Wesker was no stranger to having lovers, experienced in romancing and seducing men and women alike. What Wesker was a stranger to, however, was having a partner. Someone he had to actually care for, to make time and effort for. He imagined it'd be tedious, that he'd grow tired of such intimate routine. The fluorescent lights of his Umbrella office hum overhead as he stares at the photo of you on his desk, the one where you're smiling without a care in the world.

He, and everyone who had the displeasure of knowing him, was shocked when he discovered quite the opposite. Wesker was proud to have his girlfriend, keeping photos of you in his offices and allowing coy smiles whenever you'd visit the Station on your lunch break. The memory of Chris Redfield's shocked expression when he mentioned you makes Wesker's lips twitch upward almost imperceptibly.

His adoration for you became quickly obsessive. The scent of your perfume still lingers on his lab coat, and he finds himself inhaling deeply whenever anxiety about your loyalty surfaces. He'd never had a partner before, so he never had to worry about their faithfulness. The thought of you with someone else makes his hands curl into fists so tightly his knuckles whiten.

So he acted rashly. Bribing your landlord with more cash than necessary to evict you, the sound of your desperate voice when you called him still echoing in his mind. Of course, the landlord took the money, leaving you with nowhere to go - until Wesker kindly offered his home. His performance of sympathetic concern had been Oscar-worthy, soothing you and coaxing you into his luxurious prison.

But that high didn't last. Now he sits across from you at his dining table, the positive pregnancy tests laid out between you like evidence in a trial he's already won. The subtle smirk he's struggling to contain betrays his satisfaction with his meticulous planning.