September 30, 1998, 9:00 AM, William Birkin's Private Laboratory
The awakening had been a disconnection. For an entire day, Annette had hidden—not out of fear, but to recalibrate her existence. Every sensation was new, amplified, alien. The simple act of gripping a coffee cup had ended in an explosion of porcelain and boiling liquid, her fingers applying a force her mind had not yet learned to regulate.
Now, as she walked down the corridor toward her husband's lab, every step was an exercise in control. Her high heels, once second nature, now seemed unstable, each step threatening to crack the floor tiles. He did this to me, she thought, a wave of cold anger coursing through her body. But almost immediately, another thought followed: He did it for me. An act of violation and an act of salvation, intertwined in an inextricable knot. An enemy. A friend. Her loyalty, once a solid pillar, now a flag waving in a storm.
Beep!
The door to William's private lab opened, revealing a man consumed by his own creation. He was hunched over a console, the greenish glow of G-Virus vials illuminating his tense, feverish face. He didn't turn.
"Eddie will be leaving the lab in a month," Annette said flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. "He received an assignment from Sergei."
"Transferred? Good," William replied without taking his eyes off his work. "One less nuisance."
"Anyway," she continued, ignoring his coldness, "how is your research progressing?"
"Leave," he growled, finally turning. His eyes were sunken, dark-circled. "I'm about to start testing. Do not disturb me." He paused, his gaze sharpening, suspicious. "And your progress on the antidote?"
He trusted no one. No one. He believed only in the power coursing through those vials, a power that would free him from Umbrella, that would make him a god. A foolish dream, born from paranoia.
"The antidote only works if administered within three hours of infection," she replied, matching his coldness. "After that, it's useless."
"That will do," he said, a sneering grin on his face. "I don't need a perfect antidote. I just need to complete the serum."
His statement struck her like a slap. He underestimated her skill, her genius. This man, blinded by ego, was no different from Spencer. Speaking to him was suffocating. Unlike Eddie, who—even in his arrogance—saw her. Recognized her.
"Then I'll leave," Annette said, shaking her head. She turned and exited the lab, the sound of her steps now firmer, more decisive, echoing behind her. She needed to see Sherry. A sudden urgency, a cold premonition, gripped her heart. Something terrible was about to happen to her little angel. But beneath the fear, there was something else. Excitement. The power flowing through her veins sang a song of survival. And she would protect her daughter. At all costs.
In Umbrella's heavily guarded building, Sergei watched a monitor. On the screen, a grainy, handheld video showed a tall figure in a tattered lab coat moving through the shadows of the night. Leeches fell from its sleeves, and its hands reached toward passersby with unnatural hunger.
"What do you think, Eddie?" Sergei asked, not taking his eyes off the video. His knife danced between his fingers, a silver metronome marking the time.
"Is this the man pretending to be Uncle Marcus?" Eddie growled, his anger a flawless performance. "Colonel, can you send an elite team to eliminate that impostor?"
Sergei smiled, a nearly imperceptible movement of his thin lips. "You really care about your uncle, don't you?"
"Of course. Knowing someone is impersonating Marcus tarnishes the deceased's name! The imitator must be stopped immediately. Don't you agree, Colonel?"
Sergei was not intimidated by the boy's sudden ferocity; he replied, "The elite team has other priorities. If you want, you can handle it yourself."
"I can't, I'm not strong enough," Eddie said, pretending weakness while lighting a cigarette.
Seeing Eddie's stance, Sergei chastised him inwardly, condemning the man's cowardice. If that's the case, how will he survive on the S.T.A.R.S. team?
"Not strong enough? Don't you have a special team? I heard it was recently renamed. The Wolf Pack."
"The team is excellent; if he doesn't use it, better to give it to Umbrella," Sergei said with a smirk.
"No. It's my team. My assets," Eddie replied, a flash of steel in his voice before retreating behind the mask again.
"You'll soon be transferred to the Raccoon City Tactical Team. Keep an eye on Wesker. If he acts suspiciously, report to me immediately."
Sergei gave Eddie his orders and concluded their meeting.
Exiting the office, Eddie could only smile. They try to use me as a tool. Everyone saw him as an instrument—a scalpel, a key, a pawn. They hadn't yet realized he was the surgeon, the blacksmith, the player.
And soon, he would become the king.