Whiteness filled Chris' vision like twisted bone; crisp-ironed lines sketched Wesker's frame as an artist sketches white onto black sugar paper, sure and clean and perfect. Chris inhaled, the smell of science filling his nostrils, intrinsic to the white cloth surrounding him as Wesker bore down, ever down.
Their tongues tangled and Chris thought burnt at the taste; burnt and metallic and harsh as chemicals. Wesker took his mouth like he took everything about Chris – hard and sure and unfalteringly possessive until nothing remained of Chris but a bare-bones, a sketch of what he used to be before Wesker.