Author's Note: Holy cow, didn't I get complaints about the cliffhanger in the last chapter! xD Well, you'd better get used to them; this story has a real lot of 'em. I'm particularly happy of how this is coming out: I have 71 pages for 14 chapters, so you can guess it's a long one. The chapters will get longer as we go on, so expect long reads. In this chapter, I have to say this, we step what I would like to call the "Realm of the Psychological", and I'll tell you why.

The story is coming out long because this, being a love triangle and such, requires a lot of psychological development. As such, many of the upcoming chapters have many paragraphs of only thoughts of the character, and we will see a lot coming from Jill. Psychological -drama, perhaps?- is what will be predominating from here on out. (Some of these notes will be long due to aspects of the story I will have to explain before flames or complaints come xDD)

Disclaimer: I do not own Resident Evil or any of its characters, only my OCs

V

Reason I: Temptation

'I may be crazy but it keeps me from going insane.' Waylon Jennings

Five hours.

Five hours since Jill and Chris had returned from Philadelphia, five hours since she had saved his life, five hours since she had almost died in the attempt after the loss of blood, five hours since the betrayal.

Jill stared at the dark tiles of the floor, hands clenched into fists and resting on her knees. She was sitting at the hall, her back completely straightened and muscles already accustomed to the position; she hadn't shifted in all that time, not a single inch. She couldn't: she feared that the same moment she moved, a paramedic would step out of the ICU and bring horrible news to her. The only thing the doctors had told her through Oliver Graves had been that Chris had been injected with something... and it wasn't a sedative, alright. Jill feared it was something even worse; why else would Chris be in the ICU in the first place?

Five hours and five minutes.

Five hours and five minutes since everything had happened. Jill always hated being in silence; she always had to had something in the background, even the faintest of noises. But now, the hospital wing was devoid of life, quiet as a cemetery. Soon, the noise she heard was the loud hammering of her heart in her ears as the tension spiked and got the best of her: she felt almost compelled to burst inside the Unit and have a look at her partner, but that'd be foolish.

Besides, I never lose my temper. But now it's different... it's Chris we're talking about and... Please God or whoever's listening to me... I need you to help him, I beg you.

Five hours and ten minutes.

Goddamn it, five hours already! Don't they have any-

Before she could finish the thought, Oliver Graves stepped outside the ICU and Jill stood up ipso facto. Everything seemed to unfold with deliberate slowness. Graves approached Jill, his dark and intense eyes gleaming with something that Jill could only identify as impassiveness and rage. She stayed silent, waiting for him to rely any kind of news he had. When Graves spoke, his words came out low and crestfallen.

"He doesn't respond. What's strange is that his body is still alive in a way but no matter what the paramedics do, his heart doesn't beat. I can't-"

Graves suddenly interrupted himself when the sound of the door opening was noticeable. Out of the ICU stepped one of the paramedics and by the look on his old features, Jill found no consolation in Graves' words about Chris' body still being alive. That meant nothing: if he wasn't conscious, if there were no signs of coma, then he was-

"We tried everything, but it's all been in vain," he declared, solemn. "I'm sorry, but we've lost him."

"God, no!!" Graves shouted, taking both hands to his head and turning around. Jill didn't respond: she released no gasps, no exclamations, no words, nothing. She lost all awareness, as if her mind had been disconnected, and she sensed nothing. She remained standing, her consciousness screaming, her heartbeat accelerating and her soul shattering.

She couldn't believe it. Chris, dead? The man who always seemed so very strong and motivated, dedicated and cheerful... dead? Her partner, her friend, the man she loved, dead? No, it wasn't a joke, no matter how much she tried to laugh at it. It was inevitable: sooner or later, the time had to come. Butwhy? Why did it have to come so very soon, so very unexpectedly?

"Are you sure? Have you tried absolutely everything?!"

Jill came to her senses, but she could only see and feel; her ears still blocked all outside noise, not caring how low or loud it was.

That was when she felt tears running down her face. Jill Valentine was a strong woman, but now she felt fragile, as if made of the most delicate of glasses.

Now now, Jill, there's no need to cry...

No... not that voice again, not his voice again, not that horribly deep and cruel voice of his that would keep ringing in her ears until Judgement Day. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to cover her ears and prevent his voice from reaching them.

"I'm not crying. I can't do it anymore."

On the contrary, dear, you can. I've seen you cry many times and no matter how much you repeated you had no more tears to shed, you still did. You may still remember the times when consolation was pointless, if not impossible, to provide.

But, as she soon came to realize, it was all in her mind.

"Shut up... shut up... that's enough..."

And now, she felt him breathing against her skin, gesture which sent painful shivers down her spine; she felt him sliding his fingers up and down her neck, which caused her to asphyxiate; she felt him so very close, which made her heart shrink with pain. Jill made no attempt to move away; she knew he was delighting in the torture even in the afterlife, and she certainly wouldn't give him the pleasure of seeing her shaken.

But that attempt was in vain.

Realizing the deadly coldness of his touch, his coldness, she jerked away, sudden horror coursing through her system and telling her only one thing: to run, to escape him.

Then, that smirk.

Would he kill her now?

Jill's eyes widened almost beyond their limit and in spite of coaxing her body into moving, it didn't. She remained frozen in the spot, looking into his inhuman golden gaze.

Was that the sign?

No, it wasn't. It was what Jill needed to face him. Ironic: the thing she feared the most was what gave her the strength to stand up again and hold his gaze, firm.

"I don't fear you. No matter how much you try, you're not going to make me collapse, you're not going to take everything away from me," she declared, gradually becoming enraged. "I'm strong, I'm a new person, and I'm not afraid of you, you hear me?!!" She bellowed with as much strength as she could muster.

But Wesker's smirk never faltered; instead, the smirk widened into a grin.

Was that the sign?

Jill didn't know. What she did know was that Wesker was right behind her, and his mouth close to her ear.

Oh, but you are. You still are afraid, and that's not going to change.

You're still afraid.

Returning to reality, Jill shook her head, turned around and walked away from Graves and the paramedic, increasing her speed each second that went by. By the time she wanted to notice, she was running at full pelt down the hall, eagerly desiring to get out of that place. Also, by the moment she wanted to realize, a hand had closed itself around her wrist, its grip tight and iron-like. She stopped in her tracks, not looking back; she didn't need to.

"Let me go."

But you are the one holding me. What are you doing?

Bewildered, Jill swivelled around and was face to face with Wesker again. Seconds later her gaze drifted to her hand and she found that his words were true: it was her hand the one which was clasping his wrist, and not vice versa. The meaning of it fell upon Jill like the heaviest of rocks.

She was still holding on to his memory.

"Why can't I let go? Why can't you let go of me, dammit?!" she exclaimed, not caring about the tone of her voice. "Why can't you disappear?!"

Is it hate you really feel?

xx

Jill's eyes snapped open and a familiar itch nagged them. She saw the world in a very strange way, like shaky and swimming before her eyes, like-

Oh, right... She remembered why, and the throbbing in her temples also reminded her of what was happening.

She had been lying underwater for a minute and a half or so... she couldn't remember. What she remembered was herself getting everything prepared: she had filled the tub right to the very edge, stepped inside and lowered herself down to the bottom. She had remained there for only God knew how long, unmoving. No, it wasn't a suicide attempt.

Then what was it?

As she let out a small puff of air from her mouth, Jill answered that question herself.

There had been no way to convince her of the reason behind Chris' death. No, it hadn't been her fault, but yes, it had been her fault. If she had seen that Gil bastard coming up from behind him, nothing would've happened, she wouldn't be there and Chris would still be alive.

But had there been a way to see it?

No, there hadn't, and that's what bugged her the most. Jill closed her eyes, her whole body relaxing as the sorrow caused weariness.

I should've figured it out sooner.

'Aw, c'mon, Jill, don't blame yourself!'

She opened her gaze, only to find herself floating in complete darkness. Horror's cold hand clutched her heart for what it seemed the first time in ages, and then she heard a light chuckle. She glanced to her right, and she found him: Chris.

'Chris?'

"The one and only," he replied with a smile, but then he erased it from his features. "What the hell are you doing, Valentine?"

'I don't even know myself.'

"Don't be an idiot: get yourself out of there. What are you trying to accomplish?" he asked her, his tone cold.

'I can't forget about it. It's my fault that you're dead. I've followed my instincts and I fell into temptation: I'm trying to feel what you felt; it's just-'

"I never thought you'd be so foolish: you know it wasn't your fault. I wouldn't want you to go through this, you know that. Come on, think straight."

'What if I told you I can't, Chris?!'

"Then I'd say you need help. You're a strong woman, Valentine, you can keep on going. I don't want you to do what you're doing," Chris said, and the encouragement in his tone did no good to Jill's aching heart.

'I'm not strong, and I don't need help.'

Then, Jill saw something she'd never thought she'd see. Chris scowled at her, narrowed his eyes and took a very deep breath. His gaze seemed to be boring a hole right through her skull, and Jill could feel his anger as if it was her own.

"If you don't need help as you say, then why the hell are you lying underwater, in a tub and almost about to run out of oxygen?" he seethed, and his words made Jill come to the realization: he was right.

It all felt like a slap to the face and she indeed sensed the pain in her chest and head. Jill tried to move, but her body wouldn't respond: it was as if she were chained and her restraints weren't going to budge any time soon.

'Chris!!'

"You've got three seconds, Valentine. Three more seconds to decide what to do: or either you let this go and you get out with your life, or you stay trapped by the grief and the guilt and you die; it's your call now. I learnt to do that when you 'died', and it helped because I didn't give up. It's your turn to decide. I'm going to keep the count: you'd better hurry."

Three...

Chris' image disappeared. Jill returned to the real world and was welcomed by everything returning implied. The pain in her lungs was unbearable, her head was threatening to explode and sooner or later she'd lose consciousness and die.

Two...

One...

Jill didn't think it twice. With all the energy she could muster, she pushed her body out of the water, almost desperate. Once her head had broken through the surface, Jill took hearty and loud gulps of air which made her regain what she had lost: sanity and rationality. As fast as she could, she climbed out of the tub and backed away from it, staring at the cool liquid with dread coursing through her system.

What have I just tried to do?!

Still panting, she felt fresh tears at her eyes and didn't hesitate to shed them, crying as quietly as she could.

"I didn't expect less coming from you, Jill. See? You were able to make it."

"Just... Goddamn it, you can't expect me to carry on as if nothing had happened!" Jill cried out, careless. "Chris, I... I can't do it."

She heard Chris chuckle and she shook her head as hastily as possible, trying to shake all of her thoughts away. It was all in her mind: why was she talking to him? Why was she hearing his voice, for that matter?

"I told myself the same three years ago, and look what happened then. Keep going, Valentine; it's not your time yet."

"It wasn't yours either," she retorted through gritted , another voice replaced Chris', and Jill's head perked up to glance at where it had come from. She stared into the mirror above the sink and found him standing behind her: Wesker.

"Aren't you just going to stop?!" Jill bellowed without looking back to see if it was really true.

"How foolish of you, Jill. I expected a bit more strength."

"Shut up!" she exclaimed, enraged. "It's all your fault this happened in the first place!"

"Do you understand what it means to be weak?"

"That's enough!!" With that last scream, Jill smashed her fist into the mirror, shattering to dozens of sharp shards. When she wanted to realize what she had done, her hand was bleeding profusely, the pain excruciating. But Jill didn't care, only stared at her crimson-stained hand. "I'm not weak..." she muttered, wiping her tears away, "because if I was, I wouldn't be here. Of course, I know he didn't refer to physical weakness..."

But that of the heart's.

Jill lifted her head and looked at the remaining pieces of the mirror that were still hanging on the wall. Her reflection was broken and twisted, so was her soul.

"Of course, now I see that you understand."

"You're a figment of my imagination; you're dead, Wesker. You're nothing more than a memory."

"That may be... I am dead, yes, physically at least, but you know I'll always be inside that little mind of yours. And I guarantee this: unless you do something about it... Trust me, the outcome it will be quite unpleasant."

Serene, Jill proceeded to heal her injured hand. For some reason, she hesitated at first and remained staring at her blood. For God's sake, was she going crazy? She didn't know, and she didn't care. For now, she clung to what little rationality she still had.

She knew that, if she didn't, insanity would soon ensue.

xx

With nothing else than mere willpower, he managed to pull his body out of the scorching liquid, feeling as painful, devilish tongues were licking his skin and causing more patches of flesh to fall off, even more than the ones he'd already lost. Cold blood was the only thing that coated the remains of his body, blood so cold that he didn't even know whether to describe the lava as searing or not.

He remained breathing loudly, obtaining as much oxygen as he could, as he got the unmistakeable sensation of tears stinging at his searing eyes. A sane person would've preserved their energy to keep conscious; he didn't. For the first time in his entire life, he cried silent tears of anger and despair, his mind telling him off because of that.

He tried to move his right arm. It didn't respond nor he felt it still attached to his shoulder. He felt nothing aside from the tears and the pain in his maimed chest, nothing aside from the sudden burst of adrenaline that drove him to lift himself up on his left arm and move his leg in an attempt to stand up. It only made blood rise up in his throat, blood he was forced to cough and spit. He couldn't surrender, he couldn't give up!

Still, in mere moments, out of weariness and grief, he collapsed and drifted into unconsciousness.

Once he realized where he was, he swore he would've never thought that coming back from unconsciousness was this painful.

It had all been slow, very slow. When he had come to his senses, every sensation that he'd felt came back to assail him and all the images that his mind had stored came back to torture him. Every single one flashed by and blinded him even more than he already was, and each one triggered an involuntary convulsion. It was then when his sense of hearing became much more keener and a loud wave of muffled voices struck his ears; it felt as if the world had turned a thousands decibels louder, all accompanied by a deafening whistling. His first reflex had been to shield his ears from those horrible noises, unable to stifle a yell which only made things worse.

Then, it had been his body. When he had moved his arms just a mere inch, everything turned as hot as the deepest pit of Hell. He felt as if he were being licked by the eternal flames, consuming his body and degrading it to insignificant ashes to scatter them into the wind. But that slow, excruciating death didn't come; instead, life came.

He felt alive.

Indeed, it took him long to realize that he wasn't dying but living again, and he opened his eyes, hesitant. The world in front of him came with a soft burst of light, if not painless. In fact, he didn't feel his body, only his mind and his thoughts, all disordered and bizarre. He heard his own breathing, weak and irregular and laboured; he felt his chest rising and falling with each breath he took, and it all became a bit clearer.

Coldness spread across his face; at least, that's where he thought he'd felt it. He was disoriented, confused, and he still couldn't bring himself to think straight.

"...with us?"

He couldn't discern the entire sentence nor its meaning but he knew he was amongst people and he was being watched. He swallowed, the process painful and difficult, attempted to speak. No words came, not even the feeling of air ascending to his throat, which he suddenly described as parched and sore. He swallowed once more, only to be rewarded with more pain. He remained breathing, unresponsive.

"...shows...reac... to light... yet..."

It took him a bit of time to piece the parts of the sentence together: no reaction to light yet. But why would they be examining that?

And it soon hit him: who was 'they'?

And who was he? What about his name? Something told him he knew, that he had a name, but still was impossible to remember.

"Who... who am I...?"

The question came along with a sigh, his voice weak because of the lack of strength he so desperately craved to have. It even hurt to speak, the pain making him cough and cringe as he regained mobility in his limbs.

"...ker?"

He knew, he remembered: who he was, what he had done, how he was, who he had met, how he had died. Died? Yes, he had died and in a very painful way, not to mention humiliating. Who and what he was were the first thoughts that crossed his mind.

His name was Albert Wesker, and he was a-

What? What was he? How could he had been so sure of that answer when he now couldn't formulate it, couldn't bring himself to accept it?

He soon found himself with no energies to think, not even to keep on breathing, and the man known as Albert Wesker immediately sank into unconsciousness as the stable, earpiercing whistling kept ringing.

A/N: And here's the part I guess everyone's been waiting for. Yes, Wesker is alive and kicking; don't worry, it'll all be explained later on, no matter how confuse it may seem. In fact, I've written a whole chapter just providing answers, nothing else, so don't fret. I'll tell you something important in the next chapter, something you will all need to have in mind, alright?

Till the next update, coming up on Tuesday! Reviews are appreciated!^^