Day 52

Rose sat in the dim light of her sterile cell, the soft hum of the ventilation system filling the silence. Her hands rested on her lap, fingers brushing over the edges of the phone she had just used to contact Wesker. A shiver ran through her, though she was numb to the cold by now. Her thoughts drifted, pulled into the quiet stillness where, for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to wonder—was it worth it?

The question felt like it had always been there, lurking beneath the surface. Was it worth it? The relentless pursuit of freedom, of meaning. Was she really trying to survive, or was she just chasing an illusion?

Happiness had always felt like something far out of reach—just beyond the horizon, a place others got to live, while she remained tethered to the chaos. She had tried to tell herself otherwise, to force herself to believe in something better, something more. But the truth was, the idea of happiness—of peace—was never real. It was like a mirage in the desert, a brief moment of hope that disappeared the moment you tried to grasp it.

And yet, that fleeting hope, that brief flicker of warmth, was what kept her going. Not because it was attainable, but because it had to be. Without it, without the belief that something better was waiting just around the corner, the darkness would swallow her whole.

Happiness was an illusion, she thought. And yet it was necessary.

It was the illusion that propelled her forward, kept her from collapsing under the weight of the years of trauma, of the choices she had made. It was the lie she lived with, the quiet lie that whispered in her ear when she wanted to give up: Maybe today will be different. Maybe this time, there will be something worth fighting for.

Rose closed her eyes, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. It wasn't that she believed in happiness anymore—it was that she needed to. Even in the darkest of places, the illusion of happiness had been the one thing that could break through the suffocating darkness and remind her that there was still something to live for, even if that something was just the chance that, for a fleeting moment, it could be real.

She leaned her head back against the cold metal of the bedframe, and in that quiet stillness, she allowed herself to feel it—the illusion. The flicker of hope, the softness of a memory, the warmth of a future that might never come.

And for once, she wasn't sure if that was the worst thing in the world.

For most of her time here, she'd spent in daydreams. Sometimes they hurt so badly that she'd cry herself to sleep. Sometimes, she'd share them with Leon when he came to visit her at the end of each day. He always played along, and it did as much good as it did bad.

It was the only way she remained calm in this place where her mind and the guards liked to torture her. Sometimes she needed to slip away. And as she lay on her bed, missing Leon, she let the walls of reality crumble and give way to a world where the future was bright and full of possibility.

In this place, Leon was beside her. She could see him clearly—his dark eyes softened with the tenderness she'd rarely seen, the smile that reached his lips when he was truly at peace. It wasn't the determined, battle-worn version of Leon she knew now, but the version of him that could laugh easily, without the burden of his past weighing him down. They were together, not as survivors clinging to the wreckage of their world, but as two people who had carved out something peaceful for themselves, far away from the chaos.

In this dream, they had a home. A small, warm house, tucked away in some corner of the world where the air smelled like fresh grass and the sun was always a little softer. She could hear their children's laughter echoing in the yard—two kids, a girl and a boy, running after each other, their voices high and carefree.

Her daughter had his eyes—dark, almost impossibly deep, but soft with love, the way only children's eyes could be. She looked like Leon, but there was something of her in the way the girl carried herself, full of fire and curiosity, always asking questions, always running ahead. Their son, on the other hand, had her spirit. His laugh was loud and infectious, the kind that made everything else fade into the background. He had that same stubbornness, that little spark of rebellion, but it was tempered with kindness—the kind of kindness Leon always managed to find, even in the darkest corners of his soul.

She could see it so clearly. The four of them, walking together, a family. Leon with his arm around her, his voice low as he spoke to their kids, teasing them in that way only a father could. And Rose, standing at the edge of the yard, watching them, laughing at the chaos they created.

In this perfect world, there was no more running, no more fear. The fights were over, the horrors of their past slowly fading away into memory. They were safe.

Rose's breath caught as the image flickered, a fleeting moment of happiness that felt so real it almost hurt. She could feel the warm sunlight on her skin, see the way Leon's eyes softened when he looked at her, as if everything that had come before didn't matter. As if they were enough—together, in that world.

But then the thought came crashing in, as it always did. The gnawing doubt that she would never get to live that life. That they would never get to have that future. She had spent so long convincing herself that happiness wasn't something meant for her—that there were things in the world more important, more urgent, than fleeting moments of peace. But even with all that, there was a longing in her chest that she couldn't ignore.

She never really thought she'd get the chance to be a mother. To see her children grow up. It was a fantasy she allowed herself to indulge in for mere seconds before the weight of reality pressed down once more. The world she lived in didn't make room for something as fragile as family. Not for someone like her. She'd never get to see her children's first steps or hear their first words. She'd never get to kiss Leon goodnight and watch their family grow. The image of it—all of it—slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving her grasping at empty air.

She knew the truth. This was just a dream, a fragile illusion, just like happiness itself. A life she would never get to have.

But even so, the thought of Leon, the thought of them—her children, their family—kept her going. It was the illusion that kept her warm in the dark, the thread that tied her to something other than survival. She didn't know if she'd ever have that life, if she'd ever have a chance to love and be loved in such a way, but for now, the dream was enough. It had to be. Because if she let go of the possibility—if she allowed herself to believe that she didn't deserve that kind of happiness—then there would be nothing left to fight for.

So she held on to the illusion, the fantasy of a future where everything was possible, where there was a house and children and the warm embrace of the man she loved. Even if it was a dream she would never wake up from, it was the one thing that could keep her moving, step by step, through the nightmare of her present.

The crackling of a radio down the hall made her ears perk, but she didn't bother opening her eyes. She could hear the panicked voices on the other end, sticky and urgent as they tried to warn the night shift what was happening. The static hissed, and then the shouting escalated again, voices overlapping in a frantic symphony of chaos. Yet none of it pierced the stillness inside Rose. She didn't flinch. She didn't react. She didn't even move a muscle.

She just sat on her bed, back straight, one arm still shackled to the cold metal frame. Her gaze drifted to the sterile walls, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The same white walls that had watched her through countless sleepless nights, the same cold floor that she had walked over so many times. It was all so familiar—a place of ghosts, of memories, of time wasted. It didn't matter anymore.

Her mind, for all its disquiet, remained strangely calm as the sounds of the operatives getting closer filtered into the room. They're coming for me. She could feel it, even before the heavy steps of boots echoed in the corridor outside her door. It was always the same. The rescue. The retrieval. The carefully planned breach. It was just another rotation, another cycle.

The harsh clang of metal echoed through the quiet room, Umbrella operatives flooded the room—armed, masked, professional. Their movements were sharp and deliberate. Some rushed toward her, others fanned out to secure the perimeter. Their gunfire sent sparks of light through the hallway as they slaughtered the men on watch.

The door to her cell was ripped open with a violent screech, and they looked at her as if she were nothing more than a package, a piece of cargo.

The first one moved to unshackle her wrist. Rose didn't resist. She didn't even look at him. She just stared straight ahead, the sharp chill of metal against her skin somehow more comforting than the weight of everything else. She was so used to being dragged from one place to the next, she couldn't even remember what it felt like to stand on her own, to walk out with her head high and her heart free.

Her gaze was still unfocused as they freed her, guiding her to her feet with a practiced, forceful hand. But inside, her thoughts kept circling—an endless loop.

Mentally preparing herself to walk out of one frying pan and into another, and kept Leon's happy face in the forefront of her mind.

Rose didn't flinch. She didn't panic. She simply stared ahead as the men guided her out of the room and surrounded her as if she were the most important person on the planet. She was numb, her gaze distant as if nothing in this moment had any real meaning anymore. The fear that had once surged through her body during these kinds of breaches, the wild instinct to fight or run, was absent. All that was left was a quiet, numbing acceptance. They were here to get her out. To drag her back into the world she had spent so long trying to escape.

Her gaze drifted to the floor. The cold, sterile tiles, the same ones she had stared at for weeks, felt like they had been carved into her memory. This place, these people—it was all the same. It was just another prison, another cage.

For a moment, her mind wandered, and she let herself slip into a different kind of daydream. This one was darker, more twisted. She couldn't help but compare the family she had once imagined—her dream of Leon, of children running through a yard, of a love that might have been—to the one that had been forced on her.

Wesker. Ada. Derek.

She had a father who saw her as nothing more than a weapon, a means to an end. There was no love, no tenderness in his touch. He had never held her the way a father should, and she had learned, early on, that love wasn't part of the bargain with male parental figures. He had never wanted her to be his daughter. He had wanted her to be his heir, his successor in the endless, ruthless game he was playing. And when she failed him, when she dared to defy him, he cast her aside like an object, a tool no longer useful.

Then there was Ada. Her relationship with Ada was always a delicate balance of manipulation, games, and secrets. Ada had never been a sister to her. She had never been a mother. Ada had never been family—only a shadow that drifted in and out of her life when it suited her. Cold, calculating, and aloof, Ada's love, if she had ever felt it, was never for Rose—it was for herself.

And Derek... Derek. He had been the final illusion of family. He had given her the idea of safety, of love, of being wanted. But in the end, he had wanted her for something much darker: to groom her, to shape her into a tool for his own mental and physical satisfaction. She was never his daughter—she was his project. His object. His toy.

Now, here she was, walking down the sterile corridors, flanked by soldiers who barely spared her a second glance. Her handcuffs were gone, but her chains were still firmly in place. Not made of steel, but of blood—of a past that had no place for her and only ever wanted to use her.

The operatives pushed her into the back of a van, slamming the door shut behind her with a metallic thud. The sound echoed in her ears, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. She sat down, leaning her head back against the cold metal walls, eyes closed. The memory of Leon's smile flickered in her mind, but it was already fading, slipping away like smoke.

She was alone. The family she had dreamed of had never existed. And yet, despite everything, she still held onto that flicker of warmth, that brief, impossible vision of what could have been. Even if it could never be hers.

Maybe it was just a part of her that refused to let go.

And maybe it was that last, stubborn piece of her—the dreamer—that would keep her fighting, even when everything else had long since given up.

Thank you for joining me for Posthuman!

I know this one was a short book, but the next one will definitely be a longer one! I hope you liked it and please leave your reviews!