Leon S. Kennedy.

Leon stopped dead in his tracks, his boot poised over a metal grate that vibrated from distant machinery. The beam of his flashlight sliced ​​through the darkness and reflected off something that made his heart leap: an icy, calculating, and disturbingly familiar gaze.
It wasn't him. Albert Wesker was taller, more robotic, more... dead. But the person standing before him shared that same perfect bone structure and, above all, that inherent arrogance in his posture.
"Fantastic," muttered Leon, without lowering his Red9. "I thought this place couldn't get any more picturesque, and now I find a familiar ghost in the middle of nowhere."
Leon narrowed his eyes, analyzing the figure's every move. He'd heard rumors about Wesker's offspring, experiments, or heirs to a legacy of ashes, but having someone like this in front of him in this hell was a complication he didn't need.
“You have his eyes,” Leon said, his voice ringing with a mixture of weariness and warning. “And if you share his penchant for monologues about evolution and viruses, spare me the trouble. I’ve had enough ‘enlightenment’ for today with the robed types.”
He took a sideways step, keeping his center of gravity low, ready to draw his knife at any millisecond.
— Tell me, what's someone of your lineage doing in a hole like this? Did you come to pick up Saddler's scraps, or are you simply here to finish what your predecessor started? Because if you're looking for a fight, let me warn you: I don't have much patience today with those who think they're gods.