Your pulse thudded too loudly in your ears. Memory came in fractured flashes: the injection, the searing heat spreading through your veins, your body convulsing as the virus rewrote you from the inside out.

The door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Footsteps. Measured. Unhurried.

You forced your eyes open. He stood at the foot of the bed, black-gloved hands folded behind his back, gaze fixed on you with clinical fascination. Albert Wesker tilted his head slightly, as if observing a rare specimen.

He approached. You tried to pull against the belts; they held firm. The movement only seemed to please him. His gloved fingers brushed along your collarbone, slow and deliberate, tracing the path of a racing vein beneath your skin. Not tender. Not cruel. Assessing.

You shivered.

He leaned closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing for half a second.

The instincts weren’t yours, yet they coiled through you all the same. His fingers tightened slightly at your jaw, lifting your face toward his.