Rose stood in front of the punching bag, her knuckles wrapped tightly in the worn, faded cloth of old hand wraps. She didn't look at the bag—her focus was on the hum of her own breath, the rhythm of her pulse in her ears, the heavy weight of everything inside her. Her body was tense, ready. But her mind… her mind was elsewhere.
Her hand hovered just an inch from the surface of the bag, fingers flexing, imagining the satisfying thud that would follow the punch. The idea of her fist smashing into it was tempting, so tempting. But then she remembered.
Three.
She'd already destroyed three bags this month.
The memory of the shredded, burst canvas—of the sharp splinters of metal and leaking sand—flashed in her mind. She hadn't even hit that hard. At least, not at first. The first one had been an accident. The second one, too. But the third? That had been deliberate. That was her anger, her frustration, her need to lash out at the ghosts of her past and present.
And still, here she was, holding herself back.
She exhaled slowly, trying to push the tension from her shoulders, but the burn only grew. It was a cycle she couldn't break. The fury always built, always simmered just below the surface, gnawing at her insides, but she couldn't let it spill over. Not yet.
Not unless she wanted another ruined punching bag—and the staff who would silently hate her for it. No, she'd hold herself back. She'd learned to hold her punches in more ways than one. She'd always had to.
She raised her right fist, hovering it just above the bag, and then, almost lazily, she dropped it with a small, controlled jab—just enough to make her knuckles ache, but not enough to break anything.
Her breath caught in her chest as she let her mind wander again, pulling her into the long, gnawing frustration that had become her constant companion.
Oswell E. Spencer.
She had always hated him. She'd been born into his empire, his legacy, and from the moment she learned who he was, what he had created, she felt it—his presence, looming over her like a curse.
The man was an enigma—he was a god to those who still believed in his twisted vision, a titan of ambition who shaped the very world she'd been thrust into. He'd molded her father's DNA like clay, twisted it for his own purposes, all the while believing himself to be some sort of benevolent architect of the future.
She scoffed under her breath.
Benevolent?
The man had created the hell she lived in. He had been the driving force behind the entire bioengineering catastrophe, the reason people like her existed in the first place—cursed, manipulated, turned into weapons for his personal brand of twisted "progress."
She punched again, harder this time, a quick jab that still didn't hit with full force. Everything he had manipulated, twisted, and destroyed in the name of his vision. The human lives lost, the twisted experiments, the constant push toward something bigger, something darker, with no care for the lives destroyed in his wake.
She could almost see his smug, self-satisfied face—the gleam in his eyes as he played God. He had believed in his own superiority. And for so long, the world had let him get away with it. He had been a figure of legend, a genius in the eyes of so many, but to Rose… he had always been a monster.
The next punch landed harder, a sharp crack reverberating through her bones.
And still, she held back.
Every piece of him was still in her—his legacy, his bloodline, his influence. He was the reason she was a Wesker, and not a Kidman, or a Kurt. Oswell E. Spencer and Albert Wesker were the bane of her existence. One in the same person, they both had delusions of grandeur, and she kind of wanted to be around when they killed each other over it. No matter how much she wanted to tear down the memory of the man who'd made her, she couldn't escape him. She would always be his product. His damned, twisted experiment.
She pulled her hand back again, her shoulders tight with frustration. Her breath was shallow, but controlled.
And still, she held back.
Rose could almost hear his voice in her head, that calm, condescending tone—"You are special, Rose. You were created for a higher purpose."
She hated him for that. For making her feel like she had a purpose—a mission—that she had to fulfill to justify her existence. She'd spent years chasing a purpose, protecting people, being a good person. And then she'd lost that. She'd lost any semblance of her old self, her old dreams. She'd been hopeless and broken and desperate when her father had rescued her, nearly six months ago, and he'd known exactly how to keep her in line.
Purpose.
The punching bag swung slightly under her next hit, her fist connecting with a force that rattled her entire body, but it wasn't enough. It never was. She had years of rage and confusion, years of feeling like a pawn, ready to pour out, but it never felt like the right moment.
So much of it was Spencer's fault. The damage he had done, the system he had built—the machine that had turned her into nothing more than a piece of his design, a cog in his sickening machine. And when she had finally fought back, it had all felt so meaningless. Because even when she pushed him down, even when she walked away. They were still there.
They had won.
Another punch. Harder this time.
The fury inside her simmered just below the surface, her body tense and burning. But she didn't let it explode, not yet. She still had to hold back.
One more punch, she thought, and then I'll stop.
But as she drew back her fist, the thought of Spencer's legacy—of what he had done to her, to all of them—gnawed at her mind again. His influence was still everywhere. His shadow was still stretching across everything she did.
She punched again. Harder. But this time, she didn't pull back.
The bag snapped forward, the leather groaning under the impact. She felt the satisfying sting in her hand as it connected, the force reverberating through her bones. The bag swung violently, but it held. It would hold for now.
She was so damn tired of holding back. But that was all she could do for now.
You're a Wesker. This is who you are. You're a Wesker. You're a Wesker. You're a Wesker.
This time when she craned her arm back, she launched it forward with all the fury that the sun could contain. The bones in her hand seemed to quiver as it punched through the canvas and sand, thwacking on the metal, and the chain broke. The bag flew off it's hook, the chain rattling as it hit the wall and thumped to the ground, sand spilling out like the innards of the victim she was imagining in her head.
She let out a breath, wiping the sweat from her brow as she stepped back, lowering her hands to her sides. Her breath came a little quicker now, her heart still hammering from the hit. Shit...so much for that, she thought. Something about the way the bag had exploded off the hook, the chain rattling against the wall, the sand spilling out—something in her had snapped with it.
You're a Wesker. This is who you are. You're a Wesker. You're a Wesker. You're a Wesker.
The mantra twisted in her head, a constant reminder of what she'd grown up to be. That was when she heard it. The slow, deliberate clap of hands from behind her.
Clap.
Clap.
Clap.
The sound was like a cold splash of water against her skin. It froze her in place, every muscle tensing, her instincts screaming. She knew who it was, even before she turned around. That calm, methodical applause, the sound that always seemed to follow her—taunting, judging, hovering over her like an inescapable shadow.
Rose's body tensed, but she forced herself to stay still, facing the wreckage of the punching bag. She didn't need to look at him to know he was there. She could feel him. His presence. He was always there, watching, waiting. The same as always. But this time, she wasn't going to let him control the way she felt.
"Impressive," Wesker's voice came, smooth, almost bored, as if her outburst was nothing more than a curiosity to him.
She finally turned to face him, her breath still coming in sharp gasps. There he was, leaning against the doorway of the training room, arms folded across his chest, that familiar, condescending smile curving his lips. He looked as calm and pristine as ever, his dark glasses reflecting the harsh light above. His gaze lingered on the destroyed bag for a moment, and she saw the faintest glint of approval behind those tinted lenses. He never was one to show emotion easily, but there was something coldly appreciative in his expression.
"It's good to see you're not entirely broken," Wesker mused, his tone like an academic noting a promising experiment. "But then, I never expected you to be. Not entirely."
Her fists clenched at her sides. That phrase—the way he said it—stung, sharper than it should have. Like he had always believed she was just a tool to be tinkered with, a project he had an interest in. Not broken. Not completely, at least. He was always so damn sure of himself, so sure of her—of what she was meant to be.
She stepped forward, squaring herself up against him, ignoring the familiar spike of anxiety that pricked the back of her neck. "You don't know anything about me," she spat, voice low but dangerous. "You never did."
"You're a product of my biology, Rosemarie. There was never any doubt that you would be great, a goddess in your own right. It's the reason I never killed you."
"If that's your way of saying you love me, you're really shitty at it."
Wesker's smile never wavered, but there was a glimmer of something in his eyes—a flicker of something darker, more possessive, that sent a shiver down her spine. He regarded her for a long moment, as though weighing the worth of her words, as though deciding whether she was worth the time to respond.
"You're still so bitter," he said, his voice laced with condescension, as if her anger was something he expected, something beneath him. "Do you really believe that I should love you? That a creature like you needs affection, tenderness?"
He stepped toward her, slow and deliberate, his gaze never leaving hers. She could feel the weight of his presence, his power. It pressed on her chest, making it harder to breathe, but she held her ground.
"You are not human, Rosemarie. You're better than that. Superior. What we are is far beyond the limitations of that... quaint, sentimental notion of love." His voice turned colder as he spoke, almost mechanical, like a scientist discussing his findings. "You've always seen that as a weakness, haven't you? All those people—your pathetic human attachments, your misguided efforts to belong—those are the things that make you weak. The sooner you accept that, the better."
Rose felt her heart race, the flickering doubts she'd buried deep rising to the surface. But she refused to let them win.
She stepped back, forcing the anxiety down, even as the blood in her veins felt like it was turning to ice. "You're not superior, Albert. You're just a man who thinks he can play god. But you can't." She spat the words out like venom, her voice stronger now, more defiant. "You never could."
For a moment, Wesker didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching her, his fingers flexing by his side as if considering how best to respond to her words. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and adjusted the dark glasses that obscured his eyes, as if the act itself was some subtle display of power. When he spoke again, it was with a calm that made her want to lash out all the more.
"Love, Rose," he began, almost as though explaining something to a child, "is a weakness. A disease that spreads, and infects everything it touches. It clouds judgment, weakens resolve. It is beneath us." His lips curled into that cruel, knowing smile, one that she had come to hate with every fiber of her being. "I never needed to love you. What I needed was your potential. That is what makes you special."
Her chest tightened, the anger bubbling up again, but she forced herself to hold it back. Not today. The rage was too easy, too familiar. But she wasn't going to let him drag her back into that endless cycle of hatred. She didn't need to stoop to his level. She knew what love could do, and she regretted it every day that she still hadn't told Leon that she loved him.
Wesker's words hung in the air like a toxic fog. He was right, in a way. Love had always been a weakness. It had torn her apart more times than she could count. It had clouded her decisions, made her doubt herself, and made her fight for things that had only ever left her broken in the end. But there was a part of her, a small part, that still wanted it. A part of her that still believed it was worth fighting for, even if it seemed to only lead to pain.
Her mind flickered to Leon.
She hadn't told him. Not the words. Not the truth. Not when it mattered. She had spent so two years pushing him away, afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of giving him the power to hurt her, knowing all too well the depths of betrayal that love could reach. Afraid of hurting him because she couldn't control her own superhuman abilities. The thought of it made her stomach turn. But still…
She closed her eyes, the faint image of Leon's face coming to mind, his smile soft and warm, his eyes full of the kind of care that made her feel safe. Even in the chaos, in the storm of her life, when everything was falling apart, he had been her anchor.
Wesker's cold, calculating voice pulled her back to the present.
"You still don't understand, do you?" he asked, his voice low and patient, as if trying to teach a stubborn child the simplest of lessons. "You are meant for greatness. You were born to be something beyond their fragile concept of love. And that is what makes you more than human. More than anyone can ever hope to be."
He stepped closer, and the smell of his cologne, so familiar, so suffocating, clung to the air between them. His eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—bore into hers, daring her to deny him, to defy the truth he had built around her. The truth he had molded her into.
Rose swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her throat. She wasn't going to let him do this to her again. She wasn't going to let him rewrite who she was—who she could be. She knew the man in front of her, but she also knew herself. She knew her heart. Even if it had been a weakness in the past, she wouldn't let that define her anymore.
"You can keep telling yourself that," she said, her voice steady now, a new resolve hardening in her chest. "But it doesn't change the fact that you've never had a clue what it means to care about someone. You've never known love. Not real love."
She leaned in, her gaze sharp, eyes full of defiance. "And you'll never know what it feels like to have someone who chooses you over everything else. Not because they have to, not because of some grand design, but because they want to."
Wesker's expression darkened, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing his face, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he regarded her with that same unnerving calm, as if he'd already written her off. His smile returned, but it was more predatory now, colder.
"You still believe you can feel those things," he said, his tone laced with something almost pitying. "That's what makes you weak. You will always be inferior to me, Rosemarie. And in the end, you will come to see it, just as I always knew you would."
The words hit her like a blow to the chest, but this time, they didn't land with the same force they once had. She had spent so much of her life being afraid of the way he viewed her, of what he wanted from her. But in that moment, she realized something. She didn't need his approval. She didn't need him to validate her existence.
Because despite everything—despite her mistakes, despite the chaos, despite the twisted path she'd walked—she was still her. And there was a part of her that would never allow him to destroy that.