Location: The Richard Estate, Scottish Highlands
Date: January 18, 2019
Time: 08:00 GMT
For nine months, Alen Richard had lived a double life.
By day, he was a ghost in the underground laboratory, working alongside his grandmother, Amelia. They were engaged in a microscopic war. While Amelia wrestled with the genetic structure of the Cadou, trying to find the flaw in Mother Miranda's "gift," Alen struggled with the delivery system.
His signature weapon, the Samurai Edge, was a masterpiece of gunpowder ballistics, but it was too violent for the payload. The heat and shock of a 9mm explosion would destroy the delicate enzymatic structure of the Necrotoxin before it even left the barrel.
He needed something silent. Something surgical.
He found his answer in the Huben GK1. It was a high-performance semi-automatic air pistol, originally designed for sport. Alen stripped it down to its chassis. He reinforced the air reservoir to handle extreme pressure and bored out the barrel to accept custom glass-dart ammunition.
When he finally tested it on a Petri dish of the Mold, the result was immediate. Phut. The dart shattered. The necrotoxin released. The black fungal mass calcified into gray dust in seconds.
The weapon was ready. The vaccine prototype was stable. The work was done.
But outside the lab, Alen had made a mistake. He had let himself love.
He had spent his evenings braiding Ruby's hair. He had read her stories by the fire. He had let the ice around his heart melt, seeing the reflection of his adoptive mother, Jessica, in the eyes of a clone. He had found a father in Julian Fraser and a mentor in Amelia.
He had built a home. And now, to save it, he had to burn it down.
The Goodbye
Location: The Reading Room
The morning sun was weak, filtering through the frost-patterned windows of the estate. The room was warm, smelling of old paper and tea, but Alen felt cold.
Amelia sat in her armchair, her face unreadable. Father Julian stood by the mantle, his hands clasped behind his back. Mrs. Xing wiped a tear from her cheek.
And there was Ruby. She was sitting on the rug, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes. She looked so much like a normal child now, the horrors of the Connections' lab fading into distant memory.
Alen walked over and knelt before her. His boots creaked on the hardwood—a harsh, military sound in the domestic quiet.
"Ruby," Alen said. His voice was steady, but his throat felt tight, as if he had swallowed ash. "I need to tell you something serious. And I need you to be brave for me. Can you do that?"
Ruby sensed the shift in the air. The smile slid off her face. "Yes, Dad. What is it?"
Alen took a breath, the air shuddering in his lungs. "I have to go, Ruby. I can't stay here anymore."
Ruby froze. "Go? Like... to the store?"
"No," Alen shook his head gently. "I have to go fight the monsters. The ones in the dark. And I have to go alone. You can't come with me."
The realization hit her like a physical blow. Her face crumbled.
"No!" Ruby screamed, lunging forward. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his tactical sweater. "No, you can't go! I'll be good! I'll be quiet! Please, Dad, don't leave me!"
Alen closed his eyes, hugging her tightly. He memorized the smell of her shampoo, the weight of her small frame. This was agonizing. It was worse than any torture the Connections had inflicted on him.
"Listen to me," Alen whispered into her ear, his hand stroking her hair. "I never break a promise, do I? I will come back. I will visit you when the war is over. But right now, you aren't safe with me. I am a magnet for bad things."
He pulled back, forcing her to look at him.
"You have Grandmother Amelia. You have Father Julian and Mrs. Xing. They love you. They are your family now."
He stood up, lifting Ruby and placing her gently into Father Julian's waiting arms. The priest held the sobbing girl, his own eyes misty.
"Take care of her," Alen said to Julian, his voice cracking. "Raise her like Jessica raised me. Give her the life I can't have."
"We will, my son," Julian promised softly. "She is safe here."
Alen looked at Ruby one last time. "Be strong, E-017. You are a survivor."
He turned on his heel and walked out of the room. He didn't look back. If he looked back, he would never leave.
The Gear of the Ghost
Location: Alen's Quarters
Alen stood in the center of his room. The emotion was locked away now, shoved into a box deep in his mind. Now, there was only the mission.
He went to the hidden wall safe and spun the dial. He pulled out his Legacy Bag—a battered, waterproof leather satchel that contained the fragments of his fractured identity. He checked the inventory with the cold precision of a machine:
* The Golden Locket: Half of a set. The only keepsake from his biological mother, Alex Wesker.
* The Diaries: The mad scrawlings of Dr. James Marcus and Alex's personal research notes.
* The Drives: Three encrypted hard drives. One with Albert Wesker's corrupted data, one with Glenn Arias's A-Virus research, and the new addition—the entire database of The Connections.
* The Arsenal: His customized Samurai Edge (AW Model-01) and the modified Huben GK1 air pistol with the Necrotoxin darts.
* The Faith: The Celtic Warrior Silver Cross, the heirloom Julian had given him.
* The Tech: His secure phone, housing Rhonda (Red Queen 3.0).
* The Medicine: A bottle of high-grade suppressors to keep the A-Virus aftershocks at bay.
Knock. Knock.
Alen zipped the bag. "Enter."
Julian Fraser walked in. He was carrying a sleek silver medical case and a heavy black garment bag.
"Gifts," Julian said simply. "For the road."
Alen opened the silver case first. Inside, nestled in blue foam, were six vials of a glowing green liquid and a new injector gun.
"The prototype vaccine," Julian explained. "Based on Rebecca Chambers' work and our own research. It won't cure you, Alen—your DNA is too bonded with the virus—but it will heal the damage. If the black veins return, take a shot. It will buy you time."
"Thank you, Father," Alen said, closing the case.
"And this," Julian handed him the garment bag. "If you are going to be a legend, you should dress like one."
Alen opened the bag. Inside was a masterpiece of tactical tailoring.
It was a mid-length, weathered black leather trench coat. It looked heavy, capable of turning a knife blade or the biting wind of Eastern Europe. The interior lining was a deep, blood-red silk. On the left shoulder, dark and subtle, was a patch of the Union Jack—a nod to his heritage.
Beneath it lay a black commando sweater, tactical pants, black fingerless gloves, and sturdy brown combat boots.
"Clothes for a ghost," Julian said with a sad smile. "To blend into the shadows or the crowd."
"It's perfect," Alen said.
The Departure
Fifteen minutes later, Alen stood in the hallway. He was no longer the grieving widower or the gentle father. He was a weapon.
The trench coat flared slightly as he moved. The shoulder holster beneath it hugged his ribs, the weight of the Samurai Edge comforting. The hood of his sweater was pulled up, casting his eyes in shadow.
Amelia was waiting for him at the main entrance. The house was quiet; Julian had taken Ruby to the greenhouse to spare her the final sight of Alen leaving.
"Alen," Amelia said. She didn't reach out to hug him. She stood with the poise of a matriarch.
"Grandmother."
"There is one last thing," she said. "I know who you really are."
Alen stiffened. "We've been over this. I'm—"
"I know you are not Jessica's biological son," Amelia interrupted calmly. "I know my true grandson died in infancy. I know Jessica adopted you from St. Agnes Orphanage in 1985."
Alen's breath hitched. He stared at her, the wind knocked out of him. "You... you knew? Since when?"
"Since the day you arrived in 2011," Amelia replied. "You have her eyes, Alen. Not by genetics, but by spirit. You have her discipline. Her fire. When you told me you were her son, I didn't correct you. Because you are her son. Blood is just biology. Family is a choice."
She stepped forward and placed a hand on his cheek.
"She raised you. She molded you. And I am proud to call you my grandson."
Alen felt a tear slip down his cheek—the last one he would allow. The heavy stone of being an imposter, a fraud in the Richard bloodline, shattered.
"Thank you," Alen whispered. "Thank you for giving me a name."
"Where will you go?" Amelia asked, dropping her hand. "To the Village?"
"Close to it," Alen confirmed, his voice hardening. "I've arranged passage on a cargo ship to avoid the airports. I bought a property—a small, isolated manor about seven miles from Mother Miranda's territory. It's off the grid."
"Good," Amelia nodded. "Stay hidden. Strike when they least expect it."
Alen pulled his hood tighter. He gripped the handle of his Legacy Bag.
"Ruby is safe here," Alen said, more to himself than to her.
"She is," Amelia promised.
Alen opened the heavy oak door. The cold wind of the Highlands rushed in, smelling of snow and rain. He stepped out into the grey morning. He walked toward the waiting car that would take him to the docks, his coat billowing behind him like the wings of a dark angel.
He was leaving his heart behind in Scotland. All that was left now was the mission.