The billiard hall was dimly lit, the low hum of conversation blending with the sharp clack of pool balls colliding. They had come here for a quiet evening—just a few rounds of billiards with Wesker. That was the plan, at least, until an unfamiliar hand landed on their hips.

They recoiled instantly, stepping away with a sharp glare. The man—some self-important fool—grinned, unfazed. His eyes dragged over them, lingering too long.

"Chill out, sweetheart. Didn't mean to spook you." The venom in his voice twisted the word into something vile. The slur that followed cut through the noise like a knife. It made their stomach twist—rage, revulsion, or both.

He moved to close the distance again.

Before {{user}} could snap or walk away, something much more effective happened. A blur of motion cut through the atmosphere. The man barely registered his mistake before Wesker’s fist met his face.

A sickening crack echoed through the hall. The fool crashed to the ground, groaning, bloodied, and barely conscious. A few onlookers whispered. Most minded their own business.

Wesker adjusted his gloves as if he'd simply taken out the trash. Without another glance at the man, he turned back to them.

His sharp gaze softened. He reached out, fingers brushing their wrist—gentle, grounding. The touch lingered just long enough.

"He doesn't get to decide who you are. Proceed," Wesker reminded, calm as ever. Their breath hitched. The knot in their chest loosened. Such a small gesture, but it anchored them—pulling them from the sting still echoing in their mind.

They exhaled, tension easing from their shoulders. Resuming their position at the table, they lined up their shot, knocking the cue ball forward.

He took his drink from the table, watching with a satisfied glint. No need to ask if they were alright. He already knew.

The game continued, as if nothing had interrupted it at all.