RESIDENT EVIL • Assignment Ashley: Rescue Condor One (RE4)

Wong

Ada POV:

"Tell me your real name."

He asked as if that was an easy demand to fulfill. I would have, if I knew the answer myself.

"How much longer now?" I asked, my gaze fixed on the dim corridor ahead. I sat adjacent to the operating table, legs crossed, fingers hovering above the holster strapped to my thigh. Force of habit.

Dr. Silas Voss didn't look at me. He adjusted his glasses, the lenses flashing under the surgical white light above.

"You asked for fresh DNA sequencing, metabolic readouts, and pathogen behaviour," he sighed. "That takes time. Even with my experience and equipment."

"Three hours ago you said two," I replied, tone dry. "You've got thirty more minutes."

"Don't rush me, Ada," he snapped, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of the gloved hand. "You're lucky I even agreed to this last minute request."

He paused, eyes flicking to the monitor, then back to me. "Then again...I've always had a soft spot for unsolved puzzles."

"Spare me the sentiment," I replied coolly. "I have paid you more than enough."

Voss gave a faint, humourless chuckle. "One moment you are limping through the sewers of Raccoon City together, the next you're snapping deadlines like a fed agent on borrowed time."

I didn't respond.

An ex-Umbrella employee. Used to wear the company's badge like pride—until it was time to sell their secrets. A lab rat who found new tunnels to crawl into.

He liked to bring that night up—like surviving it earned him a permanent place on my speed dial. We were used to calling shots on each other. That was the constant.

Eight months ago, he'd called again—this time from a bunker in Oslo, asking me to retrieve whatever was left of Wesker's archives. A gold mine, he called it.

Wesker had been busy playing god in Africa. Which meant his backdoor was wide open.

A foolish scientist to the end—met the inevitable at the hands of his own ambition. Underestimated everything but himself.

Still, his data was thorough. Meticulous. I'll give him that.

Half-decent in bed, too. Not that it mattered.

I took the job. Not for Voss. Not for the leverage.

It was personal. I was looking for answers about myself. But instead, a file in the stolen data led me back to him. Again.

"You already had access to Wesker's archive," Voss cut through my thoughts. "His notes—and Umbrella's—on Kennedy were...extensive. So why the fresh tests? What are you not telling me, Ada?"

His patience was running dry. I didn't answer right away.

The machines hummed, clinical and cold. I kept my eyes on the screen. Wesker's data was outdated—compiled before Spain. Before the Las Plagas made a home inside his blood.

I had a hunch.

So did the people willing to pay a fortune—both in currency and information—for one vial of him.

Delivery's due tonight. The clock's ticking.

"I don't trust stale reports," I said finally, tossing him a bone. Just enough to keep him moving. "And I don't trust dead men's unfinished work."

Voss tapped his knuckle against the glass, thoughtful. "Is someone paying you to run tests on your golden boy? Or are you personally involved?"

I glanced at him then. Just enough to make him back off.