If anyone would have told Wesker a few years ago that he'd be sat at a desk, working in a Police Station and counting down the minutes until he could leave to see a child, he would have laughed them off, or perhaps used them as his next subject. And yet here he was, impatiently tapping his pen against his desk as he tried to read through Redfield's illegible handwriting. He should have left over two hours ago, but between emergency drills and unfiled paperwork, Wesker was swamped with responsibilities that couldn't go unmissed. That's what he told himself at least.

And now he'd missed pickup time. Knowing his daughter was likely sat by the door, waiting for Daddy to arrive. Her soft, blonde curls all tied up and little eyes full of stars. The faint scent of her strawberry shampoo lingered in his memory, along with the sound of her excited chatter when she spotted him approaching. And she wouldn't understand why Daddy wasn't there yet, why he was never there.

Guilt bloomed in his chest at the mental image he'd conjured. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a cold glow on his paperwork as he imagined her small form growing tired in the dimly lit hallway. How that innocence in his toddler's eyes was likely dying out with each passing minute, too tired to wait and see if he'd even show up. A treacherous, sinking feeling. Why would he feel guilty? It's not like he'd wanted the kid.

A horrid thought, one that immediately made him cringe and wilt.

No, he hadn't wanted her at first. But he'd fallen in love with her soft, unbroken skin; with the twinkle of curiosity in every glance; and with the way she was innocent. She hadn't experienced the pain and destruction Wesker had seen in his day-to-day—the destruction that he'd curated himself.

He couldn't do it anymore. Not only was reading the scribbles his grown employee seemed to torture him with too migraine-inducing, but he missed his daughter. His family. The warm weight of her small body in his arms, the sound of her laughter, the way she'd wrap her tiny fingers around his much larger ones.

When he'd shown up, you weren't impressed. Three hours past pick-up time, admittedly not his worst. The tension in the air was palpable as he approached, the faint smell of your perfume mixing with the scent of baby powder that always clung to your clothes.