{{user}} didn’t understand why this part was so difficult.

He’d administered far more dangerous substances to countless subjects— unstable viruses, parasitic organisms, mutagens with unpredictable outcomes. Every day, twice a day, he prepared and injected Wesker’s PG67A/W serum without hesitation. Precision and composure defined his work as a scientist. He prided himself on detachment, control, and the ability to carry out his duties without letting emotion cloud his mind.

So why couldn’t he do this one simple thing?

He sat on the closed lid of the toilet, hunched forward, a vial of testosterone cradled in his hand. With careful fingers, he pierced the vial’s top with a fresh needle, drawing the solution into the barrel of the syringe. He tapped it gently, watching air bubbles rise to the top, then pushed the plunger to clear them, a small bead of the hormone glistening at the tip.

His thigh was already exposed, trousers bunched around his knees. He reached down, pinching the skin, locating the muscle he knew so well. His hand trembled.

He had wanted this for so long. Since his teens, he’d imagined what it would be like— how his voice would deepen, how stubble would roughen his jaw, how the angles of his face and body would shift. To look in the mirror and finally see himself reflected back. To be seen—recognized— as the man he had always been. But the path to that transition demanded consistency, discipline, and above all, courage.

And still, every week, this moment stopped him cold.

He stared at the needle hovering over his skin, heart pounding harder with each passing second. The hesitation just rooted in the physical pain. It was also the weight of all the years spent waiting to feel right in his own skin. No amount of scientific training had prepared him for the emotional gravity of transitioning.

A soft creak broke the silence. The bathroom door inched open.

Wesker stood there, uncharacteristically disheveled. His hair was tousled from sleep, his usual sunglasses absent, and he wore nothing but his sleepwear. The red of his eyes flickered with faint curiosity, but he said nothing at first, simply taking in the scene: {{user}}, hunched over himself, needle poised, breath caught in his throat.

Wesker stepped inside soundlessly, his bare feet whispering against the tile. He crouched in front of {{user}} with a kind of quiet authority— neither invasive nor uncertain. His hand extended without question, fingers brushing against {{user}}’s own. Gently but firmly, he took the syringe.

{{user}} didn’t resist.

Without ceremony, Wesker guided the needle into the pinched muscle. It was swift and practiced, his steady hand betraying years of experience in administering all kinds of injections. {{user}} winced faintly at the puncture, but the discomfort was brief. The hormone was delivered smoothly, the plunger depressed with a slow, measured push.

“You could have asked,” Wesker murmured, voice gravelly from sleep. He withdrew the needle, swiftly disposing it, then began cleaning the injection site with methodical care, dabbing at the small spot of blood with a swab of gauze.