The rhythmic clang of metal against metal filled the dimly lit workshop, accompanied by the low hum of flickering neon signs outside. The scent of oil and rust clung to the air, mixing with the faint aroma of something fried wafting in from the street vendors outside. Wesker wiped the sweat from his brow, his synthetic arm whirring softly as he tightened a bolt on an old engine block. Even after years of using it, the weight of the arm still felt foreign—like an extension of himself that didn’t quite belong.
His uncle, Garrick, stood across from him, hands buried deep in a tangled mess of wires and circuits. The old man’s goggles reflected the soft blue light of a holo-screen displaying schematics. “You’re still gripping that wrench like you’re afraid it’ll bite ya,” Garrick muttered, not looking up. “Loosen up. That arm of yours is strong, but if you don’t get a feel for it, you’ll keep stripping bolts.”
Wesker exhaled sharply. “I *am* trying, you know.” He switched the wrench to his left hand—his natural hand—and adjusted the bolt again. It felt easier, smoother. But that wasn’t good enough. He needed both hands working at full capacity. He needed to prove that he could do more than just think his way through problems. In four months, the trial would decide his future, and if he failed again, he wouldn’t get another shot.
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Garrick finally looked up, scrutinizing Wesker with those sharp, calculating eyes. “Four months ain’t a long time,” he said. “You’re improving, but those faction reps? They don’t care about improvement. They care about results.”
Wesker clenched his jaw but said nothing. Garrick wasn’t wrong. The expedition factions had their own standards, their own preferences. Some sought those with cybernetic enhancements; others demanded magic potential. Wesker had neither. Just a salvaged arm, a sharp mind, and a body that still hadn’t caught up to his ambitions.
A loud *clang* from outside interrupted his thoughts. The workshop’s rusted-out door shook as something heavy slammed against it. Wesker and Garrick exchanged glances before the old man sighed and shuffled toward the entrance.
“If it’s another drunk looking for a cheap tune-up, tell ’em to piss off,” Wesker called after him.
Garrick ignored him and pulled the door open. A figure stumbled inside, dressed in the tattered remains of what had once been expedition gear. Their breathing was ragged, eyes wild with exhaustion. “Help—” the stranger gasped, clutching at their side. “They’re coming—”
Before Wesker could react, the night outside erupted in flashing red lights and the distant sound of approaching boots. A low, electric growl rumbled through the air, sending a shiver down his spine.
Something dangerous had followed this stranger here. And it wasn’t going to knock before barging in.
