Three hundred and seventy eight days.

Steve half heartedly scratched a chalky line into the cement on the wall of his cell, in a small, exposed square where several tiles had long since been removed, marking yet another day he had spent in captivity. He couldn't recall the date. He didn't know what time it was, either. But at least he knew that he had aged a year or two…that's a start, right? Using the little piece of jagged slate in his hand, he then began sawing slowly at one side of the electronic collar sitting around his neck, continuing this repetitive, daily ritual for what felt like hours, before dropping the slate and stroking the tips of his fingers across the mark, a rough, shallow groove clearly noticeable on the surface of the sleek black metal. At least he was making progress. It's not even as though he thought he'd eventually get the collar off, or that doing so would aid him in any way at all, but to still have something to work towards, some kind of goal, gave him…something left to live for. It stopped him from going insane, at least.

But it didn't distract him from the pain in the pit of his stomach. Whether from hunger, or from something else, he couldn't really tell, but each day when he woke up, the pain would be there, sometimes growing stronger until it was almost unbearable, and others lessening to mild irritation. As the weeks passed, he could feel his body growing weaker and weaker. His lips and eyes were always dry. His throat always hurt. His hands would constantly shake, and his skin was so pale it was beginning to match the colour of the tiles that lined the floor and the walls of his concrete cage.

He was fully aware that he hadn't eaten in over three weeks, and although he'd been drinking the water from a cooler that had conveniently fallen close enough to the barred door of his cell for him to reach, he knew all too well that the human body could only last so long without food, especially in such a weakened state. What's more, the water in the cooler was quickly running out. The human body could last a much shorter period without water. He was well aware of that, too.

He couldn't help but wish, no matter how passionately he loathed those who had once held him prisoner, that they were still there with him. He'd rather be a glorified human guinea pig, and have even the slightest ray of hope, than die slowly and painfully with no chance of escape, which was the short and unfortunate summary of his current situation.

He looked back to the wall on his left, where the three hundred and seventy eight tiny white lines were standing messily side by side, one of them circled lightly in the same scrawling fashion, marking it as one hundred and sixteen days since the only other human beings remaining in the facility, maybe even in the continent, had packed up and left him behind. It's not even as though he wanted to speak with them. But even the miniscule amount of human contact he received through looking at a stranger's face through the bars was enough to satisfy his tortured mind. And even that had been taken away from him.

He never quite understood why they had kept him alive at all. If it was the virus they wanted, then what had he ever been useful for? They had never asked him any questions, never asked him to tell them what he knew…they had never spoken to him at all. They had treated him like an infected animal and nothing more; feeding him, giving him water, periodically changing the sheets on his bed. Most of the time he hadn't even been conscious, drifting in and out of a restless, unwelcoming sleep; plagued with nightmare visions that he could never recall were dreams or reality. The itching, pinpoint bruises scattered uniformly up and down the skin of his arms were the only telltale sign of what had been happening to his body while he was unaware. In this case, ignorance was far from bliss.

He lifted his left arm slowly, his eyes grazing over the tiny, faded scars to his wrist, where there was another scar, much darker and more noticeable than the others. The veins around it were clearly visible through the surface of the skin, pulsing slowly, trying their best to restore the damage to a wound that would never heal. The skin around his wrist, spreading slightly up his arm like an infectious disease, was faintly tinted green; a constant reminder of the reason he was there, of the past he tried desperately to forget, of the fact that he was no longer…human.

He jumped a little as a faint, echoing noise reverberated through the metal of the bedpost by his head. As it grew slowly but surely louder, he couldn't help but fear that he was not the only 'monster' left in the facility. In fact, in such a large building, it was highly unlikely that he was. However, the thought didn't scare him half as much as it excited him. After all, he'd been trapped in this cold, dark, mind numbingly boring cell for over a year. He was going to die for sure anyway. Why not go out in style and get killed by a giant, over-powered, mutant octopus or something? Well, at least that was one way to look at it. The other, of course, was that this was his chance at freedom. If something found him and broke the bars on his cell, he'd have a chance to escape before whatever it was made its next move. It was probably a long shot, but if he was going to die anyway, what harm would it do to at least 'try'?

He wasn't going to sit still and let this chance pass him by, that's for sure.

Struggling slightly against the weight of his own body, he used the bedpost to push himself to his feet. Over his time in captivity, he had tried sporadically to get up and move around his cell, so he knew very well that he had not lost the ability to walk. It was a little uncomfortable; his body was weak. He didn't have the energy to make any quick moves, but at least if he could walk…limp…heck, even 'crawl' out of that facility, he would do it. And he would make sure he did it faster than whatever was chasing him.

First of all, though, he had to attract its attention. He could still hear the noise, which now sounded much more obviously like footsteps, but it sounded fairly distant, and occasionally seemed to speed up, slow down, getting louder and then getting quieter. The creature, whatever it was, was clearly disorientated. Or maybe it was just stupid. Either way, it was definitely…

…was that a gunshot?

The footsteps stopped suddenly and it went silent for a few seconds, before he heard what he was absolutely certain was a human voice.

His heart leapt and his body froze, his mind buzzing with questions, answers, scenarios, anything that could make sense of the situation. Why now, after all this time, would another human being set foot into an abandoned facility in the middle of nowhere, where there were likely to be all sorts of disgusting, man eating creatures? And why would that person be alone? Basically, he settled on two options: Option A was that the person was coming into the facility to clear it out and to therefore kill him. Option B was that the person was coming into the facility to investigate it and to therefore save him. Either way, this was a living, breathing, thinking, feeling human being. Whether they were going to rescue him, or shoot him dead, it was better than this.

"H…hello?" his voice came out weak and raspy.

He cleared his throat, leaning forward against the bars, trying to see further into the room, but it was too dark to see any further than the other cells around his own and the opposite wall.

"Hello?!"

He paused, listening, and to his delight, and a little to his fear, the footsteps stopped briefly, and then began moving faster, getting louder and louder as the person approached the room he was trapped in. He heard the door swing open slowly. He heard the footsteps slow as they entered the room, and a bright, white light flickered across the tiles, clearly coming from a flashlight.

"I…I'm over here!"

As the person reached Steve's cell, he could faintly see, behind the halo of light being shone into his eyes, that it was a young man, probably not much older than himself, with dark blonde hair and steely grey eyes. He didn't look like a cop, or F.B.I, or anything of the sort, but he was certainly kitted out like one, with a black muscle shirt, a combat knife in a pouch on his shoulder, and several other gadgets strapped around his hips on a utility belt. What's more, held steadily underneath the flashlight was an expensive looking, high calibre pistol, the barrel perfectly aligned with Steve's forehead.

"D…don't shoot. I'm human." Steve stammered a little, gulping, holding his hands up defensively and taking a step back from the bars.

The man with the gun didn't hesitate to lower it, tucking it neatly into the holster on his thigh, shining the beam of the flashlight over Steve, around the cell, and then around the room briefly, before clipping it to a strap on his shoulder, examining the lock on the door. After looking at it for all of three seconds, the man then pulled a thin, slightly hooked piece of metal out of one of the pouches on his belt, and began twisting it in the keyhole, resting his fingertips just above, clearly concentrating.

"What's your name?"

The man's voice was fairly deep in comparison to his slightly feminine appearance, but it was calm and steady, as though he'd done this a thousand times. Steve found himself immediately reassured. He felt sure that this was someone who could help him, even though he didn't know that person's name.

"S…Steve."

The man paused, stilling the pick in the keyhole, before flicking his wrist very slightly, the lock faintly clicking and the door swinging outwards on its hinges as he stepped back out of the way, tucking the instrument back into the compartment by his hip.

"Can you walk?"

Steve paused, looking at the opening in front of him. It had been so long since he'd seen it opened, he'd almost forgotten that it was a door. He nodded slightly in reply to the man, stepping out of the cell, taking it slowly, just in case his body decided to prove him wrong. The smooth concrete of the floor that greeted the soles of his feet was a welcome change to the yellowing tiles that he'd spent the past year or so of his life living on. The sense of relief he felt was overwhelming. So much so, that he couldn't even feel the hunger anymore, nor the pain, nor that niggling fear in the back of his mind that had been with him for so long, he could barely recall what it was like to be without it. He felt like laughing. He felt like crying, and screaming and running away. Yet, at the same time, he had no clue what to do. He never thought he'd experience the feeling of stepping outside his cage again.

"How long have you been here?"

The voice near him broke his train of thought, snapping him sharply back to reality.

"Uh…"

He knew very well how long he'd been there. But now, for some reason, it felt painful to say it out loud.

"It doesn't matter." The man stopped him again, placing a firm hand on Steve's shoulder. "My name is Leon Kennedy."

The touch shocked him slightly. It felt foreign and strange. How long had it been since he'd had another person touch him in a way that wasn't negative or abusive? It was only a hand on his shoulder, and yet that small gesture felt as though it lifted such a great weight off his shoulders, that he felt light headed.

"Don't worry."

All of the worry that he'd been feeling drained away with those words.

"I'm gonna help you."

And he no longer felt afraid.

"Trust me."