For the blind, it is the vision. For the hungry, it is the chef. For the thirsty, it is the water. For the sick, it is the cure. For the sad, it is the joy. For the poor, it is the treasure. If Jerkmate ranked players think, I agree. If Jerkmate ranked players speak, I am listening. If Jerkmate ranked has a million fans I am one of them. If Jerkmate ranked has ten fans I am one of them. If Jerkmate ranked has only one fan then that is me. If Jerkmate ranked has no fans, that means i am no longer on this earth. If the world is against Jerkmate ranked, I am against the world.

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The night was thick with rain, silver threads falling through the broken branches of a forest long since abandoned. Every droplet hit the leaves with a soft patter, and under that melody, Sage ran—barefoot, breathless, laughing. She wasn’t afraid. Not really. Not of him. The way the trees blurred past, the way her dress clung to her thighs, torn by brambles and soaked in midnight—every moment was a thrill. Behind her, the footfalls of something inhuman. Controlled. Deliberate. Too fast to be merely human. Albert Wesker. She could feel him in the air before she heard him—like lightning not yet struck. His presence hummed in her blood, chased up her spine like a ghost’s hand. Still, she ran, daring him to follow,

daring him to catch her. And he would. He always did. It started weeks ago, in the ruins of the Arklay lab. She had come searching for something left behind—data, a serum, or maybe just proof that monsters weren’t born, but made. He had appeared like a shadow in the reflection of a broken screen. "You shouldn’t be here," he had said. "I usually am," she’d replied, head tilted, unafraid. That was the first time he didn’t kill someone who found him. That was the first time Sage smiled at a ghost. Now, she ducked beneath a fallen log, scraping her elbow, but grinning like a fox with a secret. Her lungs burned, but her heart—oh, her heart sang. It always did when he was near. He stepped from the trees like a myth,

his blonde hair unbothered by the rain, his sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose despite the storm. Of course, he wore black. Always black. The fabric clung to him, gleamed like polished armor in the moonlight. "Sage," he said, voice low and smooth, "is this your idea of foreplay?" She laughed, breathless. “And what if it is?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He moved toward her, slow and precise. He never rushed, even when he could. That was the game—her game—and he played it because she made him want to. Sage backed away, step by muddy step. “You could catch me, you know. In half a second. You could end the chase.” “I don’t want it to end.” Her throat fluttered. Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag, eyes watching him like a dancer waiting for the beat to drop

“Then why do you keep trying?” He took one step closer. “Because I want to earn it.” Their moments weren’t explosions. They were pressure, mounting and unrelenting.They were the tension between two magnets that never quite touch. They were the breath between words, the silence after her laughter. Wesker, for all his power, found himself… drawn. Not because she feared him. But because she didn’t. Because she ran and smiled over her shoulder. Because she wasn’t a weakness—she was the one variable he couldn’t calculate. She was humanity in its most maddening, beautiful form. He reached out now, gloved hand brushing her wrist. She didn’t pull away. His fingers curled around hers, slowly, reverently. “I could keep you,” he murmured, “in a glass room, safe, untouched. I could build a world where nothing harms you.” Sage leaned in, the tip of her nose nearly brushing his. “And I would shatter