Rose dances around her kitchen, sponge in one hand and soapy spatula in the other as she turns on the spot. The music playing on the speaker from the living room, loud enough to annoy the neighbors. "One look at you and I can't disguise! I've got! Hungry eyes!" She belts the lyrics out at the top of her lungs, uncaring of whether or not she sounds like a dying cat. "I feel the magic between you and I!"
Rose's heart skipped a beat as Leon's hands found their way around her waist, pulling her gently but firmly against him. She hadn't heard him sneak up behind her, but the second she felt his touch, a surge of warmth flooded her chest, replacing the earlier burst of nervous energy that had come from her impromptu performance. The moment was so tender, so unexpected, that for a second she almost forgot to breathe.
Leon's smile was soft but teasing as he spun her in the small space of their kitchen, his arms guiding her with practiced ease. His voice, smooth as silk, whispered the next line of the song in her ear. "I want to hold you so hear me out, I want to show you what love's all about." His voice dropped low on the last note, and Rose shivered in delight, feeling the rumble of his chest against her back as he pulled her even closer.
Rose couldn't help but laugh—nervously at first, because she hadn't exactly been expecting to be swept off her feet in the middle of doing dishes. But the sound came out light, genuine. It felt right. He always knew how to make her feel like she belonged to the moment. She had to admit, despite her reluctance to fully open up, she had never felt more at home than in his arms.
She let go of the spatula and sponge, the two items clattering to the counter with little care as Leon led her into a slow, twirling dance across the kitchen floor. His hands were warm on her waist, and every time they moved in sync, it was like the world outside disappeared. Just let them exist in the moment.
She blinked up at him, eyes wide with a mix of playfulness and wonder. "You've got a really good voice," she said, her lips curling into a smirk, trying to match his teasing tone. "You sure you aren't in a boy band?"
Leon laughed, the sound rich and full. "I think I'd be a terrible boy band member," he said, giving her a mock glare, "but I'd gladly perform for you any day."
Rose couldn't stop the smile that broke across her face. Her heart felt like it was doing a little dance of its own. Leon guided her through another spin, and her feet followed his lead with surprising grace, considering she hadn't danced a step in years. She had never been the type for frivolous, carefree moments—her life had been filled with survival, strategy, and fighting. But here, with him, she could be this—just a woman in her kitchen, dancing with the man she loved, singing at the top of her lungs, forgetting about everything else.
She leaned into him, the music swelling in the background, and for a moment, she allowed herself to fall into the rhythm of the night. "What other performances are you good at?" She flirted, tilting her head up and fluttering her eyelashes suggestively.
Leon's eyes sparkled with mischief as he dipped Rose low, his strong arms supporting her weight effortlessly. "Oh, I have many talents," he purred, his lips brushing against her ear. "Some of which are best demonstrated in private."
Rose felt a delicious shiver run down her spine as Leon pulled her back up, their bodies flush against each other. The air between them crackled with electricity, and Rose found herself breathless for an entirely different reason now.
"Care for a private show?" Leon asked, his voice husky with desire.
Rose bit her lip, her heart racing. She nodded, unable to find her voice. Leon's grin widened, and in one swift motion, he swept her off her feet, cradling her in his arms.
"Leon!" Rose laughed, wrapping her arms around his neck. "What about the dishes?"
"They can wait."
Leon carried Rose out of the kitchen, his steps sure and steady despite her playful squirming. The music faded as they moved further into the apartment, replaced by the sound of their mingled laughter and the soft thud of Leon's footsteps on the carpet.
As they reached the bedroom, Leon gently set Rose down, his hands lingering on her waist. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun filtering through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor. Rose looked up at Leon, her eyes shining with a mixture of love and anticipation.
"So," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, "about that private show?"
Leon's response was to pull her close, his lips meeting hers in a passionate kiss. Rose melted into his embrace, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair. He slowly undressed her between kisses, followed by himself and then he laid over top her, his elbow sinking into the soft mattress while she shimmied down so he had better access. He felt like a perfect match between her legs, and her heart swelled with so much love that it woke her up from her own daydream.
Rose blinked, Leon disappearing like smoke in the wind. She was fully dressed, sitting on the outside wall of the Spencer Estate. Her legs dangled, and she was high enough up that if she fell, she'd plummet off the side of the cliff and probably die on the rocks hundreds of feet below.
The sudden shift in reality hit Rose like a slap to the face. Her heart, still echoing with the warmth of the imagined moment, stuttered in her chest as the world around her solidified. The familiar weight of the wind against her skin replaced the warmth of Leon's arms, and the soft, rhythmic music faded into the haunting silence of the night.
She blinked again, staring down at the drop below her. The cliffs loomed like jagged teeth beneath the Spencer Estate, and the sight of them sent a cold shiver down her spine. What the hell am I doing up here?
She hadn't even remembered how she got there, the transition from the daydream of Leon's embrace to sitting on the edge of the cliff so jarring that it left her dizzy for a moment. Her heart had been so full—so overwhelmingly full of love, of hope, of something real—but now, it felt like a hollow echo.
Rose shook her head, trying to dispel the phantom feeling that clung to her. She could almost hear Leon's voice, that quiet assurance in his words, I'm here for you. But it was nothing but a ghost now. It's just a dream, Rose.
With a sigh, she pulled her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her knees as she leaned back against the stone wall. The ocean crashing far below was a constant reminder of the distance between what she wanted and what she had. You're a Wesker, she'd tell herself over and over, just like she had on the punching bag earlier. But deep down, it was just a label, a cage, something that kept her bound to a past she didn't want to acknowledge.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to push away the heavy thoughts. But it was no use. The reality was always there, always waiting, no matter how far she let herself drift.
No happy ending for me, she thought bitterly. Just the cold, hard truth. I'm a weapon. A weapon they made, and a weapon they'll use until I'm no longer useful.
A breeze picked up, lifting her hair, and for a moment, she let herself imagine the impossible again. Leon's smile. His voice was steady and strong. The idea of something real. Her heart twisted painfully at the thought. It was a fleeting thing, a soft light in the darkness—but it was enough to make her wish things could be different. "Dammit," she muttered under her breath, shaking her head again. The winds shifted, and the shadows around her seemed to grow darker, more oppressive. She glanced down once more at the drop below her, the deadly rocks beneath calling to her. It was tempting. So tempting.
Her hand clenched the stone beneath her, gripping it until her knuckles ached. She wasn't there yet. Not yet. She couldn't give in, not when there was still a chance—no matter how small. Just bide your time. You'll be out from house arrest soon enough. He can't keep you locked up here forever.
Wesker claimed she wasn't a prisoner here. But, any time she'd tried to leave, there was always some reason why she had to stay. If he figured out that the reason she was trying to leave was because of Leon, he'd sneer at her and lecture her some more.
You have more potential than them, Rosemarie. You were meant for so much more.
His words still rang in her ears, a twisted lullaby she couldn't shake.
Her gaze drifted toward the ledge again, and her mind wandered back to Leon, to that fleeting moment of warmth in the kitchen. She could still feel his arms around her, the softness of his voice as he sang along to the music. It wasn't just a daydream anymore. It was real. She could taste the possibility of it in the air. But it wasn't enough to simply want it.
She had to go around Wesker.
Rose exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stand. The wind whipped around her, tousling her hair as she took a few steps along the edge of the shallow ledge. She looked down at the jagged rocks below, the dangerous drop that always threatened, always whispered. The thought of jumping had crossed her mind more than once. But it wasn't an option. Not when she still had a chance to take control of her life, to fight for something more than just survival.
She dipped her head back inside an open window, probably where she'd come out from. This plan had two parts to it. One, she had to get Spencer to overrule Wesker and send her out. For any reason. It didn't matter what.
The wind tugged at her hair, whipping it around her face, but she ignored it, her thoughts fixed on one thing: getting a message out.
Peter Jackson.
He was her last hope, the only person she could think of who might be able to reach out to someone who could stop Wesker. She couldn't take him down herself—not yet—but if she could get the right information to the right person, maybe they could finally put an end to this twisted game.
Chris Redfield. The thought of his name sent a shiver through her. He was a legend, a man who had faced the impossible and come out victorious. If anyone could deal with Wesker, it was him. But how? She wasn't stupid—Wesker had eyes everywhere. The walls were thick with surveillance, and every action was monitored. If she tried to send a message through any conventional means, it would be intercepted before it ever left the estate.
Rose was just a child, no more than eight years old, her small hands clutching the hem of her dress as she stood in the cold, sterile hallway of a high-tech laboratory. The walls were white, too white. The floor was too clean. The air smelled like bleach and something else—a faint, metallic odor that made her stomach twist.
She had been brought here so many times before, but today was different. Today, she was about to meet him. Oswell E. Spencer. The man she had heard whispered about in the corridors, the name that carried so much weight and so much fear. The man who had created everything that had made her life a series of cold, disconnected experiments.
Rose didn't understand it then, not really. But she knew enough to know that he was important. That he was dangerous. She could feel it, like a static charge in the air. A power that thrummed just beneath the surface, making the world feel too sharp, too real.
Her fingers tightened around the fabric of her dress as she glanced up at Dr. Mueller, the only person she had ever felt safe within this place. Dr. Mueller's smile was warm, her green eyes soft as she looked down her nose at her. She was the one who always spoke to Rose kindly, the one who didn't talk to her like she was a thing to be studied, but a person. But even Dr. Mueller seemed… tense today.
"You don't have to meet him, Rose," Dr. Mueller said softly, her hand gently brushing the girl's shoulder as if to offer comfort. "I can take you to the playroom, if you'd rather wait there."
Rose shook her head. She wanted to go, wanted to leave, but something in her gut told her she had to be here. She had to meet him. Him. The man who, in some way, was responsible for her existence. And yet, the thought of being in the same room as him filled her with unease. "Daddy will be mad if I don't," she says, her voice soft like flower petals.
Mueller, ever the caretaker, gently placed a hand on Rose's shoulder, offering a comforting squeeze. Her fingers were warm, her touch grounding amidst the cold, clinical atmosphere of the estate. It was one of the few things in this place that Rose could still rely on—Dr. Mueller's kindness. The woman was her rock in this world of shadows and sterile steel.
But even Dr. Mueller's calming presence couldn't dispel the unease gnawing at Rose's gut. The estate was quiet, too quiet, as though it were holding its breath. It wasn't the hum of machines or the distant murmur of hushed conversations. It was an oppressive silence, one that made the walls feel like they were closing in on her.
In front of them loomed a set of large, imposing doors. The dark wood, polished to a sheen, was stark against the pale, oppressive walls that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Beyond those doors was Oswell E. Spencer. The name alone sent a shiver down Rose's spine, despite the fact that she had never met him.
But even as a child, she knew enough to be afraid. He was the man who controlled everything in her life—her very existence. The man who had shaped her, who had pulled the strings that made her life into a game.
And her father had always been a shadow lurking at the edge of her mind. Cold, calculating, distant, and so much like the man who stood beyond that door.
"I know, sweetie," Dr. Mueller said softly, her voice warm despite the tension in the air. She knelt down so she was eye-level with Rose, offering a reassuring smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "But you don't have to go in there alone. I'll be right here with you, okay?"
Rose smiled, much too mature for her young age. "You're going to be a good mom someday." She paused, her gaze far too knowing for such a young child. "I wish you were my mother."
The comment threw the older woman off, and Rose inhaled at the sudden scent of salt that emanated from Dr. Mueller suddenly. Dr. Mueller blinked, caught off guard by Rose's words. Her lips parted for a moment, as though she were about to respond, but then she closed them again, her expression flickering between shock and something more vulnerable. She took a step back, her fingers trembling slightly as she brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"I—" Dr. Mueller started, but her voice faltered. She blinked again, eyes betraying the weight of something unspoken. She quickly turned away, as though trying to hide whatever emotion had surfaced at Rose's innocent, yet pointed, remark.
Rose, ever perceptive for someone her age, noticed the change immediately. She tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down just a bit in confusion. She didn't understand why Dr. Mueller was reacting the way she was. It wasn't like her to get upset, not like this.
"Dr. Mueller?" Rose asked gently, her small voice cutting through the silence that hung between them. "Why are you sad?"
The older woman froze. For a moment, the room felt even colder than it had before. The sterile walls, the faint hum of machinery in the distance—it all seemed to close in around them, isolating them in this fragile moment. Dr. Mueller's back was still turned, her shoulders stiff, as though bracing herself against something invisible.
"I'm not sad, Rose," she replied, her voice much sharper than she intended, but it immediately softened as she realized the weight of her words. She cleared her throat, trying again, this time with more control. "I just… I care about you, that's all. You're very special, you know that?"
Of course she knew that. Daddy told her she was special all the time. But...not the way the doctor said it. Dr. Mueller said it with love, that strange emotion she'd only read about in her children's books. Her daddy had never even said 'I love you', and Rose often spent time curled up in a corner with an imaginary daddy, reading and playing games all by herself.
Before she could speak, the heavy door at the end of the hall creaked open, and a figure appeared. Tall, imposing, with slicked-back blond hair that shone under the fluorescent lights. His sharp suit seemed to make the air around him feel colder, more suffocating. Oswell E. Spencer.
He didn't smile when he saw them. His gaze didn't soften, not even for a second, as he looked down at the small child in front of him. His eyes were piercing, cold as ice, and they seemed to see straight through her. His presence was suffocating.
"Dr. Mueller," Spencer's voice rumbled, like thunder rolling in the distance, deep and full of authority. "And Rose. I see you've grown… since our last meeting."
His eyes flicked over Rose with a cool, clinical interest, but there was something else in them, too. Something cold. Something calculating. He wasn't interested in her as a child, only as an experiment, a result. A potential. And that terrified her more than anything.
Rose took a half-step back, suddenly feeling very small. She instinctively hid behind Dr. Mueller, clutching her coat tightly around her small frame, her heart pounding in her chest.
Spencer's gaze moved to Dr. Mueller. "You're still coddling her," he observed, his voice tinged with something close to disdain. "She's far too sheltered. The girl has potential, but she's soft. You must realize that she can't stay like this forever. You'll break her if you continue to protect her from the world."
Dr. Mueller stiffened but didn't say anything. Rose could feel the tension radiating off the woman's body, even as she tried to smile at Rose, trying to reassure her.
"We've been giving her a proper childhood, Oswell," Dr. Mueller said, her voice firm, but strained. "She's not a weapon yet. There's time for her to grow."
Oswell's lips twitched, a cold smile that never reached his eyes. "Time is a luxury we do not have. You know that as well as I do."
Rose pressed herself tighter against Dr. Mueller, feeling the warmth of her protector's body, but the moment didn't last long. Spencer's eyes flicked back to her.
"You're still so small," he said, as though she were a mere object, inspecting her with barely a hint of interest in his voice. "You're fragile, but I suppose that's to be expected. But don't get too comfortable. It's all a temporary condition. You'll outgrow it."
Rose felt a chill creep up her spine at the way he said that. Like he was certain of her future. Like he knew exactly what would become of her. And what terrified her even more was the fact that she couldn't escape the feeling that he was right.
The room fell silent, and for a moment, Rose thought she might have imagined the whole thing. But then Spencer's voice broke the silence again, colder than before.
"Get used to disappointment, child," he said, his eyes narrowing as if he were savoring the thought. "The world is not kind, and you are not an innocent little girl anymore."
Rose shrunk back even further behind Dr. Mueller, not wanting to face the man who had already decided her fate. Spencer's gaze lingered on her, assessing, but after a moment, he nodded to Dr. Mueller. Spencer's smirk grew even more conniving as he looked down on her.
"You know...I raised your father in this exact lab. He was one of the strong ones that survived the treatment. It seems I didn't beat him enough, though, seeing how he's too weak to discipline his own spawn."
"Don't talk about him like that," Rose snaps, suddenly taking a step forward. Her pale cheeks turned a beautiful shade of red as she glared at him. "Don't talk about my daddy."
"Daddy?" Spencer sneers, mocking her. "How quaint. How precious. Do you still cling to the notion that he's some kind of hero?"
"He loves me. Do you know what that means?"
Oswell tilted his head back and laughed, a long, loud, mocking offensive sound.
The memory was relatively new to her. For most of her young adult life, she hadn't remembered ever meeting Oswell Spencer. Then, she'd died. Her memories had come back. The orphanage she thought she'd grown up in...it was a lie. She'd been raised here, and what nearly made her vomit was the knowledge that once upon a time, Rose had cared about Albert Wesker.
It was this memory that played in her mind as she made her way up to see Spencer for the first time in a long time. He was old now. She'd seen him in passing when being forced to socialize with her father. He was hunched forward, in a wheelchair. His skin sagged and his white hair was thin. It was almost ironic how hard he'd tried to build a superhuman, only to die such a mortal death.
Rose stood in front of the door to Spencer's private study, her fingers flexing at her sides, restless with anticipation. The cold, sterile air of the estate seemed to press against her skin, as though the walls themselves were watching, waiting. It was almost like being pulled into a vortex of something ancient and suffocating.
Two years ago, she'd been a different person—naive, unaware of who she really was or where she came from. Her life had been one of fractured pieces, stolen moments of warmth hidden beneath layers of lies. The truth, when it hit her, had been like a slap in the face—her real name, her real past. Raised not in some quaint orphanage, but within the dark, suffocating walls of Spencer's estate. A child born into the worst of this world. A legacy built on cruelty and ambition. She had lived in a fantasy, and only after her death had the veil lifted, revealing the monstrous truth.
And Wesker... her father. It was the strangest, most painful of realizations. As a child, she had admired him—loved him even, in her own way. She had thought him strong, a protector. But that was before she knew the truth of his nature, before she understood the role he played in all this madness. Before she understood what he had sacrificed, what he had become.
But Spencer... Spencer was something different altogether. The man who had engineered so much of her misery and her father's rise was now a frail shadow of his former self. His cruelty, his genius, his drive—everything he had once been—was now diluted by the passage of time. It was almost ironic to see him now, a fragile old man, a monument to hubris and decay.
With one last deep breath, she pushed the door open.
Inside, the room was dimly lit, the smell of old paper and leather filling the air. Spencer sat near the window, his pale, sickly form barely visible beneath a heavy blanket. The wheelchair he sat in was an extension of him now, something he could no longer live without. His eyes, once sharp and piercing, were now clouded, but still held that calculating glint that never truly left him.
As soon as he heard the door creak open, Spencer's head turned toward her, and the old, familiar sneer crept across his face. It was like no time had passed at all.
"Rosemarie," he rasped, his voice cracked with age but still carrying the same cold authority. "I wasn't expecting you. Or perhaps I was... in some twisted way, I always knew you'd come back to me."
The words sent a shiver down her spine, but Rose refused to show any weakness. She stood in the doorway for a moment, letting him absorb the sight of her. She had changed since their last meeting. She wasn't the naive child hiding behind Dr. Mueller anymore. She had grown, shed the layers of childhood fear. Now, she was someone who had seen the worst this world had to offer, someone who had fought to survive—and she wasn't about to be cowed by him.
"I'm not here for your games, Spencer," she said, her voice steady, a calm fury simmering beneath the surface. She hated him. But there was something else, something colder, something she wasn't willing to confront. "You've seen me before. You know what I've become. But let's make this clear—I'm not your experiment anymore."
Spencer's lips twisted in a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He took in her words slowly, like he was savoring them. "You were always so certain of yourself, weren't you, Rose?" he said, as though amused by her defiance. "Always so quick to believe that you had some choice in this. You never had a choice, Rose. From the moment little Albert put you into this world, you've been a part of my legacy. You're his creation, but I never allowed you the illusion of autonomy."
Rose swallowed back the instinct she had to defend Wesker. Why was it even in her to want to? She wasn't eight anymore.
Spencer's cold eyes narrowed as he studied her, his fingers twitching against the armrests of his chair, but the sneer didn't leave his face. "You don't get it, do you?" he said quietly, almost with pity. "It's not about control. It never was. It was about the future. I am the future. The right to be a god, belongs to only me, but you...a faithful angel of death. An honor I once offered to your father."
Rose scoffed. "My father's got his own plans."
"Of that I have no doubt."
Rose stood stiffly, her hands clenched at her sides, staring down at Spencer as he wheeled himself forward, his frail body nothing more than a decaying monument to the man he had once been. The years had not been kind to Oswell E. Spencer. His skin hung loosely, like worn leather, and his eyes—those sharp, calculating eyes—were dimmer now, their edge dulled with age and illness. But the smirk still lingered on his lips, that same cold, pitiless smile that had haunted her since her childhood.
"I know what you're going to ask," Spencer said, his voice hoarse but still carrying a certain authority. "You think you can roam freely, like a caged bird desperate for its wings."
Rose didn't flinch, though every part of her wanted to snap back at him, to yell, to demand it. The isolation of the Spencer Estate, the constant surveillance, the endless walls that seemed to close in on her more each day—it had worn her down. She needed a break, needed to feel like she wasn't a prisoner. Needed to know that, despite everything, she still had control over some part of her life.
"I want to leave. Just for a while. I need to be able to go when and where I want without someone breathing down my neck every second." Her voice was steady, despite the flicker of frustration in her chest. Spencer's eyes gleamed with cold amusement as he took in her words. For a moment, he said nothing, simply watching her, as if trying to measure the weight of her request. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable, until Rose felt like she might suffocate under the pressure.
Finally, he spoke, his voice slow, deliberate. "You think you deserve freedom, don't you? You want to roam this world like a child who's outgrown her boundaries." He paused, then added, "But freedom is earned, Rose. It's not a right. It's a privilege—one I don't hand out easily."
"I'm not asking for permission to live," she shot back, her eyes narrowing. "I just want the freedom to go where I want, when I want. To be left the hell alone."
Spencer chuckled softly, the sound raspy in his throat. "You're impatient. I can see why your father was always so impressed with you. You don't know when to wait, when to bide your time. But, fine... You want freedom. I'll give it to you. On one condition."
Rose's heart skipped a beat. She wasn't sure if it was fear or anticipation, but the words hung in the air like a heavy cloud, suffocating and thick.
"What condition?" she asked, her voice betraying none of the anxiety clawing at her insides.
Spencer's lips curled into a smile that was as cold and calculating as ever. "You want to be free, but that freedom comes at a price. If I allow you to come and go as you please... you will have to prove to me that you can handle it."
"Handle what?" she demanded, her chest tightening. "What are you talking about?"
"You've always been your father's child. Stubborn. Willful. But you're also... unpolished. You think you know what you want, but you haven't yet earned the right to do whatever you please without consequences. I need to see that you're ready."
Rose's face flushed with a mixture of irritation and confusion. "I'm ready," she snapped, but even as she said it, doubt crept into her thoughts. What did he mean by 'prove it'?
"You'll go on a mission," Spencer said, his eyes glittering with something darker now. "A simple task. No questions asked. Do it, and I'll let you leave the estate whenever you want. Fail, and... you stay here. Forever."
Rose narrowed her eyes, swallowing the instinctive surge of panic. A mission? What kind of mission? Was it a test, or was he sending her to do something sinister? Who was she kidding? Whatever he wanted her to do was definitely going to be against her morals. But...freedom. She could see Leon...
"Fine," she said, gritting her teeth. "What's the mission?"
Spencer's smile stretched wider, too wide. He looked almost... pleased. "You'll receive the details shortly. But understand this: you fail, and you'll be back in that cage you're so desperate to escape."
Rose swallowed, nodding slowly, though every part of her wanted to reject his terms. But she needed to go. She couldn't stay here, trapped inside this gilded prison, forever. She wouldn't.
She turned to leave, but Spencer's voice stopped her.
"Rose..." he said softly, a mockery of kindness in his tone. "One more thing. If you succeed... you'll be free to go. But if you fail... I will make sure everyone you love is turned into some form of horrible monster. You'll kill them yourself. There will be no more escape. Do you understand?"
"I understand," she said, her voice steady despite the tightness in her chest. With that, Rose turned and walked out of the room, her footsteps echoing in the vast, empty hallway. As the door clicked shut behind her, she tried to ignore the pit of dread that formed in her stomach. She had just accepted a deal with the devil.