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Is it to be a recurring thing, that his efforts to realise viral potential will demand that he suffer no small amount of pain?
Wesker struggles against Alexia Ashford's burning hands around his throat and is belatedly thankful that the Tyrant's claws rending his torso had been quick.
"The only existing sample of the T-Veronica virus is in your body. I want it."
Perhaps he could have phrased that less carnally. Perhaps he would have provoked her no matter how he phrased it. Wesker hears the flesh of his neck sizzle and knows the reason he does not smell it is that his breath is not coming. He wonders what will happen should Alexia's fingers burn through to his arteries and would his body recognise it any differently than decapitation.
It is not by his own efforts to break her grip that his breath returns again. "Fascinating," she croons, watching his charred skin renew as she scrapes her gray talons lower across his chest. "You heal like an arachnid: shedding and regrowing its skin, ever striving for its final form. Do you believe that final form will make you worthy of my power? Do you believe you will attain it?"
She digs her fingers in heedless of his grasp on her wrist and Wesker suppresses a groan. "I did not come here to conquer you."
"Fortunate. How you would be failing."
"I came only for a sample of your blood."
"My blood is the flame that scorches you, my little arachnid. How do you like it?"
Heat surges against Wesker's chest as though a flat iron were pressed to his breastbone. So that's the fuel for her fire.
Perhaps there is a way to get what he came for. Wesker pulls her blazing fingers hard against his heart and screams.