The Devil You Know

When Wesker finally made his return to Tricell headquarters, he promptly arranged for his latest specimens to be secured and dealt with later. His first priority was to cleanse himself of the remnants of his mission. A scalding shower washed away the blood, sweat, and grime clinging to him, but could not do the same to his smoldering irritation.

It was strange, he should feel satisfied. Wesker had undeniably gained more than he had lost. Yet, the sting of Ada’s betrayal still lingered like a splinter beneath his skin, annoying and persistent—but not insurmountable. With a curtain of steam curling around him, Wesker reconciled that her reckoning would come in due time.

After all, the fatal error she had made in her deception would inevitably lead her back to him. Wesker was certain of it. She would come searching for what—or, more accurately, who—she had lost, and when she did, he would be waiting.

It was Ada’s instinct for self-preservation, so often her greatest asset, that had proven to be her undoing. In her haste to secure the amber, she had carelessly abandoned her most glaring vulnerability. Perhaps she'd underestimated Wesker’s awareness of her attachment to Leon Kennedy, or foolishly believed the agent could fend for himself. Whatever her reasoning, it was clear she hadn’t realized the extent of Leon's injuries, nor the severity of his infection. Miss Wong had ended up playing directly into Wesker's hands—and though her transgressions were grave, retribution could afford to be patient.

And patient he would be.

As he fastened the buttons of his dress shirt, Wesker relegated Ada to the margins of his thoughts. More pressing matters demanded his attention, chief among them an inevitable confrontation with Excella Gionne. He’d given her only the barest details during their communication on the island—just enough to placate her temporarily and spare himself from her immediate interrogation. But Excella had a nasty habit of inserting herself into affairs that didn’t concern her, and Wesker was certain that she'd have plenty to say about his recent acquisitions, once she learned of them.

He could already picture her: idling in his office with thinly veiled impatience and a mighty scowl creasing her delicate brow. Few would dare to intrude upon Wesker’s domain with such brazen audacity, but Excella was no ordinary trespasser. As her benefactor, he had granted her a rare degree of leeway—a privilege she wielded unapologetically. She saw herself as his equal, and Wesker, for the time being, chose not to disabuse her of that notion. Not out of any genuine regard, but out of necessity. Her contributions were indispensable, and he had poured too much time and effort into securing her position to risk undermining it now. Still, her demeanor often made enduring her presence a test of his patience.

True to his expectations, when Wesker entered his office a little over an hour later, Excella was already awaiting him. She stood rigidly near his desk, one designer heel tapping a sharp, agitated rhythm against the floor—a clear sign she had been there for some time. The usual coyness that marked her demeanor was absent, replaced by a terse frown that left no room for misinterpretation. She was displeased, and as always, she made no effort to conceal it. Her gaze locked onto him the moment he entered, and Wesker could feel the weight of her unspoken accusations thickening the air.

"Excella," he greeted.

"Albert," her tone was marked with her disapproval. "I’ve heard something... interesting. Something I was hoping you could clarify for me."

Wesker raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mild curiosity, "I’m not sure what you’re referring to. Perhaps you should be more specific."

It was a deliberate attempt to gauge her reaction. With a soft click, he shut the door behind him and began to cross the room, his movements unhurried and languid, as if her upset was beneath his notice.

Excella's lips curled into a sneer and her eyes narrowed into irate slits, "Quit playing games,” she snapped. "You know exactly what I’m talking about. You brought a government agent and the president’s daughter into my facility. They’ve already been declared missing. Do you have any idea the kind of attention this will draw? Let me give you a hint: it’s the kind of scrutiny we cannot afford.”

Wesker stopped just short of her. It came as no surprise that Excella had uncovered his actions so swiftly—she had always been resourceful, if nothing else. As for how much she truly knew, Wesker wasn’t entirely certain, nor did he particularly care.

He tilted his head slightly and peered down at her, unmoved, "Your concern is noted, Excella, but unnecessary. The island is gone. Reduced to rubble and ash. There's no evidence left to connect us to their disappearance. No one will come looking here."

Except, perhaps, Ada Wong, he thought, though he saw no reason to mention that potential complication.

She scoffed and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, "The U.S. government does not simply forget when their people vanish. They might not care about the life of a single agent, but they will tear the world apart looking for Ashley Graham. By bringing those two here, you've effectively endangered our entire operation."

Wesker’s brow twitched, the faintest hint of aggravation flickering across his otherwise impassive face, "I took a calculated risk. Had I left them behind, I would've returned empty-handed."

Her eyes widened, "Empty-handed? Don’t tell me you—"

"The amber was lost," he interjected, flat but carrying an undercurrent of something darker. "The situation on the island deteriorated beyond recovery."

A wet mix of disbelief and rage contorted Excella's features, "When you insisted on handling this yourself, I trusted you’d secure the sample. This was your plan—your grand vision to elevate me as CEO. What will I present to my superiors? You've left me saddled with two high-profile liabilities and nothing else to show for it!"

A muscle tightened in Wesker's jaw. He knew she was itching for an argument, but he refused to indulge her, "You’re fixating on the wrong details," he said, as conciliatory as he could. "Ashley Graham and Leon Kennedy are hardly liabilities. The parasites they carry are progressing flawlessly, yet their minds remain intact and their bodies fully functional—all without Osmund Saddler’s influence. The board will see their value—and surely, Excella, you too can grasp their significance.”

His words gave her pause, sinking into her like stones disturbing a still pond. Execlla's arms fell slack at her sides as her anger waned, though it was clear she hadn’t fully relinquished her frustration. Wesker observed her with detached expectation, knowing full well she wasn't done.

"I understand they could prove useful," she conceded eventually. "But might I remind you that the risk of keeping them here far outweighs any potential gain. Leon Kennedy, in particular, is a loose cannon. You know this as well as I do."

"Then what, precisely, would you have me do?"

"Extract the parasites and dispose of them off-site. Let their bodies be found where we cannot be implicated," she answered breezily.

A disdainful chuckle escaped him, "And waste all the effort I’ve invested in securing them? Absurd. We remain ignorant of what is causing the Plaga's deviation. Removing the parasites now risks consequences we cannot predict. Miss Graham and Agent Kennedy are living proof the parasite does not require a central authority for our purposes. To discard such potential over your unfounded apprehensions would be the height of shortsightedness. You should be viewing this as an opportunity, Excella... Perhaps I expected too much from you."

Excella flinched, an involuntary flicker of vulnerability that she schooled almost as abruptly as it appeared. It was barely perceptible, and to anyone else, it might've gone unnoticed. But Wesker saw it plainly, an intended outcome of his provocation. Her desperate hunger for his approval was a delicate thread, one she tried to conceal, but which he could pull with ease whenever it suited him.

"...Opportunity or not, this is a disaster waiting to happen. If—"

"You continue to doubt me?" he interrupted, low and dangerous. "After everything we’ve accomplished?"

She promptly shut her mouth, ruddy lips pressing into a thin line. Silence hung between them, dense and uncomfortable. Wesker studied her face as she cycled through a wide range of emotions. Hurt, anger, then embarrassment—until she finally settled on resignation. Excella exhaled sharply, her stiff posture melting into one of reluctant acceptance.

"You’d better be right, because I won’t be the one cleaning up the mess this will surely create."

His victory secured, Wesker rounded his desk and settled into his chair with a gratified smirk, "I wouldn’t expect you to. You may rest assured, everything is under control, and I will handle any... complications that arise with your superiors. For now, I suggest you focus on what you can manage—and leave me to my work."

He turned away, powering on his computer and effectively ending the conversation. Excella dithered for a short while longer, her expression conflicted, but she must have thought better of pressing him further. With a sharp click of her stilettos, she turned and strode out of his office. As her footsteps faded down the hall, Wesker sensed that this argument was far from over.

He could understand Excella’s frustration, but wouldn't capitulate to her complaints. Her objections were narrow-minded and completely inconsequential. He would not allow such petty grievances to derail him, and Excella could throw all the tantrums she wanted; she knew better than to challenge him directly. Still, Wesker couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that her dissatisfaction, if left unchecked, could fester into a problem down the line.

—

The rest of the procedure unfolds with an eerie, almost mundane simplicity, a stark contrast to the earlier spectacle.

Wesker draws Leon’s blood without the fanfare that had preceded it, and for that small mercy, Leon is grateful. The silence between them is heavy, interrupted only by the occasional clink of glass as vial after vial fills with Leon’s blood. The lack of conversation or grandiosity makes the situation feel almost ordinary—like a routine medical exam—but that very normalcy only heightens the surreal horror of his situation. This isn’t a doctor’s visit; it’s the grim prelude to Leon's future as a test subject.

It really feels like a cruel joke, one Leon can’t quite comprehend. How had he ended up here, at the mercy of Albert Wesker, of all people? Out of the countless monsters and madmen Leon had faced over his career, it just had to be him. Wesker's not some run-of-the-mill threat; he's a boogeyman, whose name alone carries immense weight. To have crossed paths with him on a mission meant to save someone, only to become a captive himself, feels like the universe playing a fucked-up prank. The irony isn’t lost on him. It’s the kind of absurd, gut-punch twist that makes him wonder if he’s cursed or if fate simply has a sadistic sense of humor.

Either way, he feels like he's trapped in a nightmare that only deepens as the vials multiply. His mind, desperate for relief, begins to drift, latching onto thoughts of escape, no matter how improbable.

Leon imagines slipping away unnoticed, finding Ashley, and disappearing before Wesker even realizes they’re gone. Maybe he’d leave behind a little gift of his own—a self-destruct sequence, a fiery explosion, something to ensure Wesker’s plans go up in smoke. It’s a comforting fantasy, a brief respite from the crushing burden of reality, but it’s just that: a fantasy. The moment he tries to hold onto it, it shatters under the oppressive force of Wesker’s presence. The man's very existence is suffocating, heavy and all-encompassing, in the same way the billowing smoke from a raging wildfire might blot out the sky. It's enough to make Leon's head spin—though that vertigo could just as easily be attributed to blood loss.

By the time Wesker finishes, ten vials of Leon’s blood sit neatly in a plastic basket. Wesker turns away, his attention shifting to a nearby workbench, and for a moment, Leon sees an opening—a chance to act. But his body betrays him, weighed down by the blood letting, the exhaustion, and the lingering effects of whatever they'd pumped into him before. All he can manage is to close his eyes and retreat into the temporary solace that the darkness behind his eyelids offers him. It’s not freedom, but it's enough to quiet his thoughts.

He teeters on the edge of sleep for a while, floating aimlessly, until the unmistakable drumming of boots against tile jolts him to awareness. Leon looks to the door of the lab, just as a cluster of armed men, suited in black fatigues and bearing the Tricell emblem upon their breasts, enter the room. The group is small, consisting of no more than five soldiers, but they fill the space like a tightening noose. The one in front—a tall man with stubbly facial hair—looks to Wesker, awaiting instruction.

Wesker stops mid-task and faces the squad, “Took you long enough,” he remarks with obvious disdain. He then gestures toward Leon’s prone form with a dismissive nod, “Take him to lower containment. And ensure he’s secured properly this time.”

The men surround Leon. Their weapons are slung casually at their sides, but their postures are anything but relaxed. They encircle him, a wall of muscle and menace, and Leon knows resistance is pointless. It’s against his nature to go quietly, but there is no other option. All he can do is let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Get up,” the lead soldier commands, his tone bland but authoritative.

Leon’s legs feel like jelly, but he forces himself to obey. His vision blurs at his periphery when he stands, and he notices, with a sinking feeling, that his gown is still partly undone. He fumbles with the buttons, his fingers clumsy and uncooperative, but before he can manage even one, Wesker steps forward.

"Hm, one moment," Wesker says.

The room seems to freeze as Wesker closes the distance, his men parting like the Red Sea at his approach. Without a word, he reaches out and begins buttoning Leon’s gown shut himself. Leon stiffens as humiliation burns through him. He wants to pull away, to shove Wesker off, but he knows it would only make things worse. Instead, he stands there, his face hot, and endures Wesker's strange ministrations.

"There," Wesker murmurs, fastening the final clasp. "Can’t have you wandering around like that, can we?” He moves back, stares at Leon for a moment longer, then addresses the soldiers with a firm, "Take him.”

The soldiers falter for a split second, then they close in, and Leon's roughly ushered toward the door. As he’s led away, he feels Wesker’s gaze following him. He cranes his head around, and the last thing Leon sees before the door slides shut is Wesker’s smug smirk—an insufferable, knowing expression that makes it very apparent the bastard finds Leon’s misery all too entertaining.

The journey to containment is a disorienting haze, much like the last time Leon had been dragged through these labyrinthine halls. The blindingly white, uniform corridors stretch endlessly, seemingly intentionally designed to disorient and confuse. He has no idea where he is or where he's being brought, but it's not like Leon can see much of anything anyway—his view is mostly obstructed by the hulking forms of Wesker’s men, who flank him on all sides. Two of them grip his arms with an impressive show of force, their fingers digging into his biceps as though they expect him to bolt at any moment. It’s almost flattering, in a way, that they think he’s capable of making a break for it in his current state. But mostly, it’s a mercy, as Leon’s walking so unsteadily he fears his face might soon become acquainted with the ground.

The procession halts at a massive steel gate, its imposing frame looming like the entrance to some forbidden fortress. One of the men walks several paces forward to input a code into an adjacent keypad. The gate groans as it rises, and beyond its wide threshold lies an equally wide, dimly lit corridor.

The air here is colder, carrying a faint metallic tang that makes Leon’s skin crawl. The walls are lined with reinforced doors, each one marked by an LED display that flickers to life as he passes. Thick glass windows—likely some special, high-grade material—sit beside each door, offering glimpses into the cells.

Leon’s stomach churns as he manages to peer through some of the openings. Each cell houses a monster. A few, he recognizes from past encounters: a Licker suspended from the ceiling of one room, twitching fitfully; a Zombie in another, its decaying hands pounding mindlessly against glass. The majority of the creatures, however, are alien to him. Leon can't help but wonder how Tricell even managed to contain them in the first place. The mental image of someone trying to herd a Licker into a cage almost elicits a laugh from him, but the sound dies in his throat the moment his gaze lands on a cell that holds not a monster, but a person.

A young woman sits in the corner of her cell, placid and withdrawn, body hunched in a fetal pose. She doesn’t look his way as he passes, her vacant eyes fixed on some remote, unseen point. The sight of her stirs a conflicted blend of emotions in Leon. There’s a guilty kind of comfort in knowing he and Ashley aren’t the only human captives in this hellhole—that they’re not entirely alone amidst this horde of fettered monsters. However, that consolation is soon overshadowed by a more baleful suggestion—Ashley might be nearby, but if she is, what state is she in?

Spurred by the thought, Leon's gaze darts from cell to cell. From prisoner to prisoner. His heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest as he scans faces and combs over crumpled forms, searching for any sign of her. This place is a grim tableau of despondent figures and snarling creatures, but what strikes him most is the imbalance. For every human captive, there are countless more monsters. The sheer scale of it is staggering. Tricell has been cultivating horrors right under the BSAA’s nose. How long has this been happening? How had no one noticed?

But that’s not his concern right now. None of these people are Ashley, and her absence sends a fresh wave of dread crashing over him. Had Wesker lied about her being alive? The possibility threatens to unravel what little composure he has left.

The men guide him deeper into the maze of containment, uncaring, or more likely unaware, of his internal conflict. As they approach an empty cell, Leon’s dizzy gaze lingers on its unlit display, and he catches a glimpse of his own reflection within it. He looks haggard, his face pale and cheeks sunken. Dark crescents shadow his eyes, and his throat still bears a necklace of bruises from Wesker’s fingers, though they’ve begun to fade.

The door to the cell is pushed open, its hinges screeching. The soldiers unceremoniously shove him inside, and he stumbles, collapsing onto his hands and knees. Leon grits his teeth and forces himself to stand. He blows his bangs out of his eyes, and turns just in time to see the door slam shut behind him with a finality that reverberates distinctly like a death knell.

Leon watches through the thick glass as Wesker’s men depart, their footsteps fading into silence. Only when they’re out of sight does he turn to take in his surroundings. The cell is claustrophobic—no more than six feet across—with walls that seem to press in on him. In the back left corner, a thin cot is pushed against the wall, accompanied by a small toilet and sink. The space is frigid; cold seeps into his bones and the gaps between his joints. Leon rubs his forearms in a futile attempt to ward it off and takes a deep breath in an effort to steady himself. 

He’ll get out of this. He has to. He always does. He's going to save Ashley. This—Wesker, Tricell, this sterile prison of a cell—can't be worse than anything he’s already faced. At least, that’s what Leon tells himself. The thought isn’t comforting so much as it is a command, a refusal to let his fears take root. Wesker and his funhouse of horrors won’t be what breaks him.

It becomes a mantra he clings to, a lifeline to keep the creeping despair at bay. But as the hours stretch into days—or is it weeks?—the words begin to feel hollow, their repetition doing little to mask his gnawing uncertainty. Time blurs in the unchanging monotony of his captivity, becoming measurable only by the periodic arrival of meals and brief visits from Tricell’s apathetic scientists.

The food, at least, comes with some semblance of routine. Twice a day, though the intervals between are inconsistent, leaving him to wonder when the next tray will drop through the slot in the door. It’s not a particularly reliable schedule, but it’s more predictable than that of the scientists’. There's no discernible pattern as to when they'll arrive. With faces obscured by surgical masks, their eyes deliberately avoid his as they take his vitals and examine his stitches, all without ever saying a word to him. When they depart, the silence they leave in their wake is deafening, a constant reminder of his isolation. The quiet, Leon realizes, is the worst part of his imprisonment by far.

Before, he had never paid much attention to ambient noise—the birds warbling outside his apartment window, the distant rumbling of cars on the street below, even the steady hum of his refrigerator in the background. It’s only now, in the sounds' absence, that he realizes how much he took them for granted. The quiet of this facility is unlike anything he’s ever experienced. It’s oppressive and unrelenting, broken only by the occasional, distant roar or scream echoing from somewhere unseen. It’s the kind of quiet that amplifies every thought, every doubt. It’s a quiet that doesn’t just surround him—it invades him, leaving no room for anything else.

It’s… a lot, especially for someone so accustomed to action and purpose. So used to explosions and gunfire. To keep himself from unraveling, Leon spends his waking hours pacing the confines of his small cell, the ordered sound of his footsteps a feeble attempt to distract from his compounding restlessness. Sometimes, he tries to go through exercise routines—push-ups, sit-ups, anything to burn off the tension—but the space is too cramped to do much of anything productive. When exhaustion forces him to stop, he sits on his thin cot and observes his fellow prisoners through the thick glass window.

The cell directly opposite his houses some sort of small, spider-crab hybrid. It's pretty grotesque, but it doesn’t do much—just eats when it’s fed and skitters about its cell in aimless circles. Leon watches it with a morbid fascination, and wonders if this is what keeping a hermit crab is like. He's never had pets, though, so when he eventually recognizes that he isn’t much different from the creature himself, the experience rapidly sours. He doesn't watch it much more after that, the self-made comparison having left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Wesker’s conspicuous absence only deepens that bitterness. Leon hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him since their last encounter in the lab, and the lack of contact only fuels his agitation. He’d sort of expected to be put to work, especially after Wesker had dangled the possibility of Ashley’s safety in front of him like bait on a hook. But there’s been no sign of Wesker, no word, nothing. It feels like Leon’s in limbo, trapped in a purgatory of uncertainty, and it eats away at his resolve. Every day that passes without answers is another chip in his armor, another crack in his determination.

It doesn't help that he’s growing weaker, too. The frequent blood draws, the poor nutrition, and the constant stress are taking their toll. He feels heavier with each passing day, his movements slower, his thoughts more sluggish. The bruises on his throat have faded, but the ache in his body remains, a constant reminder of his vulnerability. He can’t afford to wait much longer. If he’s going to make a move, it has to be soon—before he’s too weak to fight back.

Leon had always prided himself on his principles, on his ability to navigate even the most dire situations without compromising his morals. But desperation has a way of eroding even the strongest of convictions. He finds himself considering ideas he once would have dismissed outright. Contemplating plans a past version of himself would have scorned.

The next time the scientists come for him, he decides, he’ll act. He’ll use the element of surprise, take down whoever enters—civilian or not—and make a break for it. It’s a reckless plan, born of frustration and necessity, but it’s all he has. He’ll hide behind the door, wait for the right moment, and strike. It’s a long shot, but it’s better than sitting here, waiting for someone else to come and rescue him.

When the time finally comes, broadcasted by not-so distant footfalls, Leon positions himself carefully. He presses against the wall beside the door, out of the window's view. The sound grows louder, then he hears the familiar beep of the keypad outside. The door swings open, and Leon lunges—only to freeze mid-motion as he realizes who’s standing in the doorway.

Wesker.

Wesker catches him effortlessly, his gloved hand gripping Leon’s arm with the searing intensity of molten iron. In one fluid, almost elegant movement, he twists Leon’s arm behind his back and slams him face-first into the wall. The impact pulses through Leon’s body, and a pained grunt spills from his parted lips. He struggles instinctively, writhing and pulling, but the harder he fights, the more Wesker’s grip seems to tighten. Resistance is a fool's errand, he already knows. Wesker’s strength is inhuman, and Leon might as well be trying to bend a steel beam with his bare hands—so he reluctantly stills.

"Really, Leon?" Wesker's voice is blatantly amused. "Two weeks in this cell, and the moment you decide to act, it’s when I walk through the door? I’m flattered, truly."

Two weeks. Leon grits his teeth, cheek pressed against cold, unyielding concrete.

"Go to hell,” he spits, somewhat petulantly.

His timing couldn’t have been worse. But, in his defense, how the hell was he supposed to know Wesker would show up now? He hadn’t exactly predicted this outcome—Wesker had been gone for two whole weeks, vanishing without a trace, only to reappear at the absolute worst moment. He thought he'd have more time.

Wesker chuckles, a deep, mocking sound that has Leon wondering if the man can read his mind. He leans closer, and the warmth of his breath puffs into the shell of Leon's ear, "If I’d known you were so eager to see me, I’d have come sooner," he purrs.

Leon shudders, his skin prickling where the hot air drags across his flesh. Thoroughly uncomfortable, he twists violently, renewing his efforts to break free. But Wesker squeezes his arm once again, forcing him to stop. The proximity is stifling, and Leon feels an unnatural heat radiating from Wesker’s body. Some distant, traitorous part of him wants to lean into the sensation, after being subject to the perpetual chill of this place for so long.

God, I must be going crazy, he thinks.

"The only thing I'm eager for is putting a bullet between your eyes," he says.

"Of that, I have no doubt," Wesker replies, infuriatingly casual, "but I won't have you undoing all my hard work. Save the escape attempts for when you are not in danger of disemboweling yourself."

With that, Wesker spins him around and releases him with a shove. It’s surprisingly gentle, for a bioweapon, but it still sends Leon staggering back into his cell. He catches himself on the edge of his cot and turns to glower at his captor.

"That’s a whole lot of concern for someone you just slammed into a wall."

"That was hardly a slam. Consider it more of a scolding."

"Whatever. What are you even doing here, anyway?" Leon snaps, willing Wesker to just get on with it. "Come to gloat after letting me stew for a few weeks? Or did you run out of lackeys to do your dirty work?”

Wesker adjusts his gloves with deliberate indifference, crimson eyes gleaming behind his glasses, "Can’t a man pay a social visit without being accused of ulterior motives?” he asks lightly.

"You? Social? Don't make me laugh. You're the type of person that doesn't do anything without a reason."

The corner of Wesker's mouth curls, but he doesn't deny it. Instead, he slips further into the cell, his broad figure filling the space like a cloud of noxious gas, "A reason?" he muses. "Of course I have a reason. Though I suspect you’ll find it underwhelming. I’ve been away on business, which required my presence elsewhere. But now that I’ve returned, it's time we resume our... collaboration."

"Collaboration? Is that what you’re calling it now?"

Wesker ignores the jab, suddenly sounding very serious, "Call it what you will, Kennedy. But do not forget that your cooperation is not up for debate. Your survival, on the other hand, is entirely negotiable."

Yeah, asshole. Like I could ever forget. You make damn sure of that every time you open your mouth, Leon thinks with a great deal of indignation. He keeps the words locked behind clenched teeth, which proves rather difficult in of itself. Really, what’s this bastard’s problem? Leon’s no stranger to the hot-and-cold treatment. Ada’s made an art form out of it, after all. Getting it from Wesker, though, is something else entirely. To be drawn into banter, only to be shut down and chastised at the end of it? It's exhausting. How is he supposed to toe the line when he has no idea where it is?

Unsure of how to respond—or if he even should—Leon settles for a stiff, jerky nod.

Fortunately, this seems to satisfy Wesker. He promptly steps aside, and holds the cell door open with one arm. The gesture is as much a command as it is an invitation, but Leon hesitates all the same. His eyes jump to the open door and then back to Wesker, searching for any hint as to his intentions. Wesker’s expression is as unreadable as ever, and Leon has no idea what he's thinking.

With a quiet huff, Leon resigns himself and brushes past Wesker with as much defiance as he can muster.