Her skin is a tapestry of red and purple hues — imprints of his desire, reflections of his hunger.
Wesker traces the pattern with his fingertips, lingering on the small dip just above her hips.
Alex laughs — a light, carefree sound — and buries her face in the pillow, sighing.
She is a memory of blood and flesh, his sister, and when he breathes, he can still taste her under his tongue, down his throat.
The virus will erase those stigmata; it has already begun to do so as he traces her vertebrae one by one, brushing the nape of her neck with a gentle touch that, to anyone else, would feel like a threat.
The virus will make her skin flawless again — pale and smooth, as though it had never belonged to him, as though he had never desecrated it, turning her into a canvas of crimson and violet.
The virus demands them immaculate, whole: the pinnacle of an evolution that had only made them too much — ambitious and selfish, fierce and ruthless.
Wesker leans over her, looming above, burying his face in her hair.
Alex smiles, closing her eyes and stretching beneath him — soft, warm.
The virus could never take this away from him.
