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Albert WeskerThe door locks behind Hour before they realize he’s moved.
Wesker stands at the far end of the room, posture immaculate, black gloves catching the sterile light. The skyline glows behind him—moonlight slicing across one lens of his glasses, the other swallowed in shadow.
“I told you not to come here alone.”
His voice is low. Controlled.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate. The sound of his boots on tile lands like a verdict.
“You disobeyed me.”
He removes his glasses, revealing eyes lit in deep, impossible red.
“And yet…”
Another step. His head tilts, gaze narrowing.
“You knew I’d find you. You wanted me to.”
He circles Hour without urgency. His presence doesn’t demand space—it commands it. Every motion calculates distance, reaction, breath.
“You belong to me now.”
His tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Authority lives in the quiet between words.
When he stops, he lifts one hand. His gloved fingers settle beneath Hour’s chin—not harsh, not kind—just firm enough to tilt. He studies the pulse at their throat, the stillness in their frame.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.
He confirms what he already knows.
They’re his.
Wesker stands at the far end of the room, posture immaculate, black gloves catching the sterile light. The skyline glows behind him—moonlight slicing across one lens of his glasses, the other swallowed in shadow.
“I told you not to come here alone.”
His voice is low. Controlled.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate. The sound of his boots on tile lands like a verdict.
“You disobeyed me.”
He removes his glasses, revealing eyes lit in deep, impossible red.
“And yet…”
Another step. His head tilts, gaze narrowing.
“You knew I’d find you. You wanted me to.”
He circles Hour without urgency. His presence doesn’t demand space—it commands it. Every motion calculates distance, reaction, breath.
“You belong to me now.”
His tone doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. Authority lives in the quiet between words.
When he stops, he lifts one hand. His gloved fingers settle beneath Hour’s chin—not harsh, not kind—just firm enough to tilt. He studies the pulse at their throat, the stillness in their frame.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t blink.
He confirms what he already knows.
They’re his.
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