"Are the display samples ready?"
"They have arrived at the exhibition hall, everything is fine. This is the trainer team's evaluation log—their emotional state is stable, just waiting for your announcement to begin the showcase."
"What about safety precautions and measures?"
"As per your instructions, the Maximum Force Tactical Division, security robots, and experimental intelligent multi-legged armored vehicles have all been deployed. According to standard preventive measures, except for the small and micro dinosaurs with low danger levels, most of the exhibits have been implanted with tracking chips and health monitors. If aggressive hormones or abnormal brainwave activity are detected, the threat will be immediately neutralized."
"And the external security and emergency response plan for possible attacks?"
"Besides our personnel, Chief Bob of the SFPD has sent SWAT and K9 units. The FBI, DHS, and the B.S.A.A. San Francisco branch have also dispatched agents to guard against potential bioterrorist incidents."
...
The afterglow slanted through the arched windows, casting mottled crimson-gold light over the silver-fox-gray sofa.
"Well done." Vela smiled softly after listening.
She turned around and operated the coffee machine on the counter.
With the sound of liquid pouring, soon three cups of rich, aromatic coffee were placed on the table and handed respectively to the head of the Jurassic World Theme Park project, a Militech Security executive, and the director of government relations.
"But let's skip the champagne for now—the party can wait until after the event," Vela said, raising her cup toward the three trusted subordinates who had been running around tirelessly. "A cup of coffee—to smooth sailing for all of us."
"Just doing our duty," the three replied respectfully.
"Whew." Vela blew lightly on the steaming surface and took a sip, her smile serene.
To gain much with little. When dealing with close subordinates, it was always best to use both the carrot and the stick. Even if they were well-paid and bound by strict confidentiality and non-compete clauses, there was no such thing as being too cautious when it came to maintaining loyalty and authority.
How does one truly instill authority into the hearts of others? To Vela, it was both a complex and simple question.
Putting aside extraordinary powers for the moment—beyond wealth, power, wisdom, and victory—authority also required countless small, accumulated acts to fill in the gaps beneath grand narratives.
Though her prestige had already reached a level of near reverence through repeated sweeping victories and an ever-growing legend of wealth, and though her Geass provided even greater influence—it wasn't as if she needed to act humble or overly solicitous anymore.
Then again, the world of Resident Evil seemed unusually tolerant of geniuses and ambitious figures.
Somehow, the international community's regulation of private organizations, corporate militias, and black markets was astonishingly lax—treated as normal, even inevitable.
Anyone could form a faction. Any small force dared to arm itself.
As one of the greatest beneficiaries of this global disorder, Vela had no particular comment to make.
At this time, there were still fifteen minutes left before the opening ceremony.
Eating a few delicate pastries, Vela finished her coffee unhurriedly.
She inquired further into some exhibition details and, after offering a few words of gentle encouragement, dismissed her subordinates.
The door closed. Vela sat down again, poured herself a glass of cool water, and, as she took a sip, her slender fingers pressed the control panel. Her palm print and SID chip were verified, granting her access to the Skynet surveillance system's backend.
Snap!
She flicked her fingers.
"Red Queen."
"I'm here, Executive Officer." The sweet, youthful voice came from the speaker as Militech's super AI, Red Queen, appeared as a holographic projection at the center of the control room.
"This genetic gala—who are our old friends attending?" Vela asked with mild curiosity.
"Based on cross-referencing Skynet data, former Umbrella employee archives, and your personal red-and-black list, the system has identified several notable attendees," said Red Queen, her delicate visage perfectly symmetrical and calm.
Strings of data and characters flowed across the screen for several seconds before compiling into a familiar list.
[Annette Birkin – Virologist]
[Sherry Birkin – Student]
[Jake Muller – Militech Security Division Reservist]
[Ada Wong – Alias Suspected / Journalist / Corporate Spy]
[Claire Redfield – Journalist / TerraSave Member]
[Ashley Graham – Student]
[Manuela Hidalgo – Detainee]
...
Categorized and illustrated with detailed charts, the information was meticulously compiled, complete with comparison photos labeled with similarity ratios and concise personal profiles—all expandable for deeper inspection.
"Well, quite the gathering of elites," Vela murmured, her gaze sweeping past several familiar faces before finally resting on a stunning Asian woman in a red dress. "I knew you wouldn't miss this." Her tone carried no surprise.
The Birkin mother and daughter needed no introduction.
Jake Muller was one of the war refugees rescued by Militech's charity foundation in the Eastern European nation of Edonia. He came from a single-parent family, living with a chronically ill mother.
Vela knew his true origin: the son of Albert Wesker.
Naturally, she made the move first, bringing him under her wing.
Though under Vela's influence Militech had little enthusiasm for the corruption and scandal often surrounding so-called "charity work," America had its own traditions to uphold—after all, even a façade was necessary for tax exemptions.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do. And if she didn't want to waste money by outsourcing, she needed her own charitable institution. Thus, the welfare center originally founded to aid the orphans of the 1998 Raccoon City tragedy evolved—through preferential funding—into one of the West Coast's largest and most reputable charitable organizations.
And then, the criticism began.
Because Militech's charity operated independently—unaffected by outside interference—and wasn't entirely altruistic or indiscriminate, choosing instead to focus on promising young adults, especially orphans, it trained them through vocational aid, work-for-support programs, and educational loans. In return, these beneficiaries were expected to serve Militech, effectively creating a technical workforce pipeline.
For this, many non-profit rights groups and humanitarian organizations cried foul. They accused Militech of "enslaving" its aid recipients, calling it hypocritical, discriminatory, and exploitative—"the new slave trade of the modern era." Vela herself was often labeled a miserly capitalist or a slaver.
Lawsuits piled up.
The media wouldn't shut up either. Rumors, smear campaigns, accusations of bribery and manipulation—they never stopped.
Vela's attitude, however, was simple: Let them bark. The mountain breeze won't stop blowing just because of the noise.
She didn't get angry—really, she didn't. She stayed calm and composed...
Damn it. "You bastards better pray your own accounts are clean. Charity or not, if I catch any scandals under your noses, I'll make sure every last one of you spends the rest of your lives rotting in Alcatraz."
Back to business. Her fingertips lightly brushed the desk as she studied the data displayed across the wall-sized screen.
Putting aside the mysterious Ada Wong—whose allegiance and background remained as murky as ever—Vela reviewed the rest.
Claire Redfield, sister of Chris "Blackhand" Redfield. They'd met several times. Vela herself had written her college recommendation letter.
Ashley Graham, daughter of President Graham. They met through work, and after becoming acquainted, every state banquet at the White House inevitably ended with Vela being dragged into conversation by her.
Manuela Hidalgo—a South American of Spanish descent—was, apart from Alexia Ashford, the most successful T-Veronica virus host: a high-level symbiotic carrier. Leon Kennedy had brought her back from his 2002 mission in South America.
Now, as a rare case of stable coexistence with the virus—without mutation—she was under Militech custody. Officially, she was a rescued victim of the South American drug wars. In truth, like Sherry and other "second-generation infectees," she was under strict surveillance and protection.
Her containment level was currently the highest within Militech.
A deranged father, a mutated mother, and a terminal illness herself—a kind-hearted yet tragic girl who, without realizing it, became the sole beneficiary of her father's crimes.
That was Vela's first impression of Manuela.
After over a year of observation, now eighteen, Manuela had been medically cleared as physically and mentally stable—thanks to Leon's "persuasive salvation." With no mutation risk and no transmissibility via fluids or air, many of her previous restrictions were gradually lifted, much like the Birkin women.
Of course, travel limitations and a monitored living environment remained unavoidable.
As for the lower half of the list, Vela recognized no one.
Merely suspicious figures—potential pawns of larger players.
Ding dong, ding dong.
The crisp chime of the electronic doorbell rang. "Chairman Russell, it's time," her assistant's voice came through the intercom.
Looks like it's time for the dinosaur circus to begin.
Vela downed the rest of her water in one gulp and rose from her seat.
The Red Queen watched her leave, then dissolved her holographic form into nothingness.
...
Exhibition hall, main venue.
The holographic projections flickered through the fortress-like mechanical stage, casting fragmented light over Sherry's tightly furrowed brows.
"What are you thinking about?" Jake Muller leaned forward and whispered, "So focused? Is the coffee not to your taste, or are you nervous about meeting Ms. Russell again—or maybe seeing them..." He paused, nodding toward a nearby family of tourists. "Reminded you of old grudges?"
Having met at the Militech welfare school, Jake and Sherry shared a mutual understanding born of loss—no fathers, mothers either gone or ill. You could almost call them childhood friends of circumstance, bonded over the years through shared hardship. Because of that, Jake had long suspected some things about Sherry's background.
Children of the poor grow up fast.
Born into a struggling single-parent family and further shaped by the "Wesker Superior Gene" legacy, Jake couldn't help but mature early and grow perceptive.
He knew Sherry had once met Vela in person. He knew her mother worked for important people at the White House and could only visit occasionally. He'd even noticed that a college student named Claire and a Militech employee named Leon often came by to see her—they, too, were survivors of the Raccoon City incident...
Redfield. A name revered throughout Militech's welfare schools—one of the heroes of Raccoon City. Their story inspired many, especially the orphans of that tragedy.
And paired with Sherry's reluctance to speak of her father and her complicated feelings toward her "savior," Vela, Jake could see the tangled history beneath the surface.
It wasn't hard to guess: perhaps Sherry's father had once been Vela's rival—defeated and destroyed.
Though Sherry had never admitted it, they both knew without words.
"Not really." Sherry shook her head, pulling herself out of her thoughts.
"Ah?" Jake's questioning look lingered.
"Let's wait until Claire gets here—"
Before she could finish—
"Oh, Sherry! Oh, Jake!"
A bright, cheerful female voice cut in.
It was Claire. The two turned to see Annette approaching alongside a young woman wearing a press badge.
White shirt, red jacket, denim jeans, and combat boots; side-swept bangs and a high ponytail—confident and composed. It was Claire, now a college graduate.
"How have you been?" she asked as she took a seat.
"Same as always," Sherry replied, leaning closer. "Where's Leon? And I heard you left the BSAA. Why? Did you join the journalists' association?"
"Sherry, mind your manners," Annette scolded softly.
"It's fine," Claire said warmly. "Leon's been sent overseas on a mission—with Chris, actually. As for leaving the BSAA... well, some ideological conflicts. And Chris—being as stubborn as he is—was never fond of me staying there. So I took the chance to move on."
Thinking Claire had quarreled with her brother, Sherry quickly apologized. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"What's that face for?" Claire chuckled, waving her hand. "It's not that serious. I just found a group whose ideals align better with mine. Compared to official international law enforcement, I think voluntary humanitarian aid suits me more." She lifted the press badge hanging from her neck.
"TerraSave? Public Relations Division?" Jake muttered, reading the label aloud.
"You switched to a non-profit?" He frowned slightly after confirming the badge. "That's... quite the downgrade."
Smack! "Drink your coffee!" Sherry snapped, smacking Jake's arm.
Claire could only shake her head helplessly.
She knew Jake's background—raised in poverty, always wary of financial instability—so she didn't argue. Some things couldn't be taught; people had to find their own answers.
Annette and Claire exchanged knowing smiles as they chatted, motherly warmth and youthful optimism mingling for a brief moment. Then, in a softer tone, Claire asked, "Ms. Annette, how much longer do you plan to live apart from Sherry like this?"
Annette froze for a moment, her eyes flickering.
She understood perfectly what Claire was implying.
The government's still researching bioweapons, isn't it?
"As long as Sherry grows up healthy, that's all that matters," Annette said.
A vague, evasive answer.
"OK. I understand." Claire took a quiet sip of coffee. Even though she had expected as much, hearing it directly still left her feeling heavy-hearted.
"Don't overthink it—and don't do anything reckless. It's just a matter of national defense research and technological reserve," Annette said as gently as she could.
She was grateful to Claire—for protecting her daughter during Raccoon City, for being her friend. The last thing she wanted was to see her in danger.
Claire nodded, showing she understood.
Just as the topic shifted toward Sherry's college plans now that she'd turned eighteen, a low hum filled the air—
The stage was coming to life.
"It's the MaxTac unit!" Jake Muller couldn't hold back his excitement and blurted it out.
This was his ultimate career goal!
Several squads of towering figures in cutting-edge EXO exoskeletons, fully armed and equipped with massive, futuristic-looking weapons, stepped out from the corners and backstage areas.
The distinctive glowing armbands and triple-lensed sealed tactical helmets immediately revealed their identity.
The crowd stirred in astonishment.
"Please don't be alarmed, these are standard safety measures," the exhibition staff hurried to explain. "The Velociraptors, Dilophosaurs, and Tyrannosaurs on display are all highly aggressive predators. The Militech MaxTac unit is here to ensure your safety!"
Meanwhile, in the second-floor VIP section—
A group of stylish female university students chatted excitedly among themselves.
"Wow, what a spectacle! It's like RoboCop in real life!"
"Look, look! The robots—those humanoid ones—so agile!"
"Ashley, thank you so much for these tickets! We'd never have gotten seats with such a perfect view otherwise!"
"Really, Ashley? Do you think we'll get Vela's autograph later?"
At the center of the lively group, a girl with softly curled blonde hair cut to her neck, a charming oval face, and an easy smile said nothing—only gazed eagerly toward the stage, anticipation in her bright eyes.
In the aisles nearby, two plainclothes agents from the Secret Service discreetly stood watch.
On the third floor, inside a private box, a brown-haired Hispanic girl sat quietly, her posture demure and solitary. Her clear blue eyes shimmered softly under the light—gentle and vulnerable.
"Leon didn't come?" she asked, turning slightly.
"I'm afraid not, Miss Hidalgo," replied the black-suited man standing behind her. "Agent Kennedy is currently on assignment in the Middle East."
At the back row of the first-floor audience, Ada Wong lowered her sunglasses with one finger.
"Humanoid robots for security defense, hm?" Her gaze shifted toward the figures that followed the MaxTac troopers—fully human-shaped robots, bulkier and sharper in design than the hospitality models, and clearly armed. Her fingers tapped lightly on the armrest. "Is this really just for the exhibition? Showing off their muscle—or advertising a new product line?"
"Still, quite a few familiar faces here," she mused quietly, her eyes scanning the room.
In various corners of the venue, corporate spies were already at work, each employing their own tricks and devices.
Yet, what even Ada couldn't guess was that one man's objective had nothing to do with Militech or Vela. Blending into the noisy crowd, a plain-looking man subtly fixed his gaze on the second-floor VIP section.
He repeatedly scanned the area where the group of college girls sat.
After a moment, he pulled out his phone.
Beep-beep.
[Tell Saddler his plan in San Francisco is a no-go. Don't send any enforcers into the Bay Area—too many surveillance cameras and security scanners. We'll make our move once the target leaves California.]
Message sent.
Whoosh—!
Suddenly, the lights dimmed.
As the massive stage lights came alive, the noise gradually faded into silence. The deep, primal roar of dinosaurs echoed throughout the exhibition hall.
Thud, thud.
As Vela appeared on stage, half her silhouette illuminated, someone in the audience started clapping.
The applause spread like wildfire—followed by cheers, whistles, and excited shouts.
It was unlike the cold, militaristic order of Arasaka's neo-nationalism, and unlike the suffocating absolutism of the Holy Britannian Empire.
Under the gaze of nearly ten thousand attendees, she strode confidently to the center of the grand stage. Behind her, the massive fossilized logo of Jurassic Park gleamed in the spotlight.
"Good evening, everyone."
The applause subsided.
Looking over the crowd and balconies, Vela inclined her head gracefully, raising a hand in a gesture of welcome.
"Welcome to Jurassic Park."
"Let us begin the opening—"
"With the Tyrannosaurus Rex."
The towering platform at the center of the stage emitted the grinding hum of mechanical gears.
"ROAR—!" The thunderous cry erupted from beneath the platform.