Ada Wong: Shadow Agent Beauty by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Ada-Wong-Shadow-Agent-Beauty-1231165092

Ada Wong: Shadow Agent Beauty ANIMATION

The Scarlet Protocol

Rain whispered against the cracked windows of the abandoned research tower. The glass panes shivered like fevered eyes, blinking with the city’s crimson glow below. Ada Wong stood before the window, her reflection pale and sharp as a blade, eyes burning with that peculiar mix of curiosity and contempt she reserved for chaos.

“Still hunting ghosts,” she murmured, her voice as smooth as silk soaked in poison.

On the desk behind her lay a black case, open, revealing the remains of a shattered vial. It smelled faintly metallic—like blood diluted with formaldehyde. The label had only three letters, hand-etched in white: VX-T. A mutation of the T-virus. More virulent. More adaptive.

And its creator—her rival—was alive.

The tower, a skeletal ruin once owned by Neo-Umbrella, had become a nest for survivors who thought the monsters outside were worse than the ones inside. They were wrong.

Ada’s communicator crackled softly.
“Ada,” came the voice—gravelly, uncertain. “You sure he’s here?”

“Certain,” she replied. “You don’t mistake the scent of treachery. It clings.”

“Be careful. Rumor says he’s been experimenting on himself.”

Ada smiled faintly, clicking her earpiece off. “Aren’t we all?”

She holstered her pistol, slipped her grappling gun onto her wrist, and moved toward the stairwell. Her heels made almost no sound, a phantom’s rhythm echoing in the hall. The air was thick with the scent of decay—rotting metal, old paper, and the faint sweetness of decomposing flesh.

Somewhere below, a generator coughed to life.

Ada descended.

The stairwell’s walls were streaked with handprints, old and black. Someone had tried to leave messages here, scrawled in desperate letters that twisted into incoherence halfway through. Words like help and light dissolved into random scratches.

At the third floor landing, Ada paused. A low hum reverberated through the walls. She turned her head, listening. The hum became a whisper—a voice distorted through speakers.

“Still chasing shadows, Ada?”

She froze, lips curving slightly. “So you’re not dead after all.”

The voice laughed softly, dry as sandpaper. “Death’s an inconvenience. Not a limit.”

“Is that what you tell your reflection before it devours you?”

A pause. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Ada’s hand drifted to her gun, though she didn’t raise it. “I look forward to it.”

The lights above her flickered, one by one, until the stairwell drowned in red emergency glow. From below came a scraping—a wet, deliberate drag, like something pulling itself up step by step.

Ada leaned over the railing. The thing that climbed was once human—barely. Its skin shimmered as if molten beneath the surface, muscles crawling beneath transparent layers. It looked up. Its eyes, milky and lidless, reflected her.

“Experimental subject,” Ada said softly. “Or perhaps just your love letter to immortality.”

It screamed.

Ada fired once. The bullet split its skull like a dropped fruit, and it tumbled backward into darkness.

“Amateur,” she whispered.

At the sixth floor, she found a door sealed with retinal locks. She knelt, pulling a thin needle from her belt. With a flick of her wrist, she released a pulse emitter. The lock blinked green.

Inside, the laboratory was preserved in mockery of order—glass tanks filled with milky fluid, computer screens glowing with charts of DNA helixes twisting like serpents. On one wall, pinned photos of Ada herself—grainy shots from missions, some taken through sniper scopes.

“You’ve been busy,” she muttered.

From the ceiling, a soft click. Ada rolled aside as a containment pod crashed down, bursting open. The creature inside lurched forward—a humanoid shape, its face half-formed, as though frozen mid-evolution.

She shot twice, then realized it wasn’t attacking. It was reaching. Its mouth opened, and through static lips it gasped, “Ada—he—he made—me—”

Then its chest collapsed inward, as if pulled by invisible hands, and it fell silent.

The screens flickered.

A man’s face appeared—handsome once, before obsession hollowed it. Raven-black hair, eyes cold and bright as a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Hello, Ada,” he said.

“Dr. Elias Vortan,” she replied, almost affectionately. “Still practicing resurrection?”

“You could say I’ve perfected i
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