The room was immersed in semi-darkness and silence, broken only by a faint rustling sound. Wesker stood with his back to you, his stern silhouette sharply outlined against the light coming through the window. Warm light filtered through the glass, dancing on the plastic casing of the syringe in his hands. His fingers moved with surgical precision, filling the needle with a thick, yellow liquid.

— Rough day? — his voice was icy, almost mechanical. He turned slowly, and in the dim light you saw his thin lips curl into a sarcastic half-smile. One eyebrow lifted slightly — a gesture full of contemptuous curiosity.

Without waiting for an answer, he took a step forward. His boots thudded dully on the wooden floor, each sound measuring out the final seconds before the inevitable. Your muscles tensed, but it was already too late — his hand clamped onto your neck, fingers digging into the skin, forcing the artery into view.

You felt a sharp burn as the steel needle pierced your flesh. Wesker wasn’t in a hurry — he watched as your pupils contracted from the pain, as a choking gasp caught in your throat. The liquid flowed slowly into the artery — thick and searing, like molten metal.

— Hope you're ready for the consequences, — he whispered, his voice somewhere between mockery and warning.

The syringe was empty. He pulled the needle out, leaving a drop of blood on your skin, stepped back, and turned away, tossing the syringe aside.