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Day 61

"Sit here." Wesker pats the empty space next to him in the limousine. Jill heeds his command and promptly situates herself.

"Lie down." He says next.

Her body folds at his will, curling into a fetal position. She rests her head on his lap.

He neither strokes her hair nor touches her.

She stares at the elegant decanter, watches the amber liquid sway inside its crystal case with every bump on the road.

Approximately half an hour until they reach the airport. The material of his pants is like a snake's skin, cool against her cheek.

She shifts. His breath catches.

He's hard against her nape.

Day 11

She can't feel her legs.

"It's normal." He says in the background. "You've been inside the cryostatis for..." She hears the rustle of paper. "Over seven hundred days."

A minute ago her legs gave out. And she toppled like a house of cards.

"Rehabilitation will take time."

She stays sprawled, helpless like a sack of rice.

He lets out an audible sigh, before he's lowering himself to her level.

One of his arms worms its way under her knees. The other stretches across her back. He easily lifts her off the floor.

Goosebumps erupt all over her skin.

Did he carry her the same way the night she died?

Day 41

"Remove the slip, Ms. Valentine." The scientist says exactly ten seconds after she is injected with the drug.

She has been expecting it. He has observed her with more interest than the others. She has expected it from the tremble of his hands earlier, from the way his knee bounced when he asked the assistants to leave.

She discards the thin gown, and stands in the middle of the lab as directed.

Her nipples harden with the ice cold air circulating in the room.

He circles her, like a vulture. Hungry beady eyes and greedy hands.

She expects him to grab her breast or squeeze her ass, or maybe kiss her with that usually foul mouth.

He steps in front of her. And she smells aftershave and the coffee candy melting on his tongue.

He touches her over the panties, presses where it matters.

Day 41 (after tests)

Maybe he needs an Advil, she thinks as Wesker takes the sunglasses off. His face is twisted into a grimace. Is it because of disgust or disapproval?

She adjusts on the couch. It's uncomfortable to sit around without underwear, the fabric just sticks to her skin.

"Get inside!" He barks suddenly, pointing at the bathroom.

"Wash up."

"I can smell you."

He spits the words out, acts like it's her fault he's agitated.

She knows he can smell the moist heat between her legs, knows he's erect the moment she stepped into the room. Sick bastard.

Day 81

"Be quick." He hands her a syringe of PG67A/W. Excella is on an errand, turning over the role of nurse to the marionette.

He actually grits his teeth when the needle slides in, as if he's hurting.

She disposes of the injection once done. And he hands her another.

Her mind stops for a second to ask why. But her hand hastily takes the order and executes it.

He requires precise doses, anything besides that is...?

She's about to find out.

Day 81 (after tests)

The bastard has voluntarily poisoned himself.

She's almost glad she's currently incapable of expressing glee.

She's in hysterics inside, drowning in maniacal laughter that doesn't end.

Day 41 (after dark)

"You can't threaten me!"

"I've been with Tricell for twenty years! They're to reward my loyalty—!"

"Who says anything about threats."

It doesn't even last for a fucking second.

Just a snap. Like a camera's shutter.

The doctor collapses, neck broken, his head lolls on the ground, like those little dogs placed on the dashboard - bobbing away as you drive.

She eyes his lifeless fingers, remembers the orgasm that drenched them.

Day 81 (after dark)

Wesker crawls on the concrete, drool spilling over his thin lips. He claws on his chest, on his neck, on his face. Skin tears and flesh bleeds.

His eyes pulse red.

Does he need help?

The P30 can't read minds. Her chest plate merely thrums.

He climbs on the sofa, writhes for another hour, until his head settles on her lap and he falls asleep.

Day 21

It's the first time she sees her reflection.

Dead blue eyes. Hair almost white. Skin like dishwater.

She thinks of screaming at the sight. She thinks of shattering the mirror in rage. She thinks of throwing herself on the floor in disbelief.

But she blinks and sees the pulse on her neck.

Strong beats of her heart.

Steady breaths. Mended body.

She focuses on surviving. A cornered animal like her is the most dangerous kind.