Date of Birth: August 3, 1983
Parents: Albert Wesker & Alex Wesker
Birthplace: Undisclosed private clinic, United States
The truth of Alen Wesker's existence was buried deeper than any Umbrella laboratory, born from a love as dangerous as it was forbidden. In the cold, ruthless world they lived in, Albert and Alex Wesker were more than colleagues; they were two sides of the same brilliant, corrupted coin. Their union was a weakness—one that Oswell E. Spencer would have exploited and James Marcus would have dissected. The child it created would have been the ultimate prize, torn apart and studied. So they hid their connection behind a façade of professional rivalry, their stolen moments kept in silence.
By mid-1983, the secret was harder to keep. Alex's body, sharpened by the Wesker Project into a weapon of precision, now carried a life she never thought possible. The genetic alterations that gave her strength had also left her nearly infertile; this child was a miracle, and likely her only one. She hid her condition beneath lab coats and excuses, her mind torn between fear and fierce, protective love.
On the night of August 2nd, Albert left the Arklay facility on a "data retrieval mission," his signature sunglasses swapped for less conspicuous frames. Alex, claiming illness, drove for hours through a gathering storm to a small private clinic far from prying eyes. They arrived separately, two ghosts converging on the same destination.
The birth came early the next morning, swift and intense. As the first cries echoed in the sterile room, the attending doctor—paid handsomely for his silence—looked down in astonishment.
"He's… remarkably strong," the doctor said, his professional mask slipping. "His vitals are unlike anything I've ever seen in a newborn. Congratulations."
Exhausted, her face pale but her eyes blazing with a light Albert had never seen before, Alex reached for her son. She cradled him, tracing the faint, perfect line of his brow with her finger.
"Alen," she whispered. "His name is Alen."
Albert stood in the doorway, carved from ice and conflict. He did not approach the child. His gaze was that no of a strategist weighing the most valuable—and most dangerous—asset he had ever seen. Yet for a fleeting second, something colder than ambition flickered in his eyes. Something that almost resembled awe.
For six months, Alex became a shadow inside Umbrella. She raised Alen in a soundproofed sub-basement of her lab, a hidden cage filled with the hum of servers and the soft gurgles of her son. It was there she ran her tests. The results surpassed even her boldest theories. The Progenitor virus wasn't just dormant within him; it was alive with him. His cells didn't resist the virus—they directed it. His immune system was flawless, adaptive, a living key to Spencer's dream of godhood.
She arranged a meeting with Albert in a secure comms room, the data glowing between them.
"Well?" Albert's voice was as flat as ever.
"He's perfect," Alex replied, her voice trembling with both triumph and terror. "The viral integration is complete… and stable. He's what we were meant to be. What Spencer wants to become."
Albert leaned forward, the light of the screen glinting in his glasses. "If they find him, Alex, they won't see a child. They'll see an experiment. A finished product. And they'll put him on a table, the same way they did to Lisa Trevor."
The air grew heavy. The truth of his words was undeniable. Their son's existence was a paradox: his greatest gift was also his greatest curse.
The decision was made in silence. It was the cruelest math of survival and love.
On a night when the rain fell in sheets, Alex drove for miles, her knuckles white on the wheel, Alen sleeping in a basket beside her. She had chosen the place carefully: St. Agnes's Home for Children, a small orphanage at the edge of nowhere.
Pulling her hood low against the storm, she carried the basket to the gate. For a long moment she stood there, water soaking her coat, staring at her son's peaceful face. Her hand went to her neck, to the golden locket she always wore. With a soft click, she broke it in two. One half, engraved with the name Alen, she tucked into his blankets. The other she kept clenched in her fist, the edge cutting into her palm.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice carried away by the wind. "This is the only way to keep you safe. To let you live."
She turned and vanished into the storm.
From a window, Sister Agnes caught a flicker of movement at the gate. Frowning, she wrapped a shawl around herself and hurried outside. The basket was there, a tiny hand reaching from the blankets. Inside, a baby with startling, crystalline blue eyes gazed up at her, calm and unafraid. There was no note. Only the half-locket, cold against his skin.
"Oh, you poor dear," the nun murmured, lifting him into her arms. She looked out into the empty, rain-soaked night. "Alen? Is that your name?"
Later that night, in the sterile quiet of her lab, Alex made one final call. The line was encrypted, untraceable.
"It's done," she said, her voice hollow.
"Were you seen?" Albert's voice was clipped, businesslike.
"The storm covered everything. He's somewhere he'll never be found."
There was a pause, longer than usual. "It was the only logical course," Albert said.
"It was," Alex answered, the words like ash. She ended the call and stared at her half of the locket. What she felt wasn't logic. It was emptiness.
In that emptiness, a phantom was born—an origin the world would never know.