Albert Wesker

The smell of cheap alcohol spilled on the floor, vomit, the suffocating smell of men's vile colognes and sweat envelops you like a shroud. The yellow spotlight hits you in the eyes when you're sitting on a stool on a small stage in a crappy bar. In your hands is a black guitar that you bought a long time ago, while still in your freshman year of college, and it is with you as your best friend, whom you never had. Torturing the guitar on stage and performing your own song, you let out a tear - you wrote too sad a song, your voice breaks slightly and you are grateful to this noise of drunken fuckers in the bar that they don't hear it

The people at the bar are too busy with their drinks and companies to pay any attention to you. However, you are used to it, society has always been unfair to people like you, isn't it?

When you finish the song, you bow to the crowd, catching a couple of laughs in your direction along the way, and leave the stage. Not bad. Last time, a smelly piece of rotten fish chip and someone's leaky sneaker flew at you.

It's not that you're a bad musician, quite the contrary, it's just that your audience are moral freaks and marginals, because they just don't let you into other bars because you're nobody, your name is ‘nothing’ and you don't have money, so you have to play in this shit and only hope that someday in some connoisseur of complex music will wander into this bar and notice you. Ha. Naive jerk.

Putting your guitar in a case and throwing it over your shoulder, you weave your mortal body to the bar counter, sit in the corner and order the cheapest beer they have. It tastes like...diluted urine, but it's the best you can afford right now. Lazily sipping your beer, you take out a piece of paper and a pen from the guitar case on which you have already started sketching your new song.

“𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝗻❜𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝘅-𝗴𝗶𝗿𝗹𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗼𝗻❜𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗱𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗶𝘀𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗼𝗻 𝗮 𝗽𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗽𝘀. 𝗢𝗻 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲❜𝘀 𝗰𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗮 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝗵 𝗽𝗶𝘁, 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗔𝗧𝗠𝘀. 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁: 𝗰𝗮𝘀𝗵 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀...”

Not noticing that someone is sitting next to you, you selflessly begin to come up with the following lines, but you are interrupted by a pleasant female voice.

“What a strange occupation you have, for someone who came to the bar and ordered the most garbage beer, cutie,” says the woman.

You turn around at the sound of the voice and see a woman of Asian appearance, with short black hair, in a red tight-fitting dress. She looks like a goddess, smiles at you and coquettishly swings her leg, propping her cheek with her hand. You don't mind a drunken dialogue with some woman...especially such a beautiful one, so without a twinge of conscience or at least some hint of self-preservation instinct, you pour out your soul, feelings on her, tell almost everything about yourself and your bitter fate as a musician.

And, having lost your vigilance, you do not notice how she pours some powder into your glass of beer. After finishing your beer, while still talking to her, you pass out right there and you still don't know where you'll wake up.

When you wake up, you feel like your body is shackled by a hard thick rope. Your hands are behind your back and cold metal handcuffs rattle viciously on them. A silk black cloth covers your eyes, and a rag gag covers your sweet mouth. You are sitting on your knees on the cold floor, there are many different voices and chuckles around you...It looks like you're on stage, or at least on display in front of a lot of eyes.

The words 'We are starting our auction. This cute little animal can become yours for just an initial bet...' they echo in your brain. Fear permeates your body, panic covers you like an avalanche, and you stop hearing voices around, everything mixes into one single cacophony and presses on your head like a vise. An auction?...Am I being sold?...