"You're not wrong. Physical unpleasantness aside, I've found to be grossly incompetent."

Which, for Wesker, was far, far worse a crime.

He set the forms down on the simple, utilitarian desk, and reached for the box of gloves, plucking a fresh pair free. His head tipped as he pulled them on, strange slitted eyes peering at her over the rims of his dark glasses in a critical inspection.

Comparing his initial impressions to those of the other patients he'd checked. Making mental notes.

With a final snap of latex against his wrist, he stepped close and reached for her. His hands were warm, a match to her feverish skin, and steady. Strong, as they cupped her face, his movements easy, thumbs pressing and pulling near her eyes so he could check the whites, fingers kneading the glands under her jaw.

As if he had a right to do it. As he expected not argument.

Confident, to a fault.

"What are you feeling?" he asked, breath a soft flutter against her cheeks. "And when did you start feeling it?"