xXCrowFeatherXx

You are whisked away from the courtyard by silent attendants, your robe hastily adjusted over the sticky imprints pulsing with disgust on your skin, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs — a mix of dread and fragile hope, a confusion of scenes transpiring too quickly.

What will the King of Heroes decree? Will he see you as sullied goods, unworthy of his divine gaze, or something entirely else?

The thought coils in your mind like smoke from a brazier, for you are no one, really, maybe but a vessel for the gods’ whispers if you try hard enough at the temple — like everyone else, you still bend to his will.

In the throne room, you dare not look up from the floor, following veins of lapis cutting through the stone that mimic the rivers of Sumer. The guards, these wretched dogs, stand assembled before the dais, their bodies glinting dully from perspiration from the afternoon heat (and you know that also from the interrupted game only they would’ve enjoyed), faces pale and slick with the sweat of impending judgement.

Before you can even cling to Siduri, your mentor and the current head priestess of one of the temples, you are positioned at Gilgamesh’s side, brought despite reluctance, close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his perfectly proportioned body, like the sun’s own fire veiled in flesh. No wonder priests call him the very personification of Shamash’s seed.

Your heart is but a wild bird trapped in your chest; he could have cast you aside like a cracked bowl, replacing you with any untouched maiden from the temple groves or a silken courtesan from the hanging gardens. Yet here you stand, in his shadow, your body still humming with the memory of rough hands that dared trespass, not far, which is all, merely, you can be thankful for.

Without preamble, his arm snakes around your waist, other fingers clamping your arm. The world tilts as he yanks the folds of your robe downward in one fluid motion, exposing your breasts. The linen whispers against your skin like a lover’s sigh turned cruel, falling away to bare the soft curves, the same ones that the guards tried to possess.

You gasp, cheeks burning with a shame that floods your body like the inundation of the river; the faint scent of labdanum from your morning bath now mingled with fear and sweat.

Oh, merciful gods, why this public unveiling?

“Look upon her, you mongrels!” Gilgamesh’s voice booms forth, laced with the arrogance of one who views the world as his birthright, forcing the guards’ gazes upward. His crimson eyes pierce like bloodied spears anytime someone dares to move.

The men flinch, confronted with the sight of your half-naked body — the soft flesh yielding under his grasp, pliable, and the faint tremor in your breath that betrays your doubt. Their discomfort is palpable, their earlier courage crumbling like dried clay or burnt incense ash.

What will Siduri think of all that? Your thoughts reel, tumbling like scattered offerings. It is utter mortification, your silhouette reduced to a spectacle before men who sought to claim you, and you’re too afraid to even search for the only pair of eyes that could bring you comfort now, any of the fellow priestesses now hiding in the shadows of the columns.

But Gilgamesh has not discarded you.

You are his, after all, a possession in the king’s vast treasury, and that knowledge wraps around your humiliation like a silken cord, binding gratitude to the sting of objectification.

“You have dared to lay hands upon what is mine,” he snarls, his irises narrowing, each word dripping disdain of a demigod for lesser beings.

His hand gestures dismissively, golden rings catching the light like captured stars, then descends with a sharp smack upon your bare breast. The impact blooms fire across your skin, a stinging heat that radiates inward. You bite your lip to stifle a cry, futile, and you still whimper like a wounded animal, tasting tears of your own restraint and embarrassment.

Exposed, marked, utterly owned. But that’s different from being at the mercy of those crude guards.

This is his way of bringing justice forth, raw and brutal.

Your mind pleads for the earth to swallow you whole, the shame spilling from within in the form of salty droplets. But he has chosen to intervene, to pull you from the jaws of violation, even if his methods strip you bare in body and spirit.

A different kind of asserting dominance.

The guards shift uneasily, their eyes darting to the floor, cheeks flushing with the guilt of witnessing their king claim what they coveted — his fingers cupping the swell of your breast with an intentional possessiveness, a confusing tangle of degradation and divine favour.

“Avert your eyes no longer!” His words cut through the air like blades. “Earlier, you circled her like starved beasts, seeking to intimidate my possession — my priestess. You dogs, thought to soil my treasure with your unworthy grasp? To waste her prospects on the rut of lowly mutts? Face the humiliation you have wrought upon yourselves, for in touching what belongs to me, you have invited my wrath!”

You feel a cursed sort of relief that he has named you his, even as the exposure leaves you not your own person, your mind melting in gratitude laced with the erotic undercurrent of his authority, your body burning away the disgust from the guards’ earlier behaviour.

“Mark this well, mongrels,” Gilgamesh continues, eyes sweeping over them like a scythe through ripe barley. “The next trespass shall demand a fiercer approach. You will summon your wives before me and bear witness as I claim them, gifting them with the seed of a demigod, siring heirs that eclipse your own spawn. No longer shall your lineage fester in the shadows, ha! I will supplant it utterly, leaving you to mourn upon the fruits that take over your bloodline!”

How your skin prickles at the image he conjures, how you battle the tempest in your chest, how you want to fall to your knees and beg him not to involve others, not other women, not hurt them over their husbands’ wrongdoings, but you only shudder in his grip like a withered desert rose.

Mercy, great gods, have mercy, and teach the great king how to use it!

The gathered crowd recoils as if scorched; courtiers and attendants press against the walls, fingers grazing the columns like roots digging into the ground. The women, especially — priestesses with their hennaed hands clasped over amulets of lapis and carnelian — shrink back most keenly, their eyes wide with dread.

“My king, I—” you start, but a mere whisper, but your voice dies in your throat.

“Begone from my sight, and let this lesson carve itself into your marrow,” Gilgamesh says to all, ignoring the way you clutch to his arm. “The rest of you return to your labours. This spectacle ends.”

With a disdainful flick of his wrist, golden bracelets clinking like temple chimes, he dismisses the guards who slink away like whipped jackals. The crowd disperses in a murmur of hurried steps and rustling garments; the chamber empties like a river receding from flood.

Then his eyes lock upon you. “Veil your dignity first and wait near my chambers.”

“Y-yes, my king, as you wish…”

(Only yes, yes, yes, so insistent that you doubt if there’s anything else to your voice, any other quality that it could be used for.)

You clutch the fallen folds of your robe, drawing it tight across your chest as if you wish to make sure this time no one pulls it down from you; the remnants of grace, scattered like little beads and crystals, come back and line your muscles, every tiny movement regaining your usual pace and rhythm.

The corridor swallows you as you flee the throne room, bare feet slapping against warm tiles inlaid with tiny stars that gleam under torchlight. Servants part before you, eyes averted, whispers dying on their lips as if your haste carried the king’s own blaze.

You know you cannot face him in a state like that, for you must bathe first. Just fortunate for you, near his chamber is an adjacent one with bathing supplies. You take fine sand in your hands, brush away all sweat and anything disgraceful from your skin; it feels harsh, not scraping you, but enough to make you burn a little.

Busy, locked in the palace of your own mind, you don’t even notice Gilgamesh entering the room in the meantime and observing you from under the columns. He watches, still as stone, the crimson of his eyes tracking each sweep of your hands across your skin, each desperate attempt to scrub away the shame that clings tighter than any dust.

He comes closer, footsteps silent despite his stature, and dips the cloth in the bowl with water. For a moment — brief, almost grudging, as if his hands move against the very nature of his divine blood — he washes specs of sand from your shoulder, the touch neither gentle nor harsh, simply there. He would never lower himself so far as to bathe you or anyone else, never demean his station by playing servant to mortal flesh, but that single gesture is enough to make you understand something you hadn’t dared hope for. That he cares, in whatever strange, twisted manner befits a king who acknowledges no equals. But before you can melt into that gossamer compassion, before you can lean into the unexpected warmth of it, he tosses the cloth into your open palms with a flick of his wrist.

“Do it yourself,” he commands. “You are an independent adult. Never again rely on me for what you can accomplish with your own two hands.”

(Isn’t he the one who moved first before you could even realise?)

“Yes, my king. Of course…!”

Yet he remains, lets his fingers rub oil into your neck, applies perfume that immediately takes over your senses, thick like syrup, something akin to balsam and rose clinging to your throat with every breath. You feel guilt bloom fresh in your chest, a different kind now — not worthy of his attention, dirty and soiled despite being clean again, despite the sand washed away and the sweat scrubbed from every limb. How could you possibly face Siduri or even dream of standing right next to her as one of the main messengers between the gods and the people? And then there’s the king, the golden one, higher in position than anybody else, proud above all, now expecting you to follow with the conversation when all you’d rather ask of him is to bury you underground, not touch you.

“My king, that’s—”

“Still valuable,” he interrupts, his voice an absolute certainty that brooks no argument. “I would be a mere idiot, no better than those dogs who pawed at you, if I wasted a lovely being such as yourself.”

“But your speech…” you venture, the protest weak on your tongue. Your behaviour, too, you wish to add, but bite your tongue in time. Treating you like his possession (which you are, you cannot deny), the sensation of his palm against your breast not quite gone, now deeper than a surface contact on your skin, seeping inside.

“An amplified performance, if anything,” he says, circling around to face you properly now, those inhuman eyes boring into yours like a snake approaching an unsuspecting bird. “And you had better learn the ways of it if you wish to take over the duties of the head priestesses one day. I do not tolerate what is average; I do not suffer what is mediocre. I scold because you can be better. Because you must be better, if you are to serve me.”

You nod, gathering what remains of your composure. You beg silently, you pray that your mind plays foul tricks on you, that he doesn’t mean what you normally would assume hearing a man talk to you in such a way. The robe clings to your body where it drank rivulets of poured water, wee uncomfortable around the seams, but you refuse to adjust it. Any movement might shatter this peculiar equilibrium, and you dare not do anything that wasn’t explicitly asked of you.

Gilgamesh rolls his eyes, a gesture so profoundly human it startles you more than his divinity ever has.

“Stop that,” he commands, gesturing at your rigid posture. “Your spine will crack if you hold yourself any tighter. Relax.”

“My king, I—”

“I will not expect from you any close company when you’re still shaken by the beastly behaviour of those mongrels,” he says, settling himself upon a low cushion with the casual authority of one accustomed to being obeyed. “Your nerves are frayed like old hemp. It would be pointless.”

You exhale slowly, attempting to soften your shoulders, though the effort feels absurd under his gaze. The tension merely shifts rather than dissolves, pooling instead in your chest where your heart still flutters in an uneven rhythm, where the ghost of his hand still remains.

“My king, in the throne room... your threats to those men’s wives...” Your voice trails off, barely above a whisper. The words taste like soiled copper on your tongue.

“What of them?” He doesn’t even glance your way, examining his golden rings with apparent disinterest, mocking you.

“Did you... did you mean it?”

“I already told you. A performance.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Amplified for effect. Do you think I waste my divine seed on mongrels’ mates?”

You should feel relief. You do feel relief, but it mingles with something you cannot digest. The stories surface unbidden in your mind — events from years past when the king walked through Uruk like a lion among sheep, taking what he pleased, crushing resistance beneath his heel. Before Siduri. Before Enkidu. Before whatever changed in him softened certain edges whilst sharpening others.

A shudder runs through you despite the warm air.

His eyes snap to yours, that maroon gaze missing nothing. “You doubt my word.”

It’s not a question.

You shake your head frantically, but tears already prick at your eyes, hot and shameful.

“Please, my king, I only—” Your voice breaks. “I beg you, don’t frighten those women for what their husbands attempted. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

“And why,” Gilgamesh leans forward slightly, eyebrow arched in something between curiosity and challenge, “should I listen to your pleas? What claim do you possess that grants you the authority to question my judgement?”

Your gaze drops below your knees. “I have none, my king. I am nothing. But they—”

“They suffer punishment enough by binding themselves to such vermin,” he interrupts. “Had they possessed any sense, they would have requested an audience, demanded I save them from marriages to dogs masquerading as men.”

The argument rises to your lips before you can stop it — that most fear him too much to hope for such clemency, that approaching a demigod with complaints about their husbands seems as futile as asking the Euphrates to flow backwards. But you swallow the sharp words, reshape them into something gentler.

“They... many believe you unreachable, my king. Too far above mortal concerns to—”

“Then they are fools as well as victims.” He interrupts you again. It’s frustrating. “Though I note you’ve still not answered my actual question.”

You blink, confused.

“Why do you care more about the fate of women you’ve never met than about proper punishment for the men who attempted to violate you?” His head tilts, studying you like a scholar examining cuneiform. “They circled you like jackals. Touched what they had no right to touch. Terrified you. And yet you kneel here weeping for their wives instead of demanding their blood.”

You realise you have no answer that won’t sound either foolish or condemning; the question hangs above your head like the sun burning strong enough to split stones into valleys, too heavy for you to rationalise. It’s just a deeper kind of fear, something unfair and unjust that simply works in this world when it shouldn’t.

“I can give you the means to get rid of them,” he offers, his voice dropping into something almost conspiratorial.

You eye him in shock, the words catching in your throat. Get rid of them? The meaning crystallises slowly, horrifyingly clear. Your mouth opens. Closes. No sound emerges.

“What troubles you?” His crimson eyes narrow with what might be amusement.

“I—” Your voice cracks like dried mud. “My king, I do not wish to— that is, I could never ask you to—”

You cannot finish. Cannot even voice the thought of death, of those men’s bodies cooling in the city’s grounds, of their families wailing. Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

“You fear I would execute them for their transgression?” He tilts his head, studying you as one might examine a curious artifact. “That I would paint the stones with their blood simply because they dared lay hands upon what is mine?”

The words blur together. Yes. No. Both. Your mouth opens and closes uselessly. Again. You’re stuck, unable to escape, unable to decide, the pressure coming from all sides like it’s possible to crack your head open just from stress.

Gilgamesh laughs, rich and entirely without mercy. “This was but a jest, priestess. A mere amusement at your expense.”

The relief does not come this time. Instead, it pools uneasily in your belly, mixing with the lingering dread. A jest! He was testing you, toying with your hysteria like a child with an insect. You nod because nodding requires nothing of you, no words that might further entangle you in the web of his caprice.

“Though,” he continues, crossing arms in front of his chest with fluid grace, “do not mistake my restraint for weakness. Should they attempt such trespass again, I would not hesitate. The guards exist to serve order, not to disturb it. Their usefulness ends the moment they become a liability.”

Your hands remain clasped before you, tingling from how hard you squeeze your fingers. You understand now that his mercy is not kindness but calculation — that you live and breathe at his sufferance, that your worth fluctuates with his mood as surely as the Euphrates rises and falls with the seasons.

“You will remain here tonight,” he says.

“My king, I could never!”

“Ha! Now you’re disobeying me? Over something like that?” He’s genuinely entertained, chuckling under his breath. “Here is the safest place in all Uruk. Sleep if you can, for I know you wouldn’t be able to do so anywhere else.”

You swallow hard, the protest dying before it fully forms. He’s right, of course, of course he is — the thought of returning to your quarters, of lying in darkness wondering if those guards might return emboldened by drink or spite, sends thunder through your veins. Your fingers twist in the damp linen of your robe.

“I understand, my king.”

“Good.” He gestures towards the far corner where thick cushions line the wall, lavish things embroidered with golden thread that catches the lamplight. “There. Not the floor like some common slave.”

You move carefully, aware of his gaze tracking your movements. The cushions yield beneath you as you sink down, softer than anything you’ve ever touched. Gilgamesh reclines on his own bed across the chamber, propping himself on one elbow. He doesn’t dismiss you or turn away. Simply watches, those crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dimness like embers.

“You’re still trembling.”

You press your palms flat against your thighs, willing the shaking to stop.

“I apologise! I—”

“Stop apologising.” His voice, tired, almost an exhale, cuts through your stammering. “It’s tedious…”

Silence falls, heavy and strange, a bile in your throat, an ache behind your eyelids. You focus on the rise and fall of your own breathing, on the sounds of the palace settling for the night — steps in far corridors, the low murmur of guards changing watch, distant songs and chatter of the city still awake in the warm light of torches and braziers. Anything but the consequence of his attention. And he is staring, right into your soul, piercing through your heart, luring your gaze to meet him despite your utmost wish to bury yourself under the pillows and shawls.

“They didn’t succeed,” he says suddenly, startling you. “In whatever they intended.”

Your throat tightens. “No, my king.”

“Then you remain untouched. Whole.” He shifts, the movement sending shadows dancing across the walls. “What occurred was an attempt. Nothing more. Do not grant them power over you by dwelling on what might have been.”

The words should comfort you. Oh, how you wish they could. Instead, they feel like an order, as if you could simply command your mind to still, your hands to stop shaking. But perhaps that’s exactly what he expects — absolute control, even over your own terror.

“Yes, my king.”

(Yes, yes, yes— for once, dear gods, let this word disappear!)

“Such a sickening thought to have other men occupy your thoughts more than my brilliance does.” You hear him laugh, soft and quiet, and it almost convinces you to raise your head, but he’s quick to notice your shifting attention. “Come here for a moment.”

Your legs obey before your mind catches up, carrying you across the chamber on unsteady feet. He doesn’t reach for you, simply watches as you approach, waiting to see if you’ll collapse or compose yourself. You stop at the edge of his bed, uncertain whether to kneel or stand.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the space beside him.

You settle carefully, the closeness overwhelming — the heat radiating from his body, his golden skin glowing faintly in the candlelight, unmarred and perfect in a way that reminds you he is not entirely of this world, but from somewhere unreachable.

“Your mind races like a startled hare,” he observes, reaching out to trace a single finger along your jawline, neither gentle nor harsh, but simply possessive. “It must be exhausting.”

“I—” You swallow hard. “I don’t know how to be otherwise, my king.”

“Then perhaps you should learn. The head priestess position requires more pride than you currently possess. Fear serves no purpose here.”

“I will do my best. To not disappoint you. To… make sure you don’t have to exhaust your energy on farces below your status.”

“I do not require servitude born of fear. You need to understand the distinction between a fool’s obedience and one’s choice to serve.” His fingers now brush around your nape, where the perfume still clings to your skin. “The head priestess must counsel me, not merely execute my whims like a trained pet.”

Your breath catches. “My king, I’m not certain I’m capable of—”

“Neither am I,” he cuts in with the faintest curve to his mouth. “Prove yourself. Amuse me.”

His hand drops away, and you feel the loss of it like a physical ache. (It’s sickening how easily he bends you to his will — in one moment you’re frightened, in the next leaning towards his touch.)

“Go to sleep now,” he says, settling back against his pillows as if the conversation has concluded.

You remain motionless, uncertain whether to stay or retreat to your cushions.

“Did I stutter?” His eyes snap open, that crimson gaze pinning you in place. “Move.”

(As declared earlier, he does not need you in his bed tonight. A blessing, as rough and cold as it is in its meaning, but for that dismissal, you can be more than grateful.)

You scramble back to your corner, pulling cushions around yourself like a fortress. Your heart pounds against your ribs, though whether from fear or something else entirely, you cannot say. You curl onto your side, drawing your knees up slightly, too sensitive to every tiny sound and move he makes across the chamber, and you wonder how one can possess such even breath while bearing in one’s hands the destiny of so many people, dealing with the annoyance of such lowly creatures as yourself, unable to even fathom the vastness of his confidence.

Sleep feels impossible, yet exhaustion pulls at you like an undertow.

(And you do not want to disappoint him any more than you already did…)

You’d been leaning against one of the tables in HQ, explaining your custom jinki modifications to them, while Enjin stood across the room, cigarette tucked loosely between his fingers, eyes half-lidded like he wasn’t paying attention. Except he was.

Every. Word.

And when they laughed— that slightly too-friendly, I wanna impress you kind of laugh, Enjin’s cigarette stilled mid-air. His jaw flexed, once.

“...So you’re saying you use the recoil to redirect the blast? That’s genius,” they said, leaning closer.

You smiled, oblivious to the storm brewing behind you. “Yeah. Cuts the strain in half. It’s not perfect yet, though.”

“Oh, I think you’re doing fine—”

“Hey.” Enjin’s voice came from behind like a shadow you didn’t realize had weight. Smooth, low, but just sharp enough to make Leno straighten. “You done talkin’ shop?”

The new cleaned blinked. “Oh, uh...yeah. Just—”

Enjin smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Good. You should go start on your other duties, yeah? Wouldn’t wanna be late.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Once they scampered off (aw) you turned, brows raised. “Uhm. So what was that about?”

“What?” Enjin took a long drag of his cigarette, exhaled slow. “I’m just keepin’ my team efficient.”

“Efficient,” you repeated flatly. “You looked like you were about to efficiently snap their neck.”

He snorted, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t flatter me, short-stack.”

“...Wow, you can get jealous.”

“Jealous?” He tilted his head, genuinely amused, though the flicker in his golden eyes betrayed him. “You think I get jealous?”

“Yeah. You do that little squint thing when you’re trying to hide it.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound rough but warm. Then he stepped closer— slow enough for you to realize he was doing it on purpose, like he wanted you to notice.

“Maaaybe,” he murmured, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “Or maybe I just don’t like when people entertain what’s mine.”

You raised a brow. “Yours, huh?” You liked that.

He leaned down, enough that the scent of smoke and rain hit you. “Mm-hmm. Don’t act like you don’t like it when I get territorial. You always smile when I do.”

Plus, this is the first time he’s acted like this. Before you, he just did hookups. He didn’t do full time relationships. He didn’t like the...neediness of it. So for him to be territorial, he’d never see the day.

You did, in fact, smile. But you still crossed your arms. “Maybe I just think it’s funny.”

“Oh it’s hilarious,” he said dryly, stepping past you toward the exit. “You and them can laugh about it next time they’re on mop duty for the next month.”

You blinked. “You’re actually punishing them?”

Enjin looked back, grin lazy but sharp as a blade. “Told you. I’m just keepin’ my team efficient.”

You shook your head, hiding your laugh as you followed after him.

And if he reached out to pull you a little closer while you walked, hand grazing your shoulder like he needed the contact just to make sure— neither of you said a word about it.

Because yeah, Enjin might play it cool. But he burns quietly. And the fire’s always for you. Always.

You’re heading back into HQ with Zanka, shoes echoing on the metal grate floor, the hush of cleaning crews and lights dimmed for the hour. Your mission gear is still strapped on, gloves half off, and you’re thinking about nothing except the long drink you’re going to grab before bed.

“Mission looked clean,” he decided to say, flat, model-cool. “You handled your section well.”

You smile, rubbing your glove. “Thanks. You were solid too.”

His eyes flick to the side and then back to you. Just a moment too long. “I noticed you spent a lotta time checkin’ on Rudo after the cleanup.”

You pause. You did glance his way, yes. But it was just being thorough. “Yeah. I mean, the guys new.”

You knew him and Rudo were cordial at best, and even then that wasn’t often. You hoped they could form a friendship in the future, regardless of you secretly enjoying their back and forth banter.

He doesn’t reply. He just follows you. You don’t ask him to come; he just does.

You reach the lounge and drop your gear. The lights here are warmer, the hum softer. You see Guita, Dear Santa, and Bro Santa chatting away, but you and Zanka drift to a side table. You grab a cup of water; he gets one too, without asking.

After a few sips, you lean back and say, “You know, it felt like you were watching me earlier. Everything I did.”

Zanka raises an eyebrow, gaze fixed on the water bottle label like he’s debating whether to crush it. “You’re my partner. And that means I don’t need to watch you. I ain’t a babysitter.”

“Right. But a mentor can observe without coming off that way, yeah?” you reply, tone light.

His eyebrow hikes. “Ya think I watch you that much?”

You nod. “Aaa yuuup.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Like I said, you were just talkin’ to Rudo for too long.” His eyes lock onto you. “Longer than usual.”

You feel the subtle shift. His posture straightens. You’ve seen this before— your slacked-back ease versus his taut precision. He hates slack. He hates people who coast. But you still coast a little. And you also keep delivering, so he still has to respect you. And that makes him weirdly protective. And jealous.

You meet his gaze. “Yeah, I was. Rudo wanted advice.” You rolled your eyes. “Come on Zanka, cut him some slack.” He never did ease up around newcomers, not even after they’ve been here for a while.

He just needed...more proof of their worth. Which, you never explicitly told Zanka this, but you believe he projects his insecurities onto others sometimes.

He snorts. “Advice. Hmm.”

You laugh softly, but your heart thumps. “What?”

“Nothin’.” He catches your wrist lightly, stopping you from getting up. “Finish your water.” His tone is flat, but his eyes flick to your face. “Before it gets warm. You’re sweatin’ like hell, you need to cool down.”

You shrug, sitting back down. The tension between you is a quiet thing, like a string pulled tight. You don’t say anything for a minute, then you ask: “What about you? You talked to Riyo for a while too. You don’t see me being mad though.”

Plus, Riyo is like a sister to you. Also, you’re pretty sure she might have a thing for Rudo. It’s hard to tell with that girl.

Zanka stiffens. “I had tactical revisions to go over.”

You nod slowly. “Well, when will you stop being so mad?” You were always concerned with that trait of his. Envious of geniuses and constantly trying to prove himself since he’s categorized as average. That doesn’t just go for power, it goes for relationships as well.

He seldom spoke of his past to you. You always wondered, what could have happened that made him have such low self esteem to the point he’s trying so hard to fight for the right to be considered powerful? To you, he already was. You wished he could see that.

He would tell you his family was the problem. All in due time.

His jaw flexes as he looks away. “I’m not mad.”

You hold his gaze. “Sure.”

He drains his water then slams the bottle on the table, startling you. “You’re irritating,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You lean forward. “Because I call you out?”

“Because,” he mutters, “You look at me like somehow I’m going to mess up.”

You blink. “Well, maaaybe I think you’re doing something you won’t admit.”

His eyes snap wide— just for a second. Then he breathes out. “I’m doing somethin’ I’ll admit to when you’ve earned the right to ask.”

You swallow. “Earned the right?”

He stands. “Yeah. Meanwhile, don’t keep your eyes anywhere but me.” His voice is steady, but the muscle in his throat pulses. He walks off without waiting for you.

You sit there, watching his retreating figure, feeling the tingle you commonly recognise: jealousy.

A few days later, you find yourself in the equipment bay, swapping gear when you see Zanka.

You clear your throat as you approach. “Hey.”

He turns. “Hey. Workouts at dawn.”

“Alone?” you ask, watching his face.

He shrugs. “If you want.”

You nod, but you don’t leave. You fold your arms. “I had a revelation. You don’t like sharing attention,” you say. You been noticed this, but you didn’t tell him. You first noticed by the way he acts around Enjin.

He looks surprised. Then his face screws up. “Who told you that?”

“No one.” You smile. “Just observational data.”

His lips twitch. “I’ll analyse you next.” Just him being petty cause he genuinely can’t help himself.

“Go ahead.”

He scoffs, but there’s a spark in his eyes. And you realise: your little observations matter more to him than you thought.

Because at dawn, during your workout, he stays just behind you. His staff tapping softly on the ground with each stride. When you lift, he lifts. When you pause, he pauses. He doesn’t say a word. But you sense the challenge: Keep up.

When you finish a set, you turn around and he’s watching, expression cool. “Not half bad,” he says. “Try harder next time.”

You smile. “Will do.”

The interior of the ARK facility had a kind of wrong purity to it, surgical white from every surface reflecting the sterile glow of overhead luminars recessed into the ceiling panels, light diffused through frosted glass so evenly.

It made the proof of violence impossible to hide with the blood that looked almost black against all that white.

Streaking along the corridor walls in long hand-shaped smears where someone had tried to drag themselves away from whatever caught them, speckled the floor tiles in radial bursts, dried flakes scattered.

A shattered data tablet lay near the wall, its glass fractured in a spiderweb pattern, one corner still blinking a dying red notification light.

You moved through it carefully, boots whispering across the polished floor, stepping around a toppled medical cart whose stainless trays had spilled syringes and sealed vials across the ground.

Everywhere there was now white ruined by the evidence that something had gone catastrophically wrong.

A smear of viscous dark fluid ran down one laboratory door where something with claws had dragged itself through it, another corridor bore deep gouges carved into reinforced composite panels.

Ahead of you, Leon walked point, broad frame filling the corridor, tactical boots stepping with instinctive precision. The matte black of his combat suit contrasted brutally with the sterile brightness of the facility, reinforced panels hugging the powerful shape of his shoulders and arms.

Still putting himself between you and whatever nightmare waited around the next corner.

He slowed before a cough tore out of him and Leon staggered one step before catching himself against the wall, a heavy palm slamming into the pristine white surface hard enough to leave a faint smear of blood where his glove brushed it, shoulders hunching as another cough wracked his chest, deeper and harsher now.

Immediately at his side, your hands caught his arms before he could push you away.

Beneath the fabric of his suit the muscles there were still enormous, dense with strength even now but the tension in them was strain, his body fighting itself.

“Leon—”

“I’m fine,” he muttered hoarsely, voice roughened by the cough.

“Yeah, you look fantastic.” You muttered flatly, sarcasm slipping out automatically with how much time you spent with him, dry and sharp.

Leon’s familiar ash-blond hair hangs long on the side of his face, brushing his jaw in uneven layers that look less styled and more chaotic, strands clinging to his temple. It falls forward when he tilts his head, shadowing eyes that aren’t the bright rookie blue from Raccoon City you were once told anymore but something colder and dulled by years of guilt and gunfire.

The lighting hits him from above and slightly behind, carving his face into hard planes, emphasizing the deepening lines at the corners of his mouth and the faint creases at his brow.

There’s stubble along his jaw on top of skin smeared with dirt and dried blood.

He’s not just tired but worn thin, brows knitted in when something hits him emotionally rather than physically.

There’s a quiet pain in his eyes, shoulders rounded just a fraction, posture not defeated but heavy.

The tactical suit clings to him in all the right ways, black and matte with reinforced panels over those broad shoulders and large arms. It’s scuffed and scratched near the forearm, fabric pulled tight over muscle that’s still very much there despite the exhaustion.

There’s dried blood crusted near his wrist, not fresh enough to glisten, just dark and stubborn.

Along his forearm veins stand out first, too dark and thick, branching in unnatural patterns beneath the surface as if ink has been injected and left to spread. They spiderweb from his wrist upward, splitting and rejoining in jagged paths that don’t follow normal anatomy. The flesh around them looks inflamed, faintly swollen, mottled in bruised shades of violet and sickly gray-green.

Parts of his arm look rougher, subtly ridged, like scar tissue layered over itself, while other areas appear unnervingly smooth, waxy, as if the infection has polished the skin into something artificial. The grime and dried blood only make it worse, caught in the shallow grooves, emphasizing how uneven the surface has become.

When he flexes his fingers, the tendons shift beneath that corrupted patterning and for a second it feels like the veins move a beat too late, pulsing on their own rhythm rather than his heartbeat.

The side of his face is even more striking.

It creeps up from his jaw toward his cheekbone, discoloration there not just in bruises but almost charred at the edges, dark veins branching toward his temple. The skin pulls slightly tight along his cheek as if the infection is constricting it, giving that side of his face a faintly hollowed look.

There are faint fissure-like lines tracing through the infected area and the lighting catches those lines, turning them into pale streaks against the darker corruption, making the whole thing look almost crystalline in places, something mineral forming beneath his flesh.

The sclera of his eye isn’t fully overtaken, but slightly bloodshot, faint capillaries more visible, giving him a fevered intensity less human and more predatory.

“Come on.” Pulling his arm over your shoulder.

“I said I’m—”

“You cough blood again and I’m duct-taping you to the wall,” you muttered. “Move.”

He sighed but you felt the little more weight leaning into you than he technically needed along the slow exhale that left his chest afterward.

Together you pushed forward through the corridor until the lab entrance appeared ahead.

A sterilization chamber separated the hallway from the main research wing, a transparent passage framed by thick sealed doors. As soon as you stepped inside, the system activated with a mechanical chime that somehow still worked despite how many years it’s been there inactive.

Rows of recessed nozzles extended from the walls and ceiling before cold mist blasted downward, causing you to flinch hard as disinfectant sprayed across your shoulders and face, the sudden hiss echoing through the chamber.

Leon let out a tired chuckle, head dipping forward slightly as he muttered, voice gravelly with exhaustion.

“Nice to see maintenance is still on schedule.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled.

He chuckled again but it cut off halfway through when pain twisted through his ribs and forced a grunt from him as you helped him through the chamber.

“You’re cute,” he murmured quietly, “when you’re worried.”

A wet screech stopped any possible remark to leave your throat, echoing from the darkness of the lab ahead.

The lighting beyond the sterilization chamber was different, emergency illumination bathed the interior in deep red, casting long shadows across the rows of overturned equipment and shattered glass.

A creature crawled along the ceiling with horrifying ease, body had once been human but now looked like anatomy stripped down to build the perfect predator. Muscle fibers lay exposed across its torso, crimson tissue stretched taut over a skeletal frame and head split open into a grotesque blossom of bone plates to reveal a glistening brain that pulsed faintly under the red light.

No eyes and a tongue that uncoiled from its throat, impossibly long and slick with saliva, tasting the air as it moved.

Guiding Leon down slowly and carefully, using the shadow of a toppled containment cabinet and the thick bulk of a reinforced analysis terminal as cover.

Leon’s weight leaned heavier into you as you lowered him.

Even weakened he was still solid, the sheer density of his body making the careful descent difficult as your hand remained braced against his shoulder while your other arm helped control his descent so he wouldn’t hit the floor too hard.

Another cough hit him, starting deep in his chest before his shoulders jerked violently as the sound ripped up through his throat, one hand flying to brace against the floor as another cough followed immediately after, blood splattering across the white tile.

It looked almost black in the dim red emergency lighting, thick droplets spreading into uneven shapes as they hit the floor. Some of it caught on the edge of his glove where he’d instinctively tried to cover his mouth, crimson staining the fabric along his knuckles before dripping down to the tile below.

“Leon—” crouching immediately in front of him, one hand gripping his shoulder, fingers pressing into the reinforced panels of his shirt while he spat another mouthful of blood onto the floor, breath hitching as he wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand.

For a second he simply sat there breathing hard, then he lifted his head.

“Just go,” he rasped, voice scraped down to something rough and gravelly by pain and exhaustion.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Your grip tightened automatically.

“I’m serious,” he continued, already shifting his weight forward as if preparing to push himself up again. “You’ve seen what’s in this place.”

He planted one hand on the ground beside him.

“You stay and you’re just risking your life for nothing.”

His muscles tensed as he tried to rise in a familiar stubborn force.

He barely got halfway up before your hands slammed down onto his shoulders.

“Sit.” The pressure you applied wasn’t violent and under normal circumstances there was absolutely no way you could have forced Leon S. Kennedy back down like that.

After all, he was stronger and heavier after decades spent fighting things that didn’t belong in the natural world.

Right now though the infection had drained too much from him and the moment you pushed, his balance faltered.

He sank back down against the cabinet with a low irritated grumble vibrating in his chest.

“Rookie—”

“It’s been one year.” The words left your mouth before he could finish and Leon’s jaw tightened faintly.

Keeping your hands planted on his shoulders, fingers curling slightly against the black shirt as if daring him to try standing again.

“One year since I got this job,” you continued, voice quieter now but no less firm. “One year since they assigned me to you.”

His dull blue eyes shifted upward to meet yours, red red emergency lighting painting faint shadows across his face, catching along the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the tired creases at the corners of his mouth.

That infection spreading up the side of his face made the moment even more unsettling, darkened veins branching toward his temple.

“Do you know why I took this job?” you asked, question rhetorical.

He simply watched you and, despite the exhaustion clouding his features, his gaze remained focused and steady. There was something faintly curious in that expression now along with another thing almost reflective.

A small grunt left him meant to push you to keep talking.

Your thumb shifted slightly where it rested against his shoulder.

“I took it because all the people we met that had been ruined by the virus deserve someone trying to help them.” Gaze drifting briefly toward a shattered observation window across the lab. Behind the broken glass the remains of a medical testing chamber were visible, restraint straps hanging loose from a surgical chair that had been torn partially out of the floor.

“…they didn’t deserve what happened to them. Had I been here before all of this, I could have saved all of them.”

You looked back at Leon.

“So right now?” Your grip tightened again. “You’re my priority.”

He stared at you for a long second, dull blue of his eyes softening just a fraction before the corner of his mouth twitched faintly despite the smear of blood still staining his lips.

“Priority because I plan on keeping you alive long enough to remind you about this for the rest of your life.” Your tone shifted just enough to let the smallest hint of teasing slip through the tension.

Leon blinked slowly. “You mean the part where you saved my ass?”

“Exactly.” You leaned back slightly “Imagine how embarrassing that’s going to be for you to get saved by a rookie.”

His breath left him in a weak huff that might have been a laugh.

“I was just resting my eyes.” Despite everything, the faintest ghost of Leon’s usual dry humor flickered through his voice.

The blood smeared across his mouth shifted when his lips curved into a tired smile.

Your words had stirred a memory of twenty-eight years ago from his young self rookie cop stepping into Raccoon City for his first day on the job with a town already crawling with the dead.

“I want to find out what’s happening here.”Your voice hardened slightly. “And stop whoever’s behind it.”

For a moment neither of you said anything, then Leon sighed through his nose.

“…Fine.” His head tipped back against the cabinet. “Do what you want.”

There was a quiet acceptance in his tone now, not surrender exactly but more like the reluctant acknowledgment that he knew stubborn determination when he saw it.

And that right now it looked a lot like the version of himself he used to be.

You rubbed his shoulder once more, the worry in your expression hadn’t gone anywhere.

If anything it had deepened.

But you stood up anyway, pistol sliding smoothly into your hand as you turned toward the darker half of the laboratory.

Rows of research stations stretched ahead beneath the pulsing red lights. Broken monitors flickered weakly on some of the consoles, displaying fragments of corrupted data logs and diagnostic readouts. A containment tank near the center of the room had shattered completely, thick biofluid still pooled around its base in a reflective puddle that smelled faintly metallic.

Somewhere out there claws scraped slowly across steel.

“Stay here.”

Leon shifted slightly against the cabinet.

“I didn’t have anything else in mind,” he muttered dryly.

You gave him a small nod before moving forward, footsteps careful and measured.

Blood pooled in shallow puddles that reflected your light in trembling shards, dragging marks and worse, the soft shapes that your mind tried not to name at first because naming them made them real, slick residual organs crushed into the seams between tiles as if the building had tried to swallow them and failed, pale coils of intestine like wet rope flung across the floor, a torn section of lung tissue stuck to the base of a wall where it had dried into a leathery crescent.

Your gun stayed trained forward, arms locked the way Leon had drilled into you until it became a reflex you didn’t have to think about, flashlight in your off hand painting the corridor in stark flashes and every time the beam slid upward you felt your skin tighten, because the ceiling had a Licker up there.

Body pressed flat against the panels, hooked claws embedded into the seams between tiles as they made noises that were less vocal and more mechanical, small wet clicks and throat-scrapes that sounded like someone chewing on a mouthful of knives and every so often a long tongue slid out and tasted the air in a slow searching sweep.

No eyes tracked you, yet you felt watched anyway, because their heads tilted minutely whenever a sound shifted in the environment or a drop of blood fell somewhere far off.

Your ears did half the work your eyes couldn’t, parsing the space for the faint scrap of claws relocating, the hallway narrowed toward a junction where the wall panels bore scarring.

There were zombies there, skin pallid to the point of chalk, stretched tight in some areas and sloughing in others, as though the body couldn’t decide whether to dry out or melt. White pustules studded their shoulders and necks, swollen nodules intact and glossy with others ruptured into crusted, powdery residue.

Around the jawline and cheekbones, the flesh had gone waxy and beneath it you could see faint branching vessels that had turned a sickly bluish-gray. One of them had pustules clustered along the collarbone and up the side of its throat like a grotesque rash, when it turned its head toward a distant sound the lumps shifted with the movement, heavy and semi-fluid beneath the skin.

The other was worse, patches of its scalp and forehead riddled with those pale growths and one swollen pustule near the temple had split open, leaking a milky, stringy seep that dried in flakes along the side of its face.

They stood in the corridor with slow and uncoordinated sway of corpses still pretending at balance, mouths hanging slack and teeth looking too clean against that white skin, hands flexing in tiny spasms, fingers twitching as if the nerves were firing randomly.

Beyond them, a small medical suitcase, hard-cased, white with a bold green cross on the top. It sat among scattered tools and broken sterile packaging, the corner of it smeared with a thumbprint of blood like someone had grabbed and dropped it while running.

That suitcase might have been a miracle or a trap and you didn’t have time to argue with either possibility.

The problem was the zombies were between you and it and the Lickers above were the kind of problem that didn’t care about your plans.

Your flashlight beam slid over a side table near you, its surface cluttered with overturned specimen trays and a cluster of empty flasks and reached slowly, fingertips closing around one, feeling the lightness of it. Your body stayed angled so your gun remained forward, muzzle hovering on the corridor line where the zombies stood, because if they moved fast you needed to answer faster.

Taking a careful breath before flicking your wrist and the flask sailed in a short arc to strike the nearer zombie on the side of the face with a sharp crack. Glass burst, shards embedding into dead tissue, one piece sticking at an angle out of its cheek like a grotesque ornament.

The zombie reeled back, head snapping to the side and for a moment it paused.

Mouth opening wider than it should have as it began to lurch forward with sudden purpose.

Above, the Licker reacted instantly and it dropped from the ceiling, landing on all fours and its head snapped toward the zombie, tongue lashing out in a taste-snap, saliva stringing befote it lunged.

Claws tore into the zombie’s torso, shredding through that pallid flesh and the swollen pustules alike, ripping them open so white seep sprayed and mixed with dark blood.

The Licker disassembled it, limbs torn free with sickening ease, one arm flung aside to slap against the wall and slide down leaving a smeared red stripe. The zombie’s head snapped back and then the Licker’s claws hooked under the jaw and yanked, splitting the neck, corpse collapsing into pieces, twitching reflexively while the Licker kept moving, because it wasn’t finished but only redirected.

The second zombie made noise, a wet frustrated moan, shuffling toward the commotion, drawn by instinct more than hunger and the Licker whirled toward it.

Using the moment you became smaller and quieter, slipping along the wall, knees bent, shoulders low, minimizing your profile, keeping your flashlight beam angled downward to avoid painting yourself in light.

The suitcase grew closer and you kept stealing glances back. The Licker’s claws made their own awful music and you forced your brain to categorize the sound, to decide whether it was staying with the zombies or drifting toward you.

You reached the workstation where the suitcase sat, hands moving with careful speed, pulling it free without letting it scrape. The latches were stiff, but you didn’t open it here, not risking the little metallic snap echoing in the hallway but just secured it against your body, grabbed the handle and backed away in the same low careful posture, eyes flicking again toward the corridor behind you where the Licker continued its violence.

By the time you slipped back through the junction and into the safer shadow near Leon’s hiding spot, your heart was pounding so hard you felt it in your throat.

Leon was where you left him, but he looked worse, sitting slumped against the overturned cabinet, head tipped slightly forward, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth in a thin line down his chin, catching on the stubble there.

One gloved hand was braced on the floor as if he’d tried to push himself up and failed.

When you approached, he lifted his head just enough to acknowledge you, eyes half-lidded, dull blue catching the light.

“Let me guess,” he rasped, voice rough and thin, “you found the gift shop.”

You swallowed the surge of relief that tried to turn into something shaky. “Shut up,” you muttered automatically, already dropping to one knee beside him.

Fingers moving over the latch of the suitcase as you flipped it open.

Inside, an injector filled with a solution that glowed faintly even in the red light, a cool and pale teal cast.

Beneath it lay a sheet of paper, edges wrinkled, with smeared bloody handprints on one side where someone had grabbed it in panic and left part of themselves behind. You unfolded it carefully, eyes scanning the text with the urgency of someone reading a bomb manual while the timer ticks.

Umbrella Biochemical Research Division Internal Memorandum – Experimental Compound Summary

Compound Designation: VRS-17 (Viral Replication Stabilizer – Series 17) Target Pathogen Class: Progenitor-derived recombinant strains (T-virus variants) Delivery Method: Intramuscular or intravenous administration

VRS-17 is a peptide-based regulatory compound engineered to attenuate uncontrolled viral replication without inducing full viral suppression. Unlike traditional antivirals that aim to eradicate or neutralize pathogenic agents, VRS-17 functions as a replication modulator, selectively binding to viral polymerase complexes and inhibiting exponential genomic duplication.

In vitro testing indicates that VRS-17 reduces mutation cascade events by approximately 62–74%, effectively preventing aggressive phenotypic restructuring while preserving host-viral equilibrium. Tissue necrosis rates decline significantly under administration, and aberrant cellular hypertrophy is markedly stabilized.

Notably, VRS-17 does not reverse metabolic amplification effects associated with early-stage infection. Elevated ATP production, enhanced muscular fiber density, increased nociceptive thresholds and heightened endocrine activity remain largely intact. Neural integrity and higher cognitive processing are preserved, provided the compound is administered prior to systemic destabilization.

Endocrine monitoring during trials revealed sustained increases in adrenal and gonadal hormone output consistent with infection-stage physiological enhancement. However, aggression-linked limbic overactivation was reduced to manageable thresholds, suggesting that VRS-17 primarily dampens catastrophic neurodegenerative escalation rather than suppressing heightened baseline function.

Subjects under VRS-17 stabilization present with: • Maintained structural morphology • Controlled vascular distortion • Preserved motor coordination • Elevated but regulated metabolic output

The compound’s efficacy window remains finite, requiring periodic redosing to maintain viral equilibrium. Prolonged absence may result in re-escalation of replication activity.

Further study recommended long-term symbiotic viability in high-resilience hosts.

Your eyes lifted from the paper and saw Leon’s eyes shut, his head had tipped sideways, resting against his shoulder in a posture that looked too much like collapse and not enough like rest.

Line of blood at his mouth had lengthened, a fresh dark droplet sliding down to his chin.

Your heart sank so violently it felt extremely painful.

“Leon,” you whispered, voice suddenly smaller than you meant it to be.

No response.

The fear that surged up flooded you with clarity and terror in equal measure, making your hands move before your mind could finish debating.

Grabbing the injector, tearing open the sterile seal with your teeth and shifted closer to Leon until you could see the subtle pulse at his neck.

You didn’t want to do this, not trusting Umbrella or anything in this building.

But you trusted the alternative even less.

Pressing the injector against the side of his neck, under the jawline where the skin was still mostly uninfected, thumb hovering for half a second before you pushed and the needle sank in, depressing the plunger and watching the teal solution disappear into his bloodstream.

For a heartbeat nothing happened and the silence was so loud you thought you might have killed him.

Then a harsh cough jolted through him, shoulders tightening as breath forced its way back into his lungs and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, shaky relief flooding your limbs.

His eyes opened slowly, heavy-lidded at first, unfocused, then sharpening as he blinked and tried to understand where he was.

“Leon,” you murmured, leaning closer instinctively, one hand bracing his shoulder again. “Hey. Hey, don’t move.”

He tried anyway, a stubborn twitch of his body before you pressed him back gently, voice low and urgent.

“Temporary inhibitor,” you whispered quickly, the words tumbling out because you needed him to know you hadn’t just injected him with random hope. “It’s supposed to keep it from… from getting worse. It doesn’t fix it, it just buys time.”

Leon’s mouth twitched faintly as if he wanted to make a comment but before he could, a sound reached you both that made every hair on your arms rise.

Click-click-click.

A slower rhythm now, claws on tile of the Licker approaching.

As if the facility wanted to make sure you understood how unfair it was, you heard another sound layered beneath it, dragging shuffle and wet groan of those white-pustule zombies refusing to stay dead.

The Licker had been attracted right to your direction.

Protect Leon

You moved instantly, rising to your feet with your gun in hand, body slotting between Leon and the monster, flashlight beam painting the floor where blood streaks led like a trail.

A zombie lurched into view first, arms extended and head tilted, mouth opening in a wet gurgle. Its skin was chalk-white, pustules bulging near the jaw and shoulder, and its eyes were filmed over like cloudy marbles.

Gunshot would be the equal of a dinner bell for the licker.

So you surged forward instead, fast and quiet, closing distance before it could fully register your presence and a knife flashed in your hand before it got plunged through the soft tissue under the jaw, forcing it deep, pushing through cartilage and bone with a sickening resistance, sharp end biting into skull until it met the brain.

The zombie shuddered, a full-body spasm that vibrated through your grip, and then it went slack. You let it drop carefully, easing it down to avoid the thud.

Turning too late as the second zombie slammed into you with sudden force, both of its hands crashed onto your shoulders, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise and it drove you backward into the edge of a lab table. The impact knocked the air from your lungs in a sharp hiss and your gun skittered out of your grasp, clattering across the tile and sliding out of reach.

The zombie leaned in, mouth opening wider, teeth snapping inches from your throat as you shoved against its chest, arms trembling under the strain, trying to keep its weight off. It smelled like sour disinfectant mixed with rot, the sterile scent of the facility trapped inside a corpse and curdled.

Your knife was still in the first zombie across the corridor, unreachable without letting this thing get close enough to bite.

Your mind raced in search for leverage or a tool but all you saw were scattered instruments, broken trays along a cracked monitor.

The zombie’s teeth snapped again closer before a wet crunch from an impact that drove deep echoed in your ears.

A hatchet head had buried itself into the side of its neck, sunk in almost to the haft, splitting pale flesh and ruptured pustules, dark blood and milky seep spraying outward in a hot mist. The zombie’s hands loosened reflexively as its body tried to process what it couldn’t understand.

Leon was back on his feet.

His posture wasn’t perfect, still heavy with exhaustion and marked by the infection crawling along his arm and face, but his grip on the hatchet was solid, forearm muscles standing out beneath the shirt and the dark branching veins along his skin pulsed.

He pressed harder into the wound he’d made, twisting his torso with a brutal controlled motion and the zombie’s head separated from its body in a violent arc.

Blood geysered upward from the open neck attached upward to nothing, a high-pressure spray that spattered the white wall behind, turning the sterile surfaces into a red mural. The head hit the floor with a dull rolling thud, jaw still twitching while the body collapsed.

Leon didn’t even look at it, gaze focused solely on your reflection of shock and gratitude that tangled together tightly.

Dark veins branching, discoloration creeping along his cheekbone, fissure-like lines catching the emergency light, but his eyes were clearer than before.

“Leon,” you breathed, confusion thick in your voice. “You… you’re—”

A sound cut you off when the Licker emerged.

It crawled into view low and fast, claws clicking against tile in a staccato rhythm, tongue tasting the air, finding Leon standing between its prey as the tongue shot out, fast enough to blur.

Leon’s hatchet flashed up and the blade met the tongue with a wet chop, severing it mid-lash and causing it to fall on the floor still twitching like a dying snake,

The Licker shrieked in a high sound, rearing back, claws scraping the tile, exposed brain pulsing under the red light.

Leon swung the hatchet down with full-body force and slammed into the exposed brain with a sound like splitting fruit and the Licker collapsed instantly.

Leon hit it again and again, short brutal strikes until the twitching stopped and the creature’s body became only meat in a puddle of blood.

When the carcass finally lay still, Leon straightened and turned toward you.

Protect Leon

Up close the combination of exhaustion, infection and violence made him look almost inhumanly intense, the red light carving his face into sharp planes, highlighting the darkened veins at his temple and the blood still smeared at his mouth.

He took a step toward you, then another and the shadow of his bulky frame swallowed yours and one of his huge hands shot out and grabbed the front of your vest. The impact shoved you backward, hip hitting the lab table behind hard enough to knock a breath out of your chest.

He raised his hatchet and swung it down fast through fever and adrenaline as the blade slammed into the reinforced polymer surface of the table.

Splinters of laminate cracked outward under the force of the blow, fine white dust puffing up from the point of impact where the hatchet lodged deep.

Leon hunched over you so abruptly and completely that your entire field of vision got filled with his broad chest caging you in, the heat of his body slamming into you like a furnace, breath blasting across your cheek in ragged pulses.

His breathing echoed against your skin fast and heavy with an effort that came from trying to hold something back.

Seconds passed long enough to feel like minutes.

“…you alright?” His ruined and gravelled voice scraped the air between your neck and his mouth.

Barely nodding as an answer, a low humming sound left your throat before you could stop it.

He exhaled sharply like he was trying to calm himself but failing spectacularly.

His head lowered, jaw brushing your cheek before lips touched your neck and every nerve in your body fired at once, vision strobing white for half a heartbeat. Leon inhaled against your skin, animal-like draw of breath and exhaled harder as his lips dragged lower, leaving heat in their wake.

“…glad you’re okay.” Voice vibrating directly against your throat.

Both of his hands planted onto the table on each side of your hips, caging you entirely, slotting you between his massive arms, chest pressed into yours, sturdy and burning.

You managed a breathless question “How are you feeling?” voice embarrassingly unsteady and he answered with a grunt that vibrated through his whole body.

“…good. Better.” Another breath, harsher.

The bulge trapped in your pants pressed directly into the dense shape against the front of his.

Your hips had barely twitched but at the contact Leon hissed through his teeth.

His hips snapped forward involuntary and the size of him slammed against you. Huge even through the fabric, a monstrous outline that dragged against your own through the friction of clothing.

A gasp tore out of your throat and Leon groaned into your neck, on the edge of losing control.

For a man you thought was going to tear you apart in an instant, the attention felt terrifying and absolutely devastating.

“…’m sorry…” He leaned in again, lips finding your neck, breath shaking as he whispered into your skin, arms wrapping tighter around your frame. Biceps bulging, veins thick and dark from the late stage of infection, heat radiating off him like a furnace.

“Could be the side effect of whatever the hell I injected in ya.”

Leon scoffed against your neck, body pressed even closer, chest crushing against yours, lips smearing heat across your pulse point.

“Side effects?” His voice went rough “…weird. First time I’ve heard of something that makes me wanna fuck you this badly.”

Your cock jerked hard in your pants.

“…I could… spare some time. Y’know. After all…you’re only in this state because of me.”

Leon didn’t even pretend to think about it.

“Then get on your knees.” His voice dropped to a husky growl right in your ear.

He pushed himself back two steps, enough space for cold air to hit your body where his warmth had been. You hated the loss immediately.

Eyes shining from hunger focused entirely on you.

God, you’d definitely let him devour you.

Dropping to your knees fast enough to feel it, adrenaline made you numb to the sting. Your hands rose to work his zipper, palms warming immediately against the obscene bulge swelling between his colossal thighs and Leon inhaled sharply above, a pleasant, guttural sound rumbling low in his chest.

Big and warm hand sliding to the back of your skull as you freed his cock.

It smacked your lips on its way out, heavy enough that you felt the weight reverberate through your jaw.

Head swollen dark red, leaking already from sheer arousal.

Just the tip alone forced your mouth into an O shape and you barely had time to think before you were taking him into your mouth, tongue flattening and lips stretching wide around the girth that felt impossible.

Leon groaned at your dedicated effort, fingers tightened in your hair while you worked him with your tongue by licking under the shaft, circling the head and swallowing around every forward push of his hips.

He hissed through clenched teeth, hips jerking forward, pushing more of him in while your jaw ached, tongue hot and slick around the heavy weight of him as his cock throbbed against your palate.

Then both his hands took hold of your skull to start fucking your throat, need overriding restraint as each thrust drove further down your throat with the blunt head alone clogging your airways, gag reflex spasming as you choked around him and the vibration of it made Leon snarl softly above.

“…that what you wanted?”

All you could give him back were wet, muffled moans vibrating along his shaft, tears pricking your eyes as he took your throat. Your hands clutched his solid and massive thighs as he built a rhythm that used your mouth like it belonged to him.

“Always knew you had a thing for me…” Low grunts and harsh exhales poured from his mouth

Shame and desire crashed inside your stomach all at once, heat flooding your face even as your throat tightened around his cock stretching your mouth open.

He groaned again and thrusted deeper, using your throat like it was the only place he could breathe.

Your moans came out strangled around the thick length occupying a place meant only for vital things, saliva dripping down your chin, throat working desperately around him as he drove closer to release.

Possible to tell by the way his thrusts grew sharp uncontrolled.

“—fuck—” a deep grunt followed by a curse, holding onto him tighter, throat relaxing as much as you could just as Leon buried himself to the base, groin trembling against your face as he came, pubs there tickling.

He spilled directly down your throat in heavy pulses that forced you to swallow to keep up, his cock twitching violently against your tongue as he groaned loud, head tipped back, infection-dark veins standing out along his neck.

Swallowing the flood he offered until there was nothing left and his breath shuddered, grip loosening as his hips dragged back, letting his slick cock slide from your throat with a wet sound that made your vision blur with need.

Huge gulps of air shuddering through your aching throat, your lips smeared with the thick greyish-white residue he’d pumped down your throat. Dragging the back of your hand across your mouth, smearing the remaining slick across your lips before looking up at him.

Leon’s chest was still heaving, sweat and blood beading along the cut of his clavicle, infection-black veins standing out like dark lightning across his throat.

He was hard again, hanging heavy and twitching with eager life despite the orgasm you just gave him.

Something starving flickered behind his eyes and a grunt left him.

Before you could react, his hand fisted your hair tighter and he hauled you to your feet like you weighed nothing. A few minutes ago he’d collapsed bleeding on the floor, now his strength had returned.

You stumbled into his chest and he caught you effortlessly, hand framing your jaw, fingers spanning your cheeks, other pair of thumbs dragging through the slick on your face as his mouth crashed into yours.

Lips burning, breath ragging and fever-warm as he forced your lips apart and shoved his tongue into your mouth, ravaging the place to take a taste from the mix of saliva and the residue of his own release still coating your lips. Low grunts in junction with desperate hums spilled down your throat.

Your hands shot up to his broad shoulders, fingers digging into thick muscle, fabric of his tactical shirt stretched tight across them. He pushed you backward with the weight of his whole body, pressing you into the lab table until the edge bit into the backs of your thighs.

His hands were everywhere, one tore down your zipper while the other shoved into your waistband.

Pants yanked hard down your legs and cold air hit your skin.

With a single violent sweep of his arm he cleared the table, glass vials shattering as they hit the floor, computer monitors crashing down in explosions of sparks and broken circuitry. The destruction barely registered over the sound of his breath punching against your mouth as he pulled you up onto the table like a ragdoll, bare ass making contact with the cold lab surface.

Leon stepped forward, slotting himself between your legs in one possessive motion, chest pressed into yours again in full weight, still kissing you starved for your mouth, tongue delving deep, lips crushing yours until you were panting into him.

His hands gripped your thighs and dragged them wider, lifting ’em until you wrapped them instinctively around his waist. Fat cock back in presence as it pressed against your hole, teasing you with the heavy weight of the head alone, smearing pre-cum against your skin in thick warm trails.

You gasped into his mouth and Leon swallowed that gasp whole.

He didn’t stop kissing you until he pulled back enough to gather the mix of saliva pooling between your lips and his.

He brought two fingers to your mouth.

“Suck.”

Immediately your lips wrapped around them, tongue swirling, own saliva mixing with the remnants of your kiss and when he pulled them free they glistened, pressed quickly against your entrance and slid inside with slow force that made your thighs clamp around his hips.

You dropped your head against his chest right against the hard plane of his pecs and Leon kissed the top of your head.

One finger followed by two.

Thick and calloused units working you deeply, curling at the right spot to make your breath stutter against his shirt.

His other hand braced on your hip, thumb stroking almost tender before he pushed a third finger in to stretch you wide around the brutal size.

“You’re doing so good…” he muttered, voice ruined and dark “…so tight—fuck—just let me in…”

When he felt your body starting to loosen and yield to the stretch of his fingers, he pulled them out slowly, slick noises filling the space where emergency lights flickered overhead.

Emptiness unwelcome but soon enough a new candidate made his presence known as the large and slick crown pressed directly to your entrance.

Too big even with the efficient work done to help it in.

Leon’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to look at him, infected veins pulsing dark across his cheek and further altering his eyes burning hungrily.

“Breathe,” he whispered, voice low and ragged.

You barely had time before he pushed in, head splitting you open inch by inch, forcing your body to accommodate it, burn deep and overwhelming. Leon’s grip tightened, one hand holding your thigh open, the other braced on the table beside your head as he sank deeper.

Your back arched as a strangled sound tore out of your throat.

“Knew it—knew you were made for me—” He didn’t give you time to adjust, snapping his hips forward, burying himself deeper in a single brutal thrust that rattled the table and shoved your body upward with the force.

His hands slid behind your knees and pushed your legs upward, folding you in half beneath him, pressing your thighs to your chest.

It felt like he was stabbing you in the guts repeatedly, position leaving you completely open and helpless beneath the weight of his body as he drove into you with strong and deep thrusts.

Your vision blurred with each impact, Leon braced a hand near your head, the other gripping the underside of your thigh as he fucked you deeper and harsher, his breath hot against your cheek.

His face hovered inches from yours, sweat mixing with blood on his skin.

Yet he kissed you between thrusts.

Broken, panting desperate kisses.

Your own climax hit first, spilling across your stomach and all over the tight black fabric of Leon’s shirt as he kept pounding into your hole. The sight of your release coating him made him snarl and his thrusts grew erratic.

He shoved in deep enough that your breath hitched, grinding his hips forward as his cock throbbed inside you when he came hard.

Hot spurts flooding your insides, filling you until you felt it spill back out around the base of his cock. His grip on your thigh tightened to bruising levels as he emptied himself, chest heaving, face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and infection-driven intensity.

When the last pulse hit, he collapsed forward just enough for his forehead to touch yours.

Leon didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed still, breathing like he’d fought a war and barely won while the red emergency lights pulsed faintly against the ruined lab. The sharp, feral hunger on his face slowly softened into something tired and more human.

His hand came up first, cupping the side of your jaw. His thumb brushed along your cheek, almost hesitant.

“…Hey.” His voice scraped out low.

You opened your eyes, Leon’s were clearer than they had been in hours. Still rimmed with infection, veins dark and branching but present and focused.

“You with me?” he asked softly.

You nodded and his shoulders dropped on an exhale, not relief exactly, but something close enough that it tugged painfully at your chest.

His forehead pressed gently to yours, the smallest touch, breath mingled with his.

“…didn’t hurt you, right?” he murmured.

You shook your head and he closed his eyes for a second, long lashes brushing your skin.

When he opened them again, the determined glint you knew so well had returned.

“…we can’t stay here,” he murmured against your skin.

You nodded and be pulled back enough to look at you directly.

“Grace is out there somewhere, we need to save her.”

He glanced down at the mess you both were and a ghost of a smirk softened the exhaustion on his face.

“…hell of a timing, huh?”