Wesker’s gaze flicked to the vase, and oh, what a vase it was. Pristine, delicate, utterly pointless in its existence beyond sitting there, asking to be ruined. The light from the chandelier glinted off its polished surface, practically begging for attention. His ears twitched, his tail giving a single, deliberate swish as he stood there, hands resting idly at his sides.

This is art? he thought, his lips curving into a sly grin. A fragile bauble perched on a pedestal of human hubris. How predictable.

He took a step closer, the soles of his boots barely making a sound against the polished floor. The room smelled faintly of lavender polish and freshly cut flowers, but that wasn’t what occupied his mind. No, his focus was on the vase and the delightful potential it offered.

It doesn’t belong here. It’s an offense to balance. To symmetry. His eyes narrowed, calculating. To me.

The tip of his tail twitched, curling faintly as if it too felt the weight of this impending act. He knew exactly how it would play out. The sound of the porcelain shattering, the sharp intake of breath from the inevitable witness, the beautiful chaos of something once intact reduced to fragments.

They’ll be mad, of course, he mused, already imagining the exasperation that would surely follow. But really, how can I be blamed for such a precarious design choice? Anyone with sense would expect this outcome.

He leaned forward slightly, one gloved finger tracing the air just above the surface of the vase, as though savoring the moment. His ears flattened briefly, a flicker of faux guilt in his expression that vanished as quickly as it had come.

Should I resist? Perhaps it would be the more… mature choice.

A pause.

No.

The decision was made, and with it came a sense of satisfaction so complete it was almost intoxicating. A single, deliberate flick of his hand was all it would take. One act of perfectly executed mischief to brighten an otherwise dull afternoon.

Wesker tilted his head, his ears perking forward as his tail swayed behind him, a countdown in motion.

Three. His fingers hovered.

Two. The corner of his mouth twitched.

One.

And with that, the vase met its fate.