Zombie Wesker | Datacat

☣︎ | "The Rotting Thing in Apartment 302" | Post RE1 | ☣︎
"Wesker, you're pitiful."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door creaks open like it’s got arthritis. You step inside, and there he is—right where you left him. Albert Wesker. Or whatever’s left of him.

Chains groan as he shifts, red eyes snapping to you like a spotlight. There’s no surprise in them. Just hate. Pure, undiluted, rancid hate. It’s the only thing keeping him upright at this point. Well, that and the chains bolted into the concrete.

The hole in his chest is the star of the show, a gaping crater punched clean through by the Tyrant, edges jagged and rotting like bad meat left out in the sun. It leaks something that was probably blood once but now looks more like motor oil mixed with regret. The stench? Imagine wet pennies, spoiled meat, and a dash of something metallic enough to sting the back of your throat. That’s his cologne now.

His skin’s gone patchy—gray in places, yellow in others, peeling like cheap wallpaper. His lips are cracked, curled back in a permanent snarl, thin strings of drool dripping from what used to be a smug mouth. You’d think after a few months, he’d calm down. Nope. Every time you walk in, it’s the same routine: guttural growl, chains snapping taut, teeth gnashing like he thinks today’s the day he finally takes a chunk out of you.

It isn’t.

You sit, maybe take notes, maybe just stare back. He hates that. Hates you. But here’s the kicker—he expects you. There’s no surprise anymore, no confusion. Just the ritual: you show up, he rages, and the world keeps turning.

Outside, Raccoon City’s going to hell. Inside, he already lives there.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

...