like a multi-car pileup... everyone's lying on the ground with broken limbs... they didn't even use guns..."
Simmons listened, dumbfounded, nearly dropping the phone.
At that moment, his private phone chimed with a new message.
The sender was the number he feared most, unlisted.
The message was simple.
"Having fun?"
Simmons's hand trembled, and the phone fell onto the carpet.
Before he could pick it up, a second message arrived.
"Had enough? Then behave."
Simmons's body went limp. He collapsed into his chair, gasping for breath, his face completely devoid of color.
This was the final warning.
But he had no way back.
What should have been a calm, controlled situation had turned into a frantic, scrambling mess.
Unwillingness, resentment, and the fear of losing power, like three venomous snakes, completely devoured his reason.
He struggled to his feet from the floor, his eyes flashing with a gambler's madness.
If conventional methods wouldn't work, then he'd use unconventional ones!
He gambled all the secret funds he could still mobilize, transferring them to a long-dormant project account.
It was part of the research results he had previously siphoned off.
A new virus development project based on the original t-veronica virus strain recovered by Wesker from Steve Burnside's corpse and g-virus data.
He would create a more powerful, more perfect virus!
He would use his own creation to personally destroy the man who had ruined everything for him!
Having done this, he picked up the encrypted phone again. This time, he dialed another number, far away in South America.
The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.
"Wesker." Simmons tried to keep his voice steady, laced with the authority of a superior.
"I need you to do something for me. Find an opportunity in the South American rainforest to kill Noah."
There was silence on the other end, broken only by a few faint, unidentifiable creature screeches.
Just as Simmons was about to lose patience, a low, magnetic male voice finally sounded, unhurried.
"Hmm."
Then, the call was directly disconnected.
South America, a hidden temporary camp.
Albert Wesker slowly put down the satellite phone. The sunglasses on his face reflected the flickering green data on the screen.
He let out an undisguised snort of contempt.
"Fool."
"Just a pawn with some remaining use value for now, and yet he's already starting to think he can give me orders..."
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