Sharon sat stiffly in the boat, her palms pressed hard into the carved wood of her seat. She doesn't dare to lean over to get a glimpse at the water lapping at the sides of the vessel but does take a moment to turn her cool-toned gaze to the sky to watch the flock of dark birds that had deposited her swoop between one another.

"You can't trust anything in this place" She mumbles, her words clipped. She should've known better. Nothing was ever simple here, not little chocolates, not a board game, and certainly not the lone dark feather on her front porch step. It's a wonder more people in the city haven't become hypervigilant and paranoid.

When the bodies begin to come into view, her grip on the edge of her seat tightens as her eyes go wide. She's seen plenty of bodies before but it's the way they're strung up that gets under her skin. Her breath hitches in her throat and she has to physically force herself to look away, to look at Wesker, to look anywhere but the tangled mass of horror that lines the river.

"You think if we ask nicely those birds will swoop down and take us back?" She does her best to keep her voice steady but her wide-eyed expression betrays her.

"Oh, so we just need to retread trauma, huh?" it's evident that the solution he poses does nothing to relieve the dread filling her, her words more biting than need be. She knows it's not Wesker's fault but she still lashes out like a child.

The bodies lining the river are clad in drab, dusty grays, their faces twisted in agony or horror or both. It's all adult men and women. Some are propped up by razor wire, arms stretched wide in a mockery of Christ, while others are bound so tight the wires dig deep into them, breaching cloth and flesh. It would be a more horrifying sight for Sharon if it weren't so familiar.

It's only when the boat begins to drift past a bright spot among them that Sharon's tight expression shifts: from vague horror and disgust to one of dawning realization. She lets out a huff of shocked laughter and shakes her head as if in denial, "You've got to be fucking kidding me."

That bright spot is a woman with a rat's nest of dark hair piled up on her head. She wears a gown of sapphire blue but it is the only pretty thing on display before them. Her arms and legs are stretched wide, held aloft by the wires around her, and her head is thrown back in what might once have been a scream of agony. It's obvious where her pain may stem from: there's a trunk of wires disappearing beneath the length of her dress, up between her legs, and they've exited one by one through her chest.

Sharon motions toward the woman. Describe the cause, he had said. Her words are stiff, ground out between clenched teeth. There's a rage beneath them but she has such a tight grip on it that it just barely leaks in, "Her name was Christabella. She was my aunt and she burned me alive when I was nine."

"She spent my whole life telling my mother that I was evil. A witch. A demon. Sin incarnate. Over and over," the words are bitter on her lips and she never once looks at Wesker as she speaks, her blue eyes stuck on the woman, "Until one day my mother couldn't handle it and she gave me over to them"

"I killed her, " she finally says, turning her attention back to him. There's a strange pride in those words of hers, "She begged God to keep her pure. Her God never answered."