swathed in his customary colors [ as if he were in great mourning ], the ouroboros embodied came to assume his seat across from humanity corrupted by the old machines. the cobalt-umbra of the grooves wrought by technological advancement, despite being covered by a glamour, were unable to be concealed from the gilded one’s plague-ridden eyes. in apropos to their arrangement from prior, betwixt their forms sat a chess-board made from precious diamonds, hand-crafted by an artistic old man who once lived in milan, in italy ( on earth. ) the set was his final gift to a regular patron before his expiry.
❛ here we are, illusive man. i will play the black pieces. ❜
or in other words, you may make the first move. use it to your advantage.
Albert Wesker ought to MOURN over his inhumanity. All in black, he embodied Grand Master Death with the Illusive Man seated across from him. The iconic cigarette dances between his slender fingers, knuckles warped & swollen { o! merciless age conquers mortality }. Smoke whirls past his lips. Such a rarity for this man to bestow another with his genuine presence. He cants his head, sees his reflection in glistening shades. There, glacial blue eyes threaten to turn him to stone: blasted gorgon turned in on itself. The vision implanted in his brain still remains. He’s too ambitious, too cocky. & so, vigilante justice moves his pawn forth.
{ coɴтrol. ♦ } — ❝Are you always this kind, Wesker?❞
Jack Harper must remind himself of one thing alone: all that glitters is not GOLD.