Aunamee inhaled Wesker's pain, even though he knew (he could see) it was temporary. He expected the give and then the take, but it still made his stomach churn when he saw Wesker remove the blade, when the blood refused to come.

And then the dogs came.

This was torture. This was destruction by small degrees. He could see every bite before it happened, could feel the tiny imprints of future claws in future wounds. There was no pain, but it did not matter. He could not indefinitely fight dogs that wouldn't die.

Not with his bare hands.

It occurred to Aunamee that, in his old world, he had always carried certain items on his person when he was expecting a fight. The first was his blade, clean and perfect and nearly unbreakable, which Wesker now held. The second was a collection of smoke bombs. The third was a small vial of neurotoxin, deadly when mixed with food, but even deadlier when dissolved into the smoke bombs.

He could feel them in his jacket. Yes. That was right.

Yes.

When he reached into his jacket for an ordinary smoke bomb, his pinky was dangling by a thread of bleeding muscle.

It fell off completely when he smashed the bomb down into the dogs at his feet.