❤️ People say RE5 is a co-op shooter, some call it a mediocre Resident Evil, some even say it’s just “the one with the boulder.” Wrong. This game is, first and foremost, a love letter to Albert Wesker’s existence, and I, a humble player, am but a worshipper in his sunglasses-shaded church.

From the moment he struts into a scene, trench coat flowing like he just came off a runway in Milan, I forget there’s even a plot. He doesn’t walk, he glides. He doesn’t fight, he choreographs dominance. Every punch, every kick, every smug insult lands directly on my heart like Cupid decided to become a bioterrorist.

“Seven minutes,” he says. Seven minutes is all he can spare to play with us. Sir, I would give you seven lifetimes. No, seven eternities. If time itself were Ouroboros, devouring its own tail forever, I would still be there, gazing up at you while you dodge rockets with a casual shrug.

Let’s not overlook the voice. That velvet baritone could convince me to inject Uroboros willingly and thank him afterwards. Every “poor performance” he spits out is less of an insult and more of a Shakespearean sonnet written exclusively for my ears.

And the moves. The bullet dodging. The teleporting. The way he throws Chris and Sheva around like they’re plastic action figures. My man doesn’t believe in Newton’s laws—he rewrites them in real time, and I, too, wish to be yeeted by those leather-clad arms.

The volcano finale? People call it cheesy. I call it divine theatre. Lava bubbling, shirt torn, sunglasses still intact—tell me that wasn’t a Greek god rising to claim Olympus. Chris may have punched a boulder, but Wesker punched his way into my soul.

In the end, RE5 isn’t just a game. It’s a stage where Albert Wesker, the trench-coated Adonis of bio-terror, delivers the performance of a lifetime. And I’ll keep coming back, not for the gameplay, not for the story, but for the chance to bask, even briefly, in the glow of his beautiful magnificence.

11/10. Would inject Ouroboros if it meant being married to him. ❤️

❤️ People say RE5 is a co-op shooter, some call it a mediocre Resident Evil, some even say it’s just “the one with the boulder.” Wrong. This game is, first and foremost, a love letter to Albert Wesker’s existence, and I, a humble player, am but a worshipper in his sunglasses-shaded church. From the moment he struts into a scene, trench coat flowing like he just came off a runway in Milan, I forget there’s even a plot. He doesn’t walk, he glides. He doesn’t fight, he choreographs dominance. Every punch, every kick, every smug insult lands directly on my heart like Cupid decided to become a bioterrorist. “Seven minutes,” he says. Seven minutes is all he can spare to play with us. Sir, I would give you seven lifetimes. No, seven eternities. If time itself were Ouroboros, devouring its own tail forever, I would still be there, gazing up at you while you dodge rockets with a casual shrug. Let’s not overlook the voice. That velvet baritone could convince me to inject Uroboros willingly and thank him afterwards. Every “poor performance” he spits out is less of an insult and more of a Shakespearean sonnet written exclusively for my ears. And the moves. The bullet dodging. The teleporting. The way he throws Chris and Sheva around like they’re plastic action figures. My man doesn’t believe in Newton’s laws—he rewrites them in real time, and I, too, wish to be yeeted by those leather-clad arms. The volcano finale? People call it cheesy. I call it divine theatre. Lava bubbling, shirt torn, sunglasses still intact—tell me that wasn’t a Greek god rising to claim Olympus. Chris may have punched a boulder, but Wesker punched his way into my soul. In the end, RE5 isn’t just a game. It’s a stage where Albert Wesker, the trench-coated Adonis of bio-terror, delivers the performance of a lifetime. And I’ll keep coming back, not for the gameplay, not for the story, but for the chance to bask, even briefly, in the glow of his beautiful magnificence. 11/10. Would inject Ouroboros if it meant being married to him. ❤️