The world was a storm of breaking ice and freezing cold. As Alen plunged from the train, the rushing wind was torn from his lungs, replaced by the shock of dark, icy water. The current of the mountain river, hidden beneath the ice, dragged his unconscious body under.
By chance, his tactical gear and the trapped air inside it kept him afloat. For hours, the current carried him like a piece of driftwood through the Siberian wilderness. Inside, his body waged a silent war between the invading C-Virus and his own unusual biology.
At dawn, the river deposited him on a gravel bank near a remote village. The first to spot him was a young girl named Anya, fetching water. She saw the dark shape on the shore and, with wide-eyed curiosity, ran back to raise the alarm.
The villagers, hardened by a harsh life, retrieved the stranger and brought him to the home of the elder, Baba Anya. Her lined face spoke of age, but her sharp eyes carried wisdom. She was the healer of the community.
"Careful, Piotr," she told her son as he lowered the man onto a cot. "Remove his wet clothes. Slowly."
Her fingers pressed against his cold neck. A faint, weak pulse answered her touch.
"He lives," she told the gathered villagers. "The river spared him. Now we see if death will do the same."
For two weeks, Alen drifted between life and death. Baba Anya and her son treated his injuries, using local herbs and bandages. His strange black gear and weapons were locked away, a mystery left unspoken.
When Alen finally opened his eyes, it was to the smell of herbs and the sound of a wood stove. Wrapped in wool blankets, he lay in a simple log-walled room. His first thought was not pain but disbelief.
I'm alive.
He looked at his hands. Whole. Normal. The virus hadn't twisted him. Somehow, his body—strengthened by the Wesker bloodline—had purged the C-Virus completely.
He sat up slowly, aching but intact, and stepped into the main room.
Baba Anya stirred a pot over the fire. She glanced up, unsurprised.
"You are awake at last, synok," she said gently. "The sleep has ended."
"Where am I?" Alen's voice was rough.
"In Vostok. A village you won't find on maps," she said, motioning him to sit. "My granddaughter found you in the river. You were frozen and injured. We did what we could."
She set food and water before him. "Eat. You must grow strong again."
As he ate, he noticed a handmade calendar on the wall. August 19, 2011. More than a week had passed. To the world, he was already dead.
"Your belongings are safe," Baba Anya said, nodding at a chest in the corner.
Her son brought it forward. Inside lay his tactical gear, weapons, comms—and hidden in a pouch, the backup identity he had prepared a Canadian passport for John Michael Kane and a stack of rubles.
The passport was no longer just a cover. It was his lifeline. His rebirth.
That night by the fire, he made his choice. The CIA was corrupted. Simmons had betrayed him, sacrificed his team, and left him for dead. Returning meant certain death. There was no going back.
On August 20, dressed in the plain clothes given to him, Alen packed his gear into a single backpack. He buried the weapons and agency tools deep in the woods, leaving behind the life that had almost ended him.
He turned to Baba Anya. "Thank you. I owe you everything."
She smiled, touching his cheek. "The river spared you for a reason. Go now. Find your path."
After saying farewell to the villagers, he boarded a westbound cargo train.
By noon, he reached Moscow. By evening, using the name John Michael Kane, he boarded a flight to the UK.
England
August 21, 2011 — Cambridge
Morning mist hung over the cemetery. Alen stood before two graves.
Dr. Jessica R. Richard. Beloved Mother.
Jason Mitchell. Philosopher. Husband.
"It's been a while," he whispered. Placing flowers, he lowered his head. "I'm sorry I couldn't be the son you wanted. But I'm still trying to be the man you taught me to be."
He reached beneath Jason's headstone, finding the rusted key hidden long ago. His mother's secret way to ensure he always had a home.
The house was unchanged, yet heavy with dust. Sunlight cut through the still air, lighting the motes. Each object was a memory: Jason's armchair, Jessica's kitchen table, the mark on the doorframe from his childhood growth.
He dropped his bag, the sound echoing in silence. He was a ghost in his own past.
John Michael Kane had arrived in England. But Alen Richard had come home.
And from here, his he will begin his new identity thinking new strategy.