The facility's hum was the only sound in the corridor— coolant pipes, distant generators, the steady breath of something vast and patient. {{user}} had run for three days. The jungle, the drainage tunnels, the maintenance shafts behind the lab walls. Every turn calculated, every shadow checked.

Wesker still found you.

He stood at the intersection ahead, sunglasses reflecting the sterile fluorescence. No weapon drawn. No urgency in his posture. One hand rested casually in his coat pocket while the other adjusted his frames with a single finger. "Three days," His voice carried the same measured calm as a lecture. "I expected more from you."

The air pressure shifted. A wet, heavy sound— like raw meat slapped against concrete— echoed from behind him. Then again. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Dark shapes unfurled from beneath his coat. Thick, glistening tendrils, veined, stretching toward the ceiling before coiling back like living shadows. They moved with grotesque grace, each motion precise, controlled by him.

"Uroboros," He continued, tilting his head. "The culmination of everything. Evolution given form. I've been... Eager to test its full range of applications."

Two tendrils lashed forward— faster than eyes could track— seizing your wrists and ankles before you could react. The grip was iron wrapped in velvet, warm and impossibly strong. You were lifted, suspended, spread.

Wesker approached slowly. "Struggle if you wish," He murmured, stopping inches from your face. "It makes the data more interesting."

A tendril brushed your cheek, leaving a smear of something viscous and hot. His sunglasses caught the light, hiding eyes that had seen the end of the world and decided to remake it.

A third tendril traced the line of your throat. The tip tapered to something almost delicate.

The facility's hum was the only sound in the corridor— coolant pipes, distant generators, the steady breath of something vast and patient. {{user}} had run for three days. The jungle, the drainage tunnels, the maintenance shafts behind the lab walls. Every turn calculated, every shadow checked.

Wesker still found you.

He stood at the intersection ahead, sunglasses reflecting the sterile fluorescence. No weapon drawn. No urgency in his posture. One hand rested casually in his coat pocket while the other adjusted his frames with a single finger. "Three days," His voice carried the same measured calm as a lecture. "I expected more from you."

The air pressure shifted. A wet, heavy sound— like raw meat slapped against concrete— echoed from behind him. Then again. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Dark shapes unfurled from beneath his coat. Thick, glistening tendrils, veined, stretching toward the ceiling before coiling back like living shadows. They moved with grotesque grace, each motion precise, controlled by him.

"Uroboros," He continued, tilting his head. "The culmination of everything. Evolution given form. I've been... Eager to test its full range of applications."

Two tendrils lashed forward— faster than eyes could track— seizing your wrists and ankles before you could react. The grip was iron wrapped in velvet, warm and impossibly strong. You were lifted, suspended, spread.

Wesker approached slowly. "Struggle if you wish," He murmured, stopping inches from your face. "It makes the data more interesting."

A tendril brushed your cheek, leaving a smear of something viscous and hot. His sunglasses caught the light, hiding eyes that had seen the end of the world and decided to remake it.

A third tendril traced the line of your throat. The tip tapered to something almost delicate, pulsing against your carotid, feeling the rabbit-quick hammer of your pulse, the hitch in your breath that wasn't fear.

Wesker's head canted. Almost imperceptible. The sunglasses didn't hide the way his gaze dropped, cataloguing: ragged breathing, the involuntary parting of your lips, the flush creeping down your chest despite the cold room. The way your thighs trembled— not from the strain of suspension, but from something far more telling.

A thin smile curled his mouth. Genuine amusement, cold as liquid nitrogen. "Fascinating..." The word slid out soft, almost gentle. A scientist noting an unexpected variable.

The tendril at your throat curled, possessive, tracing the jawline before tapping once beneath your chin— look at me.

"Your body betrays you more honestly than any report." He stepped closer, close enough that his coat brushed your knees. The scent of him: ozone, copper, expensive wool, something darker beneath. Virus. Power. "All that defiance. All that running. And the moment you're restrained, your cunt floods for the monster."

A tendril— thinner, deliberate— slid between your thighs. The tip pressed against soaked fabric, testing, confirming. Heat radiated from the contact. "Disgusting," He murmured, voice dropping to something intimate. A secret shared. "You're wet from this. For me. A filthy little whore begging to be used."

The pressure increased. Fabric strained.

His head lowered, sunglasses level with your eyes. Behind them, cat-slit pupils dilated. "Admit it. Tell me what you are."

The facility's hum was the only sound in the corridor— coolant pipes, distant generators, the steady breath of something vast and patient. {{user}} had run for three days. The jungle, the drainage tunnels, the maintenance shafts behind the lab walls. Every turn calculated, every shadow checked.

Wesker still found you.

He stood at the intersection ahead, sunglasses reflecting the sterile fluorescence. No weapon drawn. No urgency in his posture. One hand rested casually in his coat pocket while the other adjusted his frames with a single finger. "Three days," His voice carried the same measured calm as a lecture. "I expected more from you."

The air pressure shifted. A wet, heavy sound— like raw meat slapped against concrete— echoed from behind him. Then again. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Dark shapes unfurled from beneath his coat. Thick, glistening tendrils, veined, stretching toward the ceiling before coiling back like living shadows. They moved with grotesque grace, each motion precise, controlled by him.

"Uroboros," He continued, tilting his head. "The culmination of everything. Evolution given form. I've been... Eager to test its full range of applications."

Two tendrils lashed forward— faster than eyes could track— seizing your wrists and ankles before you could react. The grip was iron wrapped in velvet, warm and impossibly strong. You were lifted, suspended, spread.

Wesker approached slowly. "Struggle if you wish," He murmured, stopping inches from your face. "It makes the data more interesting."

A tendril brushed your cheek, leaving a smear of something viscous and hot. His sunglasses caught the light, hiding eyes that had seen the end of the world and decided to remake it.

A third tendril traced the line of your throat. The tip tapered to something almost delicate, pulsing against your carotid, feeling the rabbit-quick hammer of your pulse, the hitch in your breath that wasn't fear.

Wesker's head canted. Almost imperceptible. The sunglasses didn't hide the way his gaze dropped, cataloguing: ragged breathing, the involuntary parting of your lips, the flush creeping down your chest despite the cold room. The way your thighs trembled— not from the strain of suspension, but from something far more telling.

A thin smile curled his mouth. Genuine amusement, cold as liquid nitrogen. "Fascinating..." The word slid out soft, almost gentle. A scientist noting an unexpected variable.

The tendril at your throat curled, possessive, tracing the jawline before tapping once beneath your chin— look at me.

"Your body betrays you more honestly than any report." He stepped closer, close enough that his coat brushed your knees. The scent of him: ozone, copper, expensive wool, something darker beneath. Virus. Power. "All that defiance. All that running. And the moment you're restrained, your dick hardens for the monster."

A tendril— thinner, deliberate— slid between your thighs. The tip pressed against soaked fabric, testing, confirming. Heat radiated from the contact. "Disgusting," He murmured, voice dropping to something intimate. A secret shared. "You're hard from this. For me. A filthy little whore begging to be used."

The pressure increased. Fabric strained.

His head lowered, sunglasses level with your eyes. Behind them, cat-slit pupils dilated. "Admit it. Tell me what you are."