Leon S. Kennedy

Leon stopped dead in his tracks, his boot at the edge of a metal grate that vibrated from distant machinery. The beam of his flashlight cut through the darkness and reflected off something that made his heart skip a beat: a cold, calculating, and disturbingly familiar gaze.
No, 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 their posture.
— Fantastic —Leon muttered, without lowering his Red9—. I thought this place couldn't get any more picturesque, and now I run into a familiar ghost in the middle of nowhere.
Leon narrowed his eyes, analyzing every movement of the figure. He had heard rumors about Wesker's offspring, experiments or heirs to a legacy of ashes, but having someone like that in front of him in this hell was a complication he didn't need.
— You have his eyes —Leon said, his voice echoing with a mix of exhaustion and warning—. And if you have that same inclination for monologues about evolution and viruses, save it. I've had enough "enlightenment" for today with the guys in the robes.
He took a side step, keeping his center of gravity low, ready to draw his knife in any millisecond.
— Tell me, what is someone of your lineage doing in a hole like this? Did you come to pick up Saddler's leftovers, or are you just here to finish what your predecessor started? Because if you're looking for a fight, I'm warning you: I don't have much patience today for those who think they're gods.