The Devil You Know

The path to extraction is uncomplicated, but with Ashley Graham in tow, it feels anything but. Her reluctance is a predictable inconvenience, yet it somehow manages to be endlessly tiresome.

She resists at every turn, dragging her feet like a petulant child. The constant, petty defiance chips at Wesker's already thinning patience. For a fleeting moment, he entertains the idea of knocking her out and carrying her, but with Agent Kennedy already incapacitated, adding another deadweight isn’t practical. Time is running out, and despite the T-Virus’ enhancement of his physicality, the burden of a limp body is something even he can’t ignore.

When they finally reach the cargo hold, Wesker finds some measure of gratification in seeing Saddler’s men exactly where he left them—torn apart and lifeless. He offers the scene only a cursory glance, his mind already elsewhere. But behind him, Ashley gags, clearly overwhelmed by the carnage that violates her delicate sensibilities. He pays no heed to her discomfort, nor to the sticky pools of blood that dirty the soles of his boots, and moves with intent toward the warehouse's exit.

He kicks open one of the bay doors in a smooth motion, a gust of freezing, wet air rushing past him. As he steps onto the dark concrete of the parking lot, he's almost immediately soaked to the bone. The once-gentle drizzle from earlier has developed into a torrential downpour, and though Wesker has little affection for the rain, it at least rinses away some of the stubborn flame retardant that clings to his clothes.

He adjusts his hold on Leon, who is slipping minutely from his shoulder, and strides toward the center of the lot, where the helicopter waits. But as he nears the vehicle, Ashley rears back once again, her heels digging into the slick pavement. Thoroughly aggravated, Wesker yanks her forward so viciously that she stumbles. She lets out an affronted noise, but her resistance falters considerably. It appears that Miss Graham is the sort of person who's easily subdued by applications of force—predictable, though she's no less tedious for it.

Wesker does not spare her any more of his attention as he continues toward the helicopter. Its engine hums idly, rotors spinning, and his handpicked team of mercenaries is already on board. When his men catch sight of him, their faces flicker between confusion and shock. They clearly hadn't expected their employer to arrive for extraction coated in foam, and the heavy silence that follows is punctuated by glances exchanged in quiet disbelief. However, their bafflement swiftly vanishes under Wesker’s scathing glare. Without a word, he climbs aboard, and his men no sooner fall into line behind him. One of the mercenaries quickly removes Leon, still unconscious, from where he'd been draped over Wesker’s shoulder. The other moves to secure Ashley in a pair of handcuffs. The third is already in the cockpit, fingers moving deftly over the switches and buttons necessary for takeoff.

Wesker settles into a seat across from Ashley, whose gaze is fixated on Agent Kennedy’s prone form. The sight of him—motionless, vulnerable—serves only to worsen her expression. Her rosy visage showcases an emotion he can't quite place, but it's similar to the disbelieving dread that gamblers often wear when they've lost all their savings. The thought amuses him for a moment, but it’s short-lived.

"Sir, are we still retrieving the sample you mentioned?" one of his men queries, laced with a sort of hesitance that they both know Wesker doesn’t tolerate. At the blank disapproval etched into Wesker's features, the soldier's anxious gaze briefly flickers to the other members of his squad, all of whom are pointedly looking elsewhere.

Wesker’s jaw tightens—less frustrated by the pathetic display and more by the loss of a vital specimen. He’d fully intended to recover Krauser’s body. That strain of Plaga was crucial to his research, and obtaining it had become even more urgent after Ada’s theft. But Miss Graham's incessant opposition had ensured there would be no time left to secure it. With less than two minutes until detonation, there is little opportunity left for them to escape—let alone land anywhere else on the island. Not to mention, he has no idea where what's left of Krauser might be, and the one person who could have given him that information is currently lying incapacitated at his feet.

"Regrettably, we must depart without it," Wesker replies, clipped. The thought of leaving the corpse behind gnaws at him, but there’s little to be done.

The mercenary nods stiffly, clearly attuned to Wesker’s mounting displeasure, yet still dares to ask, "So… we’re going to headquarters?"

"Did you have another destination in mind?" Wesker drawls, and the soldier quickly averts his eyes, cowed.

Without further comment, Wesker turns away, dismissing the man's foolishness entirely. He retrieves his comms unit from where it'd been clipped to his belt, intending to contact Tricell. Excella will no doubt be furious when she learns about the loss of both dominant strains, but the unusual nature of the lesser Plaga specimens he's secured might be enough to placate her—for the time being.

As the receiver clicks to life, Wesker’s mind lingers on Agent Kennedy and Miss Graham. They present an unexpected puzzle, one that greatly piques his interest. Somehow, they evaded the fate that claimed every other infected on the island. When Saddler died, his Master Plaga had gone with him. As a result, the remaining cultists had either perished on the spot or dissolved into a mindless frenzy—but not these two. Ashley Graham, insufferable and fragile, should have fallen under its control by now. Instead, she's been augmented with increased strength and agility, sans any of the usual drawbacks. Agent Kennedy, who'd been weakened prior to Wesker having laid his hands on him, should have also been a prime target for the parasite. The Plaga is typically exploitative of such vulnerabilities, but something seems to be holding it at bay.

There has to be a reason for it. Perhaps their strain was unique, or perhaps it had mutated, imbuing its hosts with an immunity to its side effects. But if this were merely a matter of resistance, others would have been spared as well. So that could not be the case. No, there was only one plausible explanation: Luis Sera had done something. Leon had even mentioned him—and his prototype—directly, though it's unclear if the device is related to their survival. Some time ago, Doctor Sera had outlined the elimination system's prospects over a chain of emails, but Wesker hadn't been interested, and dismissed it outright. He was in the business of creating bio-weapons, not curing them. But now, in the wake of his deliberation, that earlier disregard feels like a mistake.

His theories are still incomplete, and there’s a begrudging lack of evidence sufficient enough for him to work with. But his intuition is rarely wrong, so whatever anomaly is keeping Leon and Ashley stable will assuredly prove crucial to his research. Their potential is undeniable, and with the right leverage, his newest specimens could be made useful in the future, too.

As the ground beneath them begins to tremble and the island’s destruction becomes imminent, Wesker's transmission connects, and the helicopter ascends.

—

Ashley stares at Leon, unable to look away. Even as they rise into the sky, and the island below them collapses in a violent sequence of explosions, her eyes remain fixed on him. Her knight in shining armor, reduced to a motionless, battered heap. In the few days she’s known him, he’s never looked so pitiful. Bruised and bloodied, yet miraculously still breathing. His mouth and the front of his shirt are stained with dark, almost black blood, its grim color made worse by the pallor of his skin. Ashley can hardly believe such a color could flow through someone’s veins.

She looks down at her own wounded wrists. The freshly formed friction burns which encircle them are tinged an equally dismal hue. That's definitely not normal, she thinks. Blinking back the tears that threaten to spill past her waterline, she does her best to stay composed. She would keep it together for Leon, who had protected her so fiercely. Who had never wavered despite the horrors that surrounded them.

Well, he’d never shown anything close to apprehension—at least, not until they encountered this man. Wesker, as Ashley had heard Leon call him, is nothing like the fleshy, tentacled monstrosities that Saddler had concocted. Outwardly, he appears entirely human. But his unnervingly slit pupils, the speed at which he’d caught up to them, and the inhumane strength he'd displayed certainly suggest otherwise. Moreover, she could vividly recall how visibly shaken Leon had been when Wesker had leveled his gun at him.

If Wesker could instill such fear into someone who regularly tangles with abominations as his day job, Ashley couldn’t begin to imagine what else he was capable of. When she’d swung that fire extinguisher at his head, pouring every ounce of her strength into the strike, he hadn't even reacted. Any regular person would have been gravely injured, but Wesker had been perfectly fine. Annoyed, certainly, but inexplicably unscathed.

“Now, what could you possibly be thinking about so deeply?” a low, steady baritone snaps Ashley from her introspection. Wesker had apparently concluded his phone call, and now she bears the brunt of his attention.

She peers up at Wesker from beneath her sodden bangs. He's reclined languidly on the bench across from her, one leg crossed over the other, his back pressed comfortably against the helicopter's wall. He watches her openly, yet somehow manages to project an air of refined disinterest. Something about his scrutiny is incredibly unnerving, but Ashley cannot even begin to discern why. She shouldn't be scared of him. She and Leon have faced enemies far more grotesque than this man. Though, while Wesker isn't some giant, repulsive creature—he cuts quite the imposing figure regardless. She can't help but be intimidated, and isn't sure whether she should respond or not, but her curiosity quickly gets the better of her.

"...What exactly are you?" she asks, tentatively, "You don’t seem... human."

Wesker chuckles, a rumbling sound that has the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, "I am not."

Ashley meets his unblinking stare and scowls, "You're not going to explain?"

He raises an eyebrow, "Why would I?"

"I thought supervillains liked to monologue."

Wesker scoffs, as if he's heard something ridiculous, "Explanations are wasted on those who are incapable of understanding them."

Ashley bristles, "You're the one who wanted to know what I was thinking about."

He pauses, then a hint of a smirk is forming on his lips when he replies, "That is true, perhaps I am being a bit unfair. I'll tell you this much, at least—I am not very different from you."

"...What does that even mean?"

Wesker’s smirk widens, and Ashley feels distinctly like he’s playing with her, "It means," he begins, smooth and deliberate, "that we are both products of circumstance. You, with your infection, and I—well, I’ve undergone my own evolution."

Ashley frowns. The confirmation of her infection is less shocking than she'd expected. What bothers her is Wesker's implication, "Evolution? Like, you wanted to be infected?"

"Not exactly," he corrects, "but given the hand I was dealt, I made a choice. I chose to embrace what others wouldn't. I chose to surpass the limits of what humanity is able to endure. You are fortunate to have that same chance, Miss Graham."

Ashley is stunned by the audacity of this man. Her chest tightens as she absorbs his words, "Fortunate?" she echos, her voice laced with disbelief, "You think I'm lucky to be infected? I'm lucky to become a monster?"

Wesker leans forward, expression suddenly more serious, "A monster?" he repeats, "What is a monster but a product of fear? Fear of what lies beyond the boundaries of the human experience, fear of power unrestrained. What you'd call a monster is simply the next step in the evolution of man."

"I don't know about that," she retorts, unease melting away and being replaced by indignation, "all of the people on that island became mindless, disgusting creatures—not some higher form of humanity."

"Not everyone is capable of adapting," Wesker says easily, almost dismissive, "and those who fear change are weak, both in mind and body. They can't endure the strain of transformation and ultimately lose themselves in the process. The Plaga parasite is particularly insidious in that regard. But you and Agent Kennedy are different, Miss Graham. Neither of you has succumbed to the infection—whether that's thanks to our mutual scientist friend, or your own genetics, remains to be seen."

At the mention of Leon, Ashley glances back down at him. He doesn't stir, but at least his condition seems stable. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, torn between relief that he’s alive and frustration that she can’t do anything to help him. She partly blames Luis for failing Leon, but mostly just blames herself. If she were stronger, maybe she could have protected him, while he was vulnerable. If she knew how to fight or handle a weapon, perhaps they could have escaped together, like a real team—like Leon and that woman were. They could've left that awful castle, gone home, and gotten the parasites removed at a hospital. Instead, she'd been more of a burden than anything else. She's aware that Leon's mission is to keep her safe and get her home, but she doesn't much enjoy playing the role of damsel in distress anymore.

It's possible that's why Wesker's words are so convincing, though she loathes to admit it. If she had even a fraction of that superhuman power, she wouldn't have to be so useless. But Ashley knows Leon would never want her to resort to Wesker's methods, or throw herself into the fray. Knows Leon's right, too.

So, she rebukes him, "We won't be anything like you."

Wesker's smile is cold and predatory, akin to a wolf exposing its fangs, "But you already are."

—

When Leon first wakes, he's still firmly anchored in a haze of exhaustion. His body aches viciously, as if he's been pulled apart and sewn back together. So, when the heady pull of unconsciousness washes back over him, promising a fleeting escape from the pain, he cannot stop himself from returning to that tender abyss.

The second time he comes to, the sterile scent of an operating room saturates his lungs. His eyelids flutter, and he peers up toward the ceiling. He's surrounded by a group of figures, their faces obfuscated by the harsh, fluorescent light above him—so bright it seems to hang like a miniature sun. He tries to move, to look at his own body, but his limbs refuse to respond.

"—so we can't? Why did he—"

"—his orders. I don't know—"

"—fine, so we'll just set his—"

"—wait a second, is he—"

Disjointed fragments of conversation reach his ears. As he tries to piece together their meaning, something cold and sharp digs into the crook of his elbow. Before he can fully comprehend what's happening, the darkness swallows him once more.

The third time he wakes, it's because someone's talking to him.

"Agent Kennedy?" A woman's voice pulls him from his dreamless limbo. Clear and frigid, he doesn't recognize it at all.

He blinks open his eyes, and Leon is immediately struck by how disconnected he feels from his body. His senses are dulled, as though he's submerged in water, but the hurting has receded. It's a familiar, woozy sensation; likely resulting from whatever painkillers they've pumped into him. He cranes his neck, straining to bring the woman into his blurred field of vision.

"Who're you?" He asks thickly, tongue heavy in his mouth.

The woman inclines her chin and peers down at him haughtily, "That is not information you require, Agent."

"So... no name, huh?" Leon slurs, his head lolling to one side, "That’s cool. I’m great at solving puzzles..." he trails off, like he's not entirely sure what he's saying.

But Leon's gradually becoming more cognizant, and it's this awareness that enables him to notice the accent that lilts her words. He can't quite place it—caught somewhere between Italian and British. But her cadence is rude, and it's evident that she thinks him no better than an insect.

At his response, the woman levels him with a lukewarm stare. She then promptly shifts her attention to a drip bag, which she'd at some point lifted from a small prep table nearby. Leon observes her warily as she connects the pouch of unknown liquid to his IV catheter. A chill runs through his veins where the fluid enters, but he doesn't feel any different.

"I've only administered a saline solution, so don't look so fearful," she sneers unkindly, suspending the bag from a pole attached to his bed, "Doctor Wesker will be here shortly, so stay put. Although, I doubt you can do much else anyway..."

With that, she turns away and walks out of the room. Leon hears the hiss of an automatic door, followed by the rhythmic clacking of heels on tile, the sound gradually fading until he's left with only the faint beeping of his heart monitor. Despite his addled state, a sense of urgency bubbles up within him. If this ambiguously European woman is to be believed, Wesker is coming—and Leon has no intention of sticking around to find out what he wants.

Unfortunately, his appendages are strapped to the gurney he's lying on. Leon gives a cursory tug at his restraints—four unforgiving leather cuffs bind his wrists and ankles. He knows he won’t be able to break free on his own, but battles against the straps regardless. With each passing second he grows more frantic, the threat of Wesker's approach lighting a proverbial fire under his ass. During a particularly frenzied jolt, the medical bed shifts slightly beneath him. Somebody must have forgotten to lock the wheels, Leon thinks, and an idea forms in his mind.

He fixates on something just beyond his reach—a tray of bloodied surgical tools resting on the same table the woman had taken the IV bag from. The gleam of the instruments suggests edges keen enough to sever his bindings. Fighting the fog that clings to his mind and body, Leon lifts his torso and flings himself to one side. His weight nudges the gurney toward the table, and an inkling of hope stirs deep in his gut. He repeats the movements, each lunge forcing the bed closer, its frame groaning and its wheels screeching with every reluctant inch. Finally, the tray is within reach, and his outstretched fingers brush against the edge of the table. He grips it to drag it closer.

Leon picks up a scalpel, flipping it clumsily in his hand. Slowly, he begins to saw through the strap restraining his dominant wrist. Each stroke slices deeper, the fibers resisting with every pass, until eventually yielding to the blade. Before long, it is severed in two and falls away. Leon glances toward the door, releasing a shuddering breath of relief. Thankfully, Wesker seems to be taking his time.

Leon works through the remaining three bindings, quicker now that he's regained some range of motion. Each one comes loose more easily than the last. Once freed, Leon rips his IV out with wince, and sticks his arm under his clothes to peel off the electrodes that cling to his chest. The monitors emit a loud, warning blare as the input is lost, and Leon swings his legs over the side of the bed with a huff. The tile is frigid under his bare feet, and he belatedly realizes that they'd dressed him in a patient gown. He'd need to find where they'd stashed his gear. Then, he'd find Ashley.

As he stands, his head spins briefly with a wave of dizziness that threatens to drop him. He steadies himself for a moment then turns toward the door—the same one the woman had slipped through earlier. When she'd approached, it had slid open effortlessly. But now, as Leon stumbles forward, the door remains stubbornly shut. Beside it, an LED screen flickers to life, displaying a message:

ID WRISTBAND REQUIRED FOR ACCESS.

Leon lets out a frustrated sigh. Of course, it would require an ID wristband. Why wouldn't it? With that method of escape made unavailable to him, Leon surveys the room. It’s a surgery suite, well sanitized and largely empty. With no windows and only one exit, his options are limited. He paces the perimeter, searching for anything that could be useful, only stopping once he comes across a grille bolted into the wall. It's a vent, wide enough for him to crawl through.

He can't kick it without any shoes, not unless he wants to cut up the soles of his feet. Exasperated, he scans the room for something else to use. His eyes land on that same compact table, light enough for him to lift and sturdy enough to serve as a battering ram. He pads over to it and lifts it with both hands, barely noticing the medical tools that clatter to the floor as he shuffles back over to the vent. With a grunt of effort, Leon slams it against the grate, and the metal warps under the impact. The action aggravates a tightness in his abdomen, but he disregards the feeling since there is no discomfort that follows it. He braces himself, and strikes the grate again, then again, until the screws give way and pop loose from their sockets. With a thud, the cover crashes to the floor, and Leon wastes no time crawling through the gap.

It's a tight fit, but Leon manages to wedge his whole body inside. Lying prone, he pushes himself forward with his forearms. Just as he's about to advance further, the mechanical whirr of the door unsealing freezes him in place.

His blood runs cold, and his heart slams against his ribs. As he tries to scramble deeper into the vent, a gloved hand suddenly shoots through the opening, seizing his ankle in a crushing grip. Leon can't contain the yelp that erupts from his mouth as he's wrenched backward, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth metal. He kicks wildly behind him, his legs flailing in the cramped space, but it’s futile—he's powerless against the overwhelming force that drags him out.

He lands on the floor with an undignified groan. Leon endeavors to twist onto his back, but the digits enclosed around his ankle clench in warning, grinding his bones together. A mocking laugh drifts down from above him, and Leon whips his head around. Wesker crouches over him, those ugly fucking sunglasses still on his face, and his lips contorted in cruel amusement. The sight is a bit too reminiscent of their last encounter on the island for Leon's comfort.

"Agent Kennedy," Wesker's tone is silky, like honey laced with venom, "I must say, your persistence is... admirable."

"'S one of my charms," Leon replies, casting a heated glare over his shoulder. The position is rather humiliating, but he has nowhere to go. Wesker is too strong, and Leon is too disoriented. His body feels as though it belongs to someone else, lethargic and slow to respond.

"One of them, certainly," Wesker muses, his gaze fixed on Leon's face through his dark glasses. He tilts his head slightly, continuing, "You really thought you could escape, didn't you? I'm not sure whether to be impressed by your tenacity, or disappointed by your lack of critical thinking. You're the type to resist, even when it's hopeless, hm?"

With one last squeeze, Wesker sets Leon's ankle free and stands to his full height. Leon takes advantage of the newfound distance between them, rolling off his stomach and scrambling into a sitting position with his back flush against the wall. A surge of instinct urges him to fight or flee—but the odds are stacked against him, and neither option is likely to end in his favor.

So instead, he grinds his molars, unwilling to reply. He’s not sure what’s worse: the smug satisfaction on Wesker’s face or the suffocating, foreign sensation of being so utterly helpless. A cold sweat prickles his skin as his mind races, desperate to piece together some sort of plan. But his thoughts are a jumbled mess, as chaotic and incoherent as TV static.

"You were so chatty before. I wonder what's changed..." Wesker taunts in a flat, almost bored monotone. He looms over Leon, and watches him with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. The silence stretches like a taut wire between them.

"...Nothing to say to you," Leon snaps, once it becomes clear that Wesker is waiting for a response. Though the bite of his words is dulled by the sluggish way they spill from his mouth, Leon doesn't miss how Wesker's brow twitches.

"Is that so?" he drawls, resembling ice scraping over stone, "I find that hard to believe."

Leon rolls his eyes, "Think what you want."

"I think you don't realize the position you're in, Agent Kennedy," Wesker says, his tone patronizing, as though he's addressing an exceptionally dim-witted child. Leon doesn't much enjoy being chastised, but he manages to hold his tongue as Wesker berates him, "Your government presumes you and Ashley Graham to be dead. The official report states that you both perished on that infernal island. That is to say, the world has already forgotten you—just another casualty in a long line of failures. Of course, President Graham is quite heartbroken over his daughter's tragic fate... But I'd imagine he'd be even more devastated to learn that she is now a host for the Plaga parasite."

The flood of information leaves him speechless. Leon had considered the possibility that, if the machine hadn’t worked on him, then Ashley might still be infected as well. That would explain the sudden onset of super strength, anyway. He’s relieved that she’s alive, at least, but what has Wesker done with her? How much time has passed since they were taken from the island? Is no one really looking for them?

A gnawing doubt settles deep within him as he's dazed by an unrelenting storm of his own questions. But he keeps them to himself, refusing to give this asshole the satisfaction of knowing how unsettled he truly is. He really has no reason to believe Wesker. For all Leon knows, the man is lying through his teeth in a bid to manipulate him. Leon's heard horror stories about him before, from Chris and Jill especially. Wesker is an evil, cunning, narcissistic bastard with a god complex—but if what he's said is true, Leon has no idea why Wesker's kept him alive. He could have simply extracted the Plaga specimens, disposed of the both of them, and gone on his merry way. It's incredibly confusing that he hasn't. Talk about mixed signals.

"...What the hell do you want from me?" it comes out tired, strained, as if he's barely holding himself together. Leon can’t help but think that’s not far from the truth.

Wesker's demeanor becomes distinctly pleased as he steps back, granting Leon the personal space he craves—as though it were some kind of reward.

"Now you're getting it," he croons, low with some sort of malicious affection. It makes Leon sick to his stomach, "You possess an invaluable specimen inside you, one that intrigues me immensely. I didn’t extract it, you see, because it was intertwined too closely with your spine, and removal would have rendered you paralyzed. Consider it a gift, really."

"You want me to say thanks or something?"

Wesker rubs his chin thoughtfully, feigning genuine consideration. Leon is dumbfounded by the sheer arrogance of it as the man responds, "Your gratitude is welcome, but I've always preferred action to words. All I require is your cooperation."

"Yeah, good luck getting that..." Leon laughs weakly, "I’m not going to cooperate with you. Ever," there's no uncertainty in his pitch, just defiant refusal.

"You misunderstand, you have no choice, Agent Kennedy. You will be a willing specimen for my research on the potential of the Plaga parasite within you. Otherwise, I have countless ways to ensure your compliance."

"What, torture?" Leon scoffs, "I don't care. Do what you want... I won't help you."

"Do what I want?" Wesker repeats, a derisive grin tugging at the corners of his lips, "Well, if I have your permission..."

Leon’s knees draw up to his chest reflexively as Wesker reaches down, his arm extending so quickly that Leon can barely react. Wesker’s fingers weave into the hair at the base of his neck, pulling sharply to tilt his head back in a controlled motion. The sudden pressure sends a shock of discomfort through him, and his breath catches in his throat as Wesker leans in, leering at him over the dark rims of his glasses.

"Listen closely, Leon," Wesker hisses, and hearing his first name coming from the man feels strangely invasive, "I'll say this only once. I am being extremely generous by allowing you and that girl to remain alive. Make no mistake—it's not out of kindness, but because you're of more use to me alive than dead. If either of you proves to be more trouble than you're worth, I will snuff you out. Without hesitation. That being said, I am not entirely unreasonable. Should you demonstrate worthwhile obedience, I may be willing to extend you certain privileges. I will allow you to occasionally visit Miss Graham, and I will refrain from making your time here a living hell. These are your options. Am I being clear?"

Leon's already having difficulty thinking straight, so Wesker's threat only compounds the vertigo that has him reeling. In spite of this, Leon is conscious of the fact that Wesker is being uncharacteristically benevolent. Whatever the reason behind it is, it's not worth presently worrying about. He's in no position to argue, and Leon knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. His focus needs to stay on surviving long enough to escape this nightmare and, most importantly, bringing Ashley home.

"Crystal..." Leon manages, and the hold on his scalp relaxes some, "I'll let you experiment on me, or whatever. But I won't make it easy for you—and if you hurt Ashley, I'll kill you."

Wesker hums and fully relinquishes the blond locks he'd kept hostage between his fingers. Leon's shoulders slump, the tension in his neck abated at last. Evidently, Leon's threat-slash-concession had placated the man.

"I find that to be quite acceptable," he purrs, neglecting to mention Ashley and not bothering to conceal his gratification, "a touch of resistance is... rather stimulating, after all."

Leon can hardly believe he just heard that come out of Wesker's mouth, "You're sick," he retorts, wrinkling his nose in disgust. His words, however, only provoke a hollow chuckle from Wesker, who seems more delighted than offended by the insult. God, what a creep. 

With their conflict resolved—at least, for now—the adrenaline Leon hadn’t even realized was surging through him begins to dissipate. Wesker, ever perceptive, immediately snatches the front of Leon’s gown and hauls him to his feet.

"Don't faint on me now."

"Wasn't planning on it..." Leon says, swaying.

Wesker observes him for a moment, then switches his grasp so it's locked around Leon's bicep, "As entertaining as this has been, I did not come here to play with you. My original purpose was to escort you to my lab. You’ve already wasted enough of my time, so I suggest you stop stalling and come along."

Wesker gives him no chance to reply, already moving toward the door. It slides open as they approach, and Leon is ushered into a long, wide hallway. The space feels suffocating, with white tile underfoot and walls bathed in even whiter paint. He doesn’t have much of a chance to look around before he's quickly yanked to the left. Wesker’s pace is much faster than his own, and Leon struggles to keep up. Every time he starts falling behind, the ironclad grip on his arm tugs him forward. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be walked like a dog—nothing but the relentless pull of someone else's control. He hates it.

They make a few more turns, each one blurring into the next. Leon finds it impossible to keep track of where he is; the entire facility seems identical, and he doubts he could even find his way back to the surgery room if he tried. They pass a couple of busied scientists, their lab coats billowing behind them as they hurry to their own destinations, paying neither of them any mind. Their indifference signifies that they're most likely on Wesker's payroll. The thought of people willingly working for Wesker rubs him the wrong way, but then Ada crosses his mind, and Leon ends up just feeling clueless.

After what feels like an eternity of winding corridors, they finally reach a hydraulic gate, beside which is a keypad. Wesker sends him a transient glance, then steps deliberately in front of it, blocking Leon's view as he enters the code.

With a mechanical rumble, the heavy metal shutter begins to rise, and Leon finds himself being pulled along again. Fortunately, their destination is near, as it takes only a few more paces and another keypad entry for them to arrive at what he assumes is Wesker's laboratory.

The room is vast and dimly lit. Sleek surfaces dominate the space, from the work areas to the towering storage units filled with vials and glass containers. Rows of high-end equipment occupy most of the countertops—some familiar, like microscopes, centrifuges, and computers—while others look far more advanced, their purposes unclear to him. The walls are lined with monitors, each one displaying a unique data stream. Vital signs, genetic sequences, and biological readings—as well as the unmistakable logo of Tricell.

The sight of the corporation's flashy, pentagonal emblem is as familiar to him as it is astonishing. Leon knows all too well that Tricell funds the BSAA—it’s hardly a secret. They'd always been positioned as a government ally, particularly after they handed over crucial files on Umbrella during the Raccoon City trial. So why, then, had they chosen to align themselves with Wesker?

Leon is afforded no opportunity to investigate further as Wesker leads him to a steel patient's table, then raps on it lightly with his knuckles.

"Sit," the Tyrant commands, firm and leaving no room for argument. He lets go of Leon and turns away to busy himself with a medical cart.

"What... you’re gonna give me a checkup?" Leon asks skeptically, brows furrowed, "You even qualified for that?"

The comment has Wesker's shoulders tensing, but only for a split second. When he turns back, he closes the distance between them rapidly, practically trapping Leon against the table, "I hold a medical doctorate," he says, clipped, "and I’ve been performing procedures far more advanced than this since before you were born. Frankly, I’m overqualified. So unless you’d prefer a janitor to do the examination—get on the table."

Jeez, must've touched nerve, Leon thinks, raising his hands in mock surrender. Wesker regards him with flat expectation as he lifts himself up onto the patient's counter. The metal is freezing through the thin fabric of his hospital gown, but at least whoever stripped him of his clothes had the decency to leave him in his boxers—small mercies, he supposes. Just as he settles onto the counter, Wesker shoves him onto his back. He thumbs the snaps of Leon's gown, and manages to unfasten several before Leon, caught off guard, tries to sit up and protest.

“Wh—Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” Leon's cheeks flame, indignation and horror equally evident in his face.

Wesker’s smirk is particularly nauseating as he keeps Leon pinned to the table with a single hand, splayed across his clavicle, "Calm yourself. I must check your stitches. I’m fairly certain you tore them open during your delightful little escape attempt."

Leon refuses to acknowledge the obvious bait, and focuses on the more concerning portion of Wesker's statement, "Stitches? You cut me open?"

"How else would we have set your broken ribs?" he counters dryly.

"...I don't know, but you could've at least taken me out to dinner first."

Wesker blatantly ignores him, and the palm that had been securing him in place comes away. The man leans in—unjustifiably close—and begins unfastening the remaining clasps on Leon’s gown with what can only be described as deliberate slowness. He has no idea why Wesker's being so touchy, but Leon flinches each time the man’s fingers ghost across his skin. Whether it's from revulsion or something much worse, he isn’t entirely sure. He can’t bear to dissect his own emotions, not while he’s doing his best to stifle his distress in front of one of the world’s most infamous criminals.

Once the clasps are undone to just below his navel, Wesker unwinds the thick layer of gauze wrapped around most of Leon’s torso. Soon, the fair, athletic expanse of his chest is fully on display, and Leon looks down at himself sheepishly. Okay, maybe I should have noticed this, he thinks.

Stretching from his solar plexus to just above his belly button is a gnarly incision, shaped like an 'I' and secured well with stitches—though a few are loose and oozing. The wound is an utterly abysmal hue, so dark and tenebrous that it resembles the bruises that mar large swathes his skin. 

Wesker carefully inspects the cut, his gloved fingers prodding at the torn stitches. He selects a sterile needle and thread, loops the strand through the eye, then deftly guides the needle's sharp tip into Leon's flesh. There’s no real pain that accompanies it, only the subtle pressure of Wesker’s steady hand as he meticulously corrects the seams.

After a while, Wesker breaks their tenuous silence, "The Plaga parasite has influenced your rate of recovery. How interesting..."

Leon frowns, "...That a bad thing?"

Wesker doesn't immediately respond, his fingers continuing their delicate work. They lull into another uncompanionable quiet, until Wesker finally mutters, "Not exactly," more to himself than to Leon. Eventually, he knots the end of the thread, and announces, "I've finished. Allow me to draw a few vials of your blood, then I will be fully done."

Leon lets himself admire Wesker's handiwork as the man steps away again. The sutures are evenly spaced and almost perfectly symmetrical—far better than anything Leon’s managed on his own. Wesker’s claim to be skilled wasn’t exaggerated. For a fleeting moment, Leon is impressed, but hurriedly dismisses the sentiment. He refuses to feel any sort of gratitude towards his literal kidnapper.

Soon, brandishing a butterfly needle and a vacutainer tube, Wesker invades Leon's personal space once more. He gently rotates Leon’s arm, positioning the crook of his elbow for easier access. The stark contrast between the man’s earlier cruelty and the tenderness of the motion is jarring. Leon can’t suppress the scowl that twists his features, nor can he stop himself from jerking his arm away—a last-ditch effort to assert his dwindling autonomy. To his surprise, Wesker merely raises an eyebrow, allowing the small act of defiance without a word of reprimand.

Leon’s irritation flares. If this man expects him to comply, then he wants a reason to do so, "What about Ashley?" he asks, rigidly.

Wesker’s expression doesn’t shift, "What about her?”

"Let me see her."

“And why, precisely, would I grant you that?"

Leon grinds his teeth, the urge to lash out barely contained. This bastard loves to spin his words, twisting them around until they lose all meaning—but Leon gets his point, "Alright, fine," he snaps, angling his arm back toward Wesker,"take my blood. Go ahead. But after this, I want to see her."

Wesker’s lips quirk into something that’s not quite a smile, "Was that so difficult?" he remarks sardonically. Then, his tone hardens, dropping an octave and taking on a dangerously calm edge, “Now, listen to me well, because I loathe to repeat myself. I can tolerate your defiance, but I will not suffer your attempts at bargaining. By now, you should understand—I am not someone you can negotiate with. But since you seem to struggle with basic comprehension, allow me to spell it out for you: none of my actions are influenced by your desires. If you want something, want to see Miss Graham, you’ll earn it. Until then, you’ll receive nothing.”

Earn it, Wesker says, and Leon is already dreading what that might entail.