On the eve of war, Albert Wesker quietly infiltrated a power station near Night City. Dressed in a black tactical suit, his face was cold and sharp, his eyes gleaming with murderous intent. Behind him followed a squad of bio-engineered soldiers, infected and controlled by him. They moved in total silence—like death itself approaching.
The power station was heavily guarded, its security systems tight, but none of that mattered to Wesker. He easily evaded surveillance cameras, slipping through the shadows—each step blending seamlessly into the stillness of the night.
In a dimly lit corner, Wesker stopped, his eyes locking onto a patrolling guard. The man was unaware that death was closing in. He muttered something under his breath and raised his flashlight to scan the darkness.
Wesker's knife flashed like lightning, slicing through the air and piercing the guard's throat in one swift motion. The man's eyes widened in horror; he tried to shout, but only a faint gurgle escaped before he collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
The bio-soldiers stood still, silently observing—unmoving, expressionless.
Wesker advanced, his movements ghostlike as he glided between the buildings of the power plant. Not a sound, not a trace. He was the perfect predator—unseen, unstoppable.
Suddenly, he noticed a patrol route with a blind spot. In an instant, his body disappeared into the shadows, only to reappear moments later behind another guard. A quick slash—and another man fell.
Wesker's speed was superhuman. Using his infected bio-soldiers, he launched a diversionary strike, creating chaos among the guards.
As night deepened, Wesker moved through the facility, killing silently, efficiently. Whether in close combat or at range, he dispatched his enemies with deadly precision.
One guard, sensing danger, raised his rifle to fire—but before he could pull the trigger, a bullet struck his forehead dead center. Wesker, now holding a sniper rifle, had already shifted position. Every shot was perfect. Every shot was fatal.
Alarms and shouting soon echoed through the plant—but they were drowned out by Wesker's silent slaughter. His rampage continued, unnoticed, unstoppable.
Moments later, Electro arrived—along with Ryouma Sengiri.
"A war like this wouldn't be complete without your little show, would it?" Ryouma said, glancing at the man crackling with energy.
Electro didn't respond. His eyes flickered with electricity as he gave a small nod toward Ryouma.
"Fine, I get it," Ryouma sighed. "You're not in the mood for talk—you're here for results. You know, if my old boss's brother had half your drive, maybe things would've turned out differently."
Both Electro and Wesker remained cold and expressionless.
"Alright, have it your way."
Ryouma approached the control panel of the power station, inserted a custom chip, and began rerouting the energy flow. Glancing at Electro, he smiled.
"Max, stand over there. You're going to absorb the entire station's power output. But before you do, listen carefully."
Electro stared silently at the humming generators, waiting for instructions.
"First," Ryouma continued, "your absorption rate is fast—but not infinite. You must regulate your energy intake. Don't overload."
The words brought back memories of his last battle with Spider-Man—when he nearly absorbed the entire city's grid.
Electro nodded. He knew how to control himself now.
"Good. Let's begin."
Ryouma redirected the power flow. The energy within the station began to surge violently. A blinding electric current started converging toward Electro's position.
"Now—absorb it."
Standing at the heart of the station, Electro closed his eyes. His body began to glow with bright blue arcs. Under Ryouma's guidance, streams of electricity poured into him, flooding his veins with power.
At first, it was just a tingle. Then a surge. He gritted his teeth as immense voltage coursed through him—but soon he adapted, his body resonating with the current. Energy flooded his cells. His power multiplied.
He felt unstoppable. Every atom of his being vibrated with electricity. His senses sharpened; he could feel every wire, every circuit, every electron moving within the power plant.
His skin glowed, wrapped in a shimmering electric armor. The power kept rising—stronger, brighter—until he felt like a living thunderbolt.
Inside, Electro was exultant. Never before had he felt so alive, so powerful. With the power of the entire plant absorbed, he believed no one could stand against him.
"Stay calm.""Stay in control.""Stay focused."
He repeated the words to himself, keeping his excitement in check.
As minutes passed, the energy buildup intensified. A sphere of lightning formed in his hands, expanding, pulsing. The air around him vibrated, crackling with power. He felt like he could destroy anything in his path.
Meanwhile, across Night City, the police headquarters detected the surge. The surveillance network flagged the power plant for abnormal activity. Within minutes, the counter-terrorism unit was mobilized—elite soldiers in black exosuits armed with cutting-edge weapons.
When they arrived at the power station, a faint smell of ozone filled the air. The tension was thick. The soldiers spread out cautiously, scanning for movement.
Then, out of nowhere—Wesker appeared.
Cloaked in black, exuding menace, he faced the squad in utter silence. And then—he moved.
The soldiers, trained and battle-hardened, reacted fast. One swung an energy blade, another leveled a Gauss rifle at Wesker's chest.
But Wesker was faster. Much faster. His movements blurred into invisibility. He sidestepped the blade, appeared behind the rifleman, and whispered:
"Pathetic."
A palm strike sent the man flying. Before he could recover, Wesker's next blow crushed his throat.
Two more soldiers charged—one unleashing a burst of fire from his cybernetic arm, the other activating a temporal slowdown field.
Wesker smirked. The virus within him flared, his left arm morphing into a grotesque organic shield that absorbed the fire and resisted the time-slowing field.
"What… what is he?" one soldier gasped.
Without answering, Wesker lunged forward. His left hand became a blade, cleaving through the flamethrower wielder's armor. Blood sprayed.
The remaining soldier tried to dodge using his speed enhancement implant—but even boosted reflexes couldn't match Wesker.
He struck once. Twice. The man fell before he even realized he'd been hit.
Wesker stood among the corpses, calm and composed, his eyes burning with crimson light.
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