Emotionally satisfied, Vela walked away in high spirits.
Only Ada Wong was left standing there, notebook in hand, stunned.
It took a while for the jostling crowd to bring her back to her senses.
Then, as if by chance, she glanced around—the surrounding reporters were pressing in shoulder to shoulder, their faces displaying a variety of emotions: enthusiasm, jealousy, resentment, admiration, indifference... their gazes full of mixed feelings.
"Miss, how much for it?" one reporter blurted out impulsively.
Ada smiled slightly, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and with her usual seductive poise, gently waved the notebook in her hand, her smile dazzling. "Not for sale." With that, she bowed lightly, stepped back, and disappeared into the crowd.
The man looked rather regretful.
Even if he couldn't buy it, perhaps he could at least exchange contact information—maybe even chance upon a beautiful encounter.
Unfortunately, new commotion interrupted his wistful thoughts. Following the sound, he saw a group of young women surround Vela.
The one in front seemed to know her?
News! The journalist's instinct took over, and he eagerly pushed his way toward the scene.
...
In a quiet corner of the exhibition hall corridor.
"Safe and sound. Though, that was quite an unexpected bonus." Ada muttered softly, exhaled, and lowered her gaze to the notebook's first page.
In graceful, flowing cursive, it read:
[Vela Adelheid Russell]
She pressed a hand to her forehead and chuckled with a sigh.
It was her first time seeing Vela this close—and indeed, the woman's demeanor was just as the rumors described: serene, composed, dignified.
Though her speech was elegant and her manners refined, every gesture carried an unspoken authority—a natural pressure that could only come from long years of command, from the wealth and power that made others instinctively obey.
Tch. The aristocracy...
Ada arched a brow, her gaze growing thoughtful.
Wesker, oh Wesker—if you want to compete with her, forget about the battlefield; you'll need to learn how to read the menu at her table first.
Lurking in the shadows of the world stage, scheming endlessly without ever seeing the light—such men would never build anything truly grand.
Ada tucked away the notebook, then lifted her eyes toward the distant figure being surrounded, praised, and worshiped under the spotlight. After scanning briefly, her gaze landed on a blonde, blue-eyed university girl. She frowned in thought.
That face looked familiar.
She'd seen it on a restricted list before.
The daughter of President Graham?
As a professional spy, one of Ada's survival rules was simple: never provoke the powerful.
In this line of work, the last thing you wanted was to get clever and kick an iron wall. If you had to take on such a target, you made sure you got paid well—and secured the social relation charts of those elites through special channels beforehand. Only then could you properly evaluate, price, and profit.
"'Revolving doors.' So the President's already paving the way for retirement... politics and power—how predictable."
With a quiet laugh, Ada turned and walked away.
There were still matters she needed to handle.
...
Ada Wong departed.
The emotional signature that Vela had been specifically tracking faded from the Geass field's range of perception.
"Vela?" Ashley gently took Vela's hand. Seeing her suddenly pause, Ashley tilted her head, blinking her bright green eyes in puzzlement.
"Nothing. It's just that seeing you so full of energy, while I still have a mountain of work tonight, makes me feel a bit tired... tempted to slack off."
Dimming the faint Geass glow in her irises, Vela smiled gracefully and accepted the Jurassic Park opening commemorative booklet from Ashley's friends—signing her name and writing a short message.
At one point, a bold girl even took off her jacket, asking Vela to sign directly on her clothes.
Vela was speechless.
That wouldn't be appropriate.
In the end, true to her conservative image, she helped the girl put her jacket back on.
A left-leaning journalist, seeing this, immediately raised his voice: "Ms. Russell, are you against clothing freedom? Do you object to the women's liberation movement—?"
Vela merely shot him a cold glance and ignored him.
That was the pride of Militech.
And no one nearby dared mock or provoke her.
After all, Militech's dominance had long been a familiar reality throughout America.
Thanks to those unlucky soul who had tested the limits before everyone else, the crowd now shared a mutual understanding—one rule: don't cross the line.
Take the money, do the job. Work was work, after all. You made a living, followed your paper's editorial stance, shouted a few slogans, asked a few questions, and earned your paycheck.
If Militech answered, great—good news for everyone. If they didn't, well, you couldn't exactly keep pressing them, could you? Everyone here was just a worker. No need to be a martyr.
At that moment, one reporter finally recognized Ashley and immediately called out, "Are you Ashley Graham? The First Daughter!"
"Hey, Ashley, over here!"
"Ashley! Does your friendship with CEO Vela imply Militech's support for the White House?"
"The 2004 election—"
...
In an instant, the scene erupted into chaos.
The messy barrage of questions turned the area into a frenzy. The reporters were like sharks that had smelled blood—their eyes gleaming as they frantically pressed their camera shutters.
They couldn't handle an old fox of a capitalist like Vela, and certainly didn't dare play dirty tricks around her. But a cute, innocent girl like Ashley? That was another story.
"This... will require a joint clarification between the White House Press Secretary and Militech's PR Department..." Ashley said nervously, one hand balled against her chest.
Though she was the President's daughter and had received proper media training—knowing what to say and what not to—she was still a sheltered young lady, unaccustomed to the chaos of the press.
The Graham family's upbringing was exceptional. Ashley showed none of the vices common among second- or third-generation elites—no drugs, no reckless indulgence, no scandals. That was part of why Vela liked her.
Take the Clinton girl, for instance—Vela knew her too, but only in passing. Her parents were simply too wild.
"All right, tonight is only the pre-opening showcase of Jurassic Park. No further comments." Vela frowned slightly, pulling Ashley behind her to shield her from the crowd.
The President's daughter was a guest under her roof—Vela could not stand by and do nothing.
After a few polite, formulaic deflections, she signed a few more autographs for visitors holding commemorative booklets, posters, and loose pages. The security personnel quickly caught on and began parting the crowd.
Vela and Ashley walked side by side toward the exit.
"Did I cause trouble?" Ashley asked softly.
"Of course not," Vela replied warmly. "If anything, I should thank you for adding even more buzz to my dinosaur park. They're masters at spinning narratives and taking things out of context. Still, they won't go too far with you—'First Daughter' makes quite the headline... Perhaps I should pay you an appearance fee."
"Ah?" Ashley blushed slightly.
Vela smiled faintly.
"Planning to stay in San Francisco a few days?" she asked, changing the topic.
"Two days, maybe," Ashley said.
"Are you free tonight? I recently hired a new private chef team—"
"Yes!" Ashley nodded eagerly, almost bouncing.
"Bring your classmates too," Vela added, generous as ever.
"Really?!" Ashley's eyes sparkled.
Seeing the two chatting so naturally, almost like sisters, the reporters followed and filmed faithfully. Especially the GOP-affiliated ones—they were ecstatic. Their faction securing ties with a heavyweight backer meant a stronger White House bid—and bonuses for them.
Soon, the group reached the front entrance.
Vela stood atop the steps and gestured. The Militech reception manager immediately hurried over.
"Arrange everything. They're my guests." She then glanced briefly at the two plainclothes agents following Ashley—the Secret Service agents assigned to protect the First Family.
"Yes, ma'am," the manager replied.
Vela nodded, then turned back to Ashley. "Dinner might be a bit late, so enjoy your visit. My apologies—I won't be able to accompany you personally. If anything comes up, call me."
"Then... see you tonight," she said with a wave, before stepping into her car.
"Mm, see you tonight." Ashley watched the convoy pull away, then turned back to face the press once more before rejoining the exhibition under the manager's guidance. She still hadn't finished touring the tech expo.
Meanwhile, Militech security quietly approached the Secret Service agents.
Now that Ashley's whereabouts were public, nothing could be allowed to happen to her in Northern California. Otherwise, it would be a slap in Vela's face.
Soon, the commotion died down, and everyone returned to their business as usual.
"She's beautiful," Jake Muller said, leaning casually against the railing.
"Who's beautiful?" came a soft, cool voice.
"They both are, uh..." Jake caught himself mid-sentence when he noticed Sherry Birkin's faintly furrowed brow. Quickly changing the subject, he added, "Why didn't you go get her autograph?"
With a small huff, Sherry hugged her Jurassic Park commemorative booklet. "Too crowded. Besides, I already have Vela A. Russell's personalized business card. I'm not desperate."
With her mother still alive—though imprisoned—and friends by her side, Sherry's personality was much lighter and younger than in the original timeline.
Behind them, Annette and Claire exchanged a knowing look, quietly choosing not to interrupt.
In that moment, the world was full of contrasts—some people were happily touring the exhibition, some were enjoying family time, and some were fuming in secret.
A plain-looking man entered a corner of the rest area, took the hamburger and cola handed to him by a Latino contact, and together they sat, blending in as regular diners. Speaking in low Spanish, they whispered between bites.
"How'd it go?"
"No luck. We'll have to wait until the girl returns to her university or home before we make a move. I checked the University of Massachusetts schedule—she should leave within three to five days."
"Three to five days? Mierda! So we're stuck here with that Plaga-infected trash for almost a week? And I have to keep covering their tracks? Damn it! Fine, fine—I'll report it to Bishop Saddler."
"We must let the Lord's blessing spread from Señorita to Washington, then to North America, and eventually the world... uh—"
"I mean, wouldn't it be more straightforward to target Vela A. Russell instead?" one of them suggested suddenly.
At that, everyone froze mid-bite, staring wide-eyed at the speaker.
Jesus Christ, are you insane?
"You're gonna get yourself killed—don't drag me down with you!" someone hissed.
"Enough. Stop thinking about stupid ideas." Their apparent leader, an Arab man, snapped coldly. "Our job is to capture the girl. Stay focused and don't make mistakes."
He glanced toward one of the group. "Keep tailing her. But don't be too obvious—if Militech's executioners catch on, it's over."
...
Meanwhile, inside a moving vehicle.
Vela reclined in the back seat, eyes closed, appearing to rest.
"Boss, we'll arrive at the old Militech Tower in the CBD area in about fourteen minutes," her assistant in the front seat reported softly.
Vela only rolled her shoulders slightly, murmuring a faint acknowledgment.
Seeing this, the assistant lowered the soundproof partition between the front and rear seats.
"Boss needs a moment of rest."
The car immediately entered silent mode.
...
Evening had fallen quiet.
In truth, Vela wasn't tired at all—in fact, her mind was alert and focused.
Not on Resident Evil, but on Cyberpunk—on the aftermath, cleanup, and collection of the spoils.
She alone could see the "world beyond worlds."
Night City—Arasaka Waterfront, under heavy security.
Vela was personally overseeing Saburo Arasaka's evacuation from the city that had become his graveyard.
She saw it clearly: inside the medical pod, on the day of his departure from Night City, Saburo had aged beyond recognition—his once-proud eyes now clouded, his body frail and spent.
Standing beside him, Shintaro Takayama looked deeply troubled.
Hanako remained in Tokyo Headquarters, while Michiko had recently traveled to San Francisco on Vela's behalf to oversee operations there.
For good reason—the Arasaka family never put all their eggs in one basket. In wartime, it was forbidden for multiple top executives to remain in the same location for long, to prevent a total wipeout in case of enemy action.
Even the Arasaka family itself adhered to this rule. When Saburo returned to Tokyo, Hanako tended to him for a while before departing for Kyoto to supervise the Kansai region.
For the first time, Shintaro Takayama—one of Arasaka's senior retainers—bowed deeply to Vela three times.
It was a salute to Arasaka's acting CEO.
Vela personally reached out to help him up.
"Such strife between father and son, brother against brother... it's truly regrettable to see within Arasaka," he said bitterly. "Those incompetent army fools! Lady Vela, I swear, I'll see the traitors purged!"
"I understand. But please—keep the greater picture in mind. Avoid excessive collateral punishment," Vela said as she supported him.
He hadn't expected her to be the one saying that.
Beside her, Yorinobu's severed head, sealed within dual containment boxes, and his twisted, cryogenically preserved corpse were being loaded onto the ship for transport.
After sending off the master and his retainer, the Arasaka succession struggle had finally come to an end. Everything was settled.
With a wave of Vela's hand, the final phase of the suppression ceremony began.
Judgment and execution.
There stood rows upon rows of wounded and bloodstained rebel officers—battle exoskeletons stripped away, cyberware systems locked, faces smeared with ash and blood.
When the supervising Arasaka general saw Vela's signal, he shouted, "Hajimeru! (Begin!)"
Immediately, the senior Arasaka officers in pristine dress uniforms stepped forward in turn, tearing the rank insignias, collar emblems, chest badges, and every other mark of military honor from the rebels before them.
"Russell! You'll pay with your life!!"
"Ambitious witch! You killed Yorinobu-sama!"
"Cowards! Captain, we agreed we'd never surrender—why did you betray us?! Damn it! Yorinobu-sama showed us kindness! Have you forgotten?!"
Some screamed hoarsely, their eyes bloodshot with rage; some shouted at their superiors who stripped away their honors; others stood dazed and hollow-eyed, their spirits broken.
Vela watched them all with calm detachment.
Loyalty was admirable.
But was surrender wrong? No.
Yorinobu was dead. What sense was there in continuing the rebellion? Perhaps he had shown them kindness—but they had families too.
Ironically, those from powerful bloodlines, the ones with wealth and heritage, surrendered quickly and quietly. Meanwhile, the lowborn officers who had clawed their way up—the hot-headed ones—were the ones shouting for vengeance, refusing to kneel. A pity, really.
"Prepare for execution!" barked the execution officer, continuing the ritual by rote.
The soldiers raised their rifles.
"Safety off." The sound of metal sliding and clashing echoed.
"Fire!"
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bodies fell. Blood bloomed like red flowers.
Without looking back, Vela turned and walked toward her next chapter of history.
The afternoon sunlight fell upon her, coating her silhouette in a pale, blood-tinted gold.
In the distance, Shintaro Takayama's escort fleet faded away.
...
Resident Evil.
Vela opened her eyes, sat upright, and retrieved a bottle of mineral water from the car's refrigerator. Twisting the cap open, she took a long, refreshing sip.
Resting her chin on one hand, she reflected.
Reflected on the feeling of victory—of ascension.
Would Saburo truly submit?
Vela doubted it.
He had no choice, that was all.
He didn't dare gamble. If he even tried to delay her reckoning, he might not live long enough to become an "Emperor Emeritus." He'd die as a fallen ruler instead.
Saburo's attempt to balance power between them had always been transparent.
It wasn't hard to guess.
As long as Yorinobu lived, Saburo's position was secure—Vice CEO, family elder, the stabilizing hand behind Arasaka.
Even if Vela ascended as Arasaka's CEO and head of the American division, she would still have Saburo above her as Chairman. She could never "devour" her master.
Then, when Yorinobu eventually married into another powerful corporate family and produced heirs, Saburo could cultivate the fourth generation of Arasaka scions. Vela would age eventually—she had no known love life or family ties. Even if she ruled for a century, time would still claim her. And when it did, the Arasaka legacy would return to the bloodline.
But now Yorinobu was dead—and his genes tainted by viral fusion.
The path ahead was still long, and the game far from over.
Vela smirked coldly, picked up her PDA, and ended the mental interlude, returning to work mode.
On the encrypted screen:
[Jurassic Park Project]
[Internal Phases: Resurrection of Dinosaurs → Hybrid Dinosaurs → Transgenic Hybrid Dinosaurs → Advanced Genetic Weaponization [Codename Pending]]
Beep beep.
She typed in a name after a brief thought:
[Kaiju]
...
Meanwhile, on the other side of the so-called peace and prosperity—the chaos of war.
Iraq, Anbar Province — Fallujah.
Militech's M.B.C.S. units, in collaboration with the B.S.A.A., with U.S. military support, were engaged in a joint assault.
The battle raged fiercely beneath the burning skies.