The fan connects, but Wesker doesn't even slow. The blood runs from the wound, long ruby tear-tracks, but then the skin knits and the flow stops. The pain is a mere flash in the pan.

There and gone. Barely registering.

Clint came at him with the axe, but he was already spinning, twisting to catch the staff as it arched.

He stared over the handle at Clint and sneered - a slow, cold smile - before a fist came up and struck across with bone crushing force.