Pounding heart. Moist forehead. Boots clamoring across the forest flooring. Snapping twigs. Crackling leaves. Gun in hand. The snarling of turned dogs chasing him. Then the ripping of flesh on the back of his arm and the shirt under this police vest leaving with it.

Leon howls a deep, pained voice, gnashing his teeth as the stimuli of agony wounds his nerves. Blond hair falls in his eyes. If he can make it to high ground, he can start to fire back at them. But he doesn't have a bulk of bullets, he can't risk missing a single shot.

His eyes snap forward once again, his arm snapping to his side to hold the bitten flesh. He's so tired, he's been running for what feels like ages. His leg hurts enough for him to want to cry, scratched from the nails of these dogs only minutes before. His hair is matted in blood and dirt. Just a little farther. Just a little farther.

The barking which was only a few feet behind him sounds further. The primary sounds echoing throughout his head are the stomping of his feet and the rustling of fallen leaves. Just a few more feet in distance and he'll feel safe enough to turn. He can't risk getting bitten again, he's sure the first time was enough risk. Who knows what diseases and viruses those dogs are carrying?

He tries to regulate his inhales, panting as he pushes his body past limits he didn't know he could break. Just a bit further, then he can find Claire and Sherry, where they'd been split up just after the train station. He hopes they're alright.

Leon notices a thick fog forming in front of him, dark, almost black. Leon stays vigilant, distrustful of if it's poisonous or, perhaps, contains particles of the virus. However, the barking behind him is even more terrifying. If he delays even a moment, there's no doubt he'll be ripped to shreds. It's either death or death. Leon keeps sprinting.

As he approaches the thick smog, the dogs not far from his heels, he feels a sudden cold dread wash over his body, bathing him. Leon's fear magnifies, his feet kick at the ground harder, adrenaline filling him with vigor far greater than his body would every succeed otherwise. He can still hear their paws on the leaves, but as he treks further, they grow muted.

He hears the barking begin to subside, drawing itself further and further away until Leon hears nothing but an echo of what it once was. He must be far from them. When Leon feels as if he's a safe distance away, he turns on his heels, wincing with the pain as he pulls his gun up straight, aiming for the dense fog behind him. He waits, watching the smoke for the dogs. His eyes dart everywhere, caution and alarms screaming at him to stay quick on his toes.

Leon's head spins just the slightest, growing stronger the longer he waits. His chest pounds, fear holding him impossibly still. He doesn't hear the barking, doesn't hear the pawing of claws on rustling leaves. He grows suspicious, unsure of why they'd suddenly stopped. Maybe they're scared of the smog. He doesn't want to take that as a good sign.

He's still panting as hard as he was when he was running, but he can't seem to slow it down. He needs to watch for these dogs, they're coming soon, but his head is spinning so hard, his heart is heavy–his whole chest is heavy.

"Where are you?" Leon pants to himself, turning his gun from one side of him to the other. Just the movement makes him feel even heavier. He needs to find Claire and Sherry if those dogs are off his heel. He needs to find them. He needs to save them. He needs to fix this mess. "Claire!"

There's no reply, he can barely see straight. He calls her name again a tad weaker this time, growing more scared by the second. He doesn't know what's happening, he tries stumbling forward out of the fog, but his legs feel so heavy. "Claire!"

The more of this fog he breathes, the harder it is to breathe. The harder it is to think. The harder it is to do anything. "Cl... Claire..."

Leon falls to his knees, crying out in pain as he falls to the severe scrapes of his knees. He's so dizzy, so tired. He can't even sit up straight. He's losing consciousness. Claire .

"Clai..." Leon groans softly, collapsing the rest of the way to the ground as his body succumbs to the fog. He's out like a light.

"Duh, duh, duh, da-da-dah, da-da-da-dah, da-da-da..."

A soft female voice, gentle, like a mother's. She's humming an unrecognizable tune, but it's one that Leon finds himself arising to. It's the first strand of wakefulness that Leon feels before he peels his eyelids open carefully, squinting at the sudden beam of light that streams through the window beside him, casting golden light across his injured body, turning the speckles of dust floating above him a bright white.

Turning his blue eyes from the lit ceiling above him, he darts them to his lower left where the source of the musical humming stands at a stove, stirring a large pot. She wears a long, black lace veil on her scalp, covering what looks to be dark brown hair in a tight bun. White and orange sweater on wide, thick shoulders. A large, blue cloth tucked in the side of her jeans, cropped far above the ankle. She's humming that tune over and over again, it's calming. Sweet. It reminds him of a deep, childish instinct that sits in his gut.

Leon can't help but to wonder where he is, what the hell happened. There were the dogs, then the fog. And... Claire. He needs to find Claire.

He doesn't immediately ask, unsure if this woman is hostile or not. Perhaps she could be infected, too. Leon can't be too careful. This day has already been so wild, he'd be surprised if she didn't try to kill him.

Leon begins to sit up, eyes glued to her, but before he can get up any further, he feels a sharp twinge of pain in his side. He can barely hold back the harsh grunt of pain that shocks his body into painful awareness as he falls back, shutting his eyes tight.

The humming stops for a moment, so does the stirring of the pot as soft steps on the wooden floor approach him. There's a soft mumbling in a language Leon can only guess to be Russian or Ukrainian. The lady, who Leon recognizes to have a white rabbit mask upon her face stares down his body, pulling back the blankets for a moment. Leon realizes he's in completely different clothing than he was in. Now, he wears a sweater much too big for his frame, and a pair of cotton pants with hips much too wide for his own.

She pulls up his shirt for a moment, which he immediately struggles to pull back down, unsure of her intentions. She says something stern in Russian, before pointing to his gut where it had hurt not even a minute before. She pulls up the sweater again. Leon, out of hesitant curiosity, obliges.

Leon notices, as the sweater rises, his side is bandaged, small specks of blood pull through to the other side of the bandage. When did this woman have the time to not only undress him but also bandage him up? Why did she decide to help him? Why does she speak only Russian? Or perhaps it's Ukrainian? Leon isn't entirely sure. He has so many questions, he doesn't know what to ask first.

"Who are you?" Leon asks as she pulls off his sweater the rest of the way to inspect his arm.

"Я не понимаю." She replies. No English, huh? She stays silent as she inspects the back of his arm where the dogs had torn a piece of flesh from it. He knows it's going to scar him badly. He can't quite see it, but when the lady says something else and begins to unwrap the bandages, Leon understands. Change them. He isn't sure whether to be anxious about her helping him or comfortable.

"Why are you helping me?" Leon inquires, trying again, wincing a moment after as she strips him of the layers of bandages.

"Я не понимаю." She repeats, a little harsher this time. Leon doesn't understand. He wants to, but as the bandages come free, that thought blanks from his mind, instead overrun by focusing on not being too loud. She mumbles something else, presses a hand to Leon's forehead, which he dodges away from at first. Another bit of Russian slips from her chapped, pink lips, which he can see peeking out under that dirty mask.

She removes her hand gracefully and turns away toward a cupboard above his head. From it, she pulls more bandages and some sort of spray. He stays quiet, not wanting her to become more upset with his foreign language as she shakes the bottle.

"Это будет больно, прости." Then she sprays. Leon grits his teeth harder as the pain spikes up his arm. A groan forces itself out of his throat violently, his head thrown back in pain. He tries to pull it away out of instinct more than anything, but nevertheless, she stops the spraying when he does so. " Мне жаль ."

Her hand moves from his arm to his sweater, still pulled up over his shoulder, revealing his entire midriff and torso. With a bunch of fabric closed in one, large fist, she presses it toward Leon's mouth.

"Кусать." She speaks. Leon doesn't understand, he just stares up at her with an expression of confusion, eyebrows furrowed from the pain still seeping through the wound. In reply, she clamps her teeth together, moving the fabric closer. Bite.

Leon does so, in which she looks pleased, before she holds to his arm again, pulling it higher as she continues to spray whatever antibiotics she has. Leon groans into the cloth, grateful it's muffling most of his sound. He doesn't want to sound so weak, especially not in front of a woman who has at least a good head on him.

She sprays for what feels like forever. His arm hurts terribly, the spray cleansing the wound of bacteria. Tears nearly prickle from his eyelids. Despite the pain, he allows her to replace the old dressings with clean ones, wrapping them tightly around his arm. Pressure to lessen the bleeding. Leon is grateful for her knowledge with this. She rips the bandage from its roll with her teeth, something Leon finds barbaric but... sweet.

"Есть." She says, pulling away from him. Leon lowers his sweater from his mouth, pushing his injured arm back through its hole as it covers him again.

"Есть?" He queries, recognizing it as a short phrase, maybe only one word.

"Есть." She repeats, returning to the stove. Leon watches with intent eyes as she pulls a wooden bowl from the cupboard, setting it softly on the counter. He wonders, for a moment, if he should get up. He needs answers and she isn't the person to give them to him. He needs someone who speaks English, he wouldn't know an ounce of Russian to save his life and he's afraid that will soon be his situation.

Sweeping his legs off the bed, with a soft recoil from the wound in the side of his leg, he gradually rises to his feet. The strange woman is still preoccupied, scooping whatever substance boils in the large pot into the bowl. The sudden weight of his body on his leg hurts terribly, he wonders if he broke a bone for a moment as he grits his teeth weakly. He's in a harsh amount of pain but it won't help him to sit here while Claire has to still be out there somewhere. He needs to make sure they're okay.

She turns from the pot, matching eyes with Leon who has put almost all his weight onto one leg.

"Сидеть," the woman speaks with a rough, almost demanding emphasis in her voice. He can't see her eyebrows, but he's sure they're furrowed under her mask.

"I need to go," Leon insists, pointing outside, "I can't stay."

" Сидеть ."

"I-" Leon can't get a word out before she's making her way toward him at an alarming pace. He tries to step back, intimidated by the larger woman, but his thigh hurts enough that he can't get more than a step away. Before he knows it, he's being swooped up into her arms. They're strong, not only muscle but a healthy layer of fat protect her bones. They're soft and large. Much larger than Leon is. He can't even protest before he's being pressed gently back into bed, sitting up this time.

"Сидеть. Есть. Please ." She challenges. It's the first word of English he's heard out of her.

"Please," He repeats, pointing outside stubbornly, "I need to go."

She circuits back into the kitchen, seizing the wooden bowl and a wooden spoon from a drawer before returning to Leon and delivering both into his hands. He surveys it, recognizing it's a stew of some sort. Its broth is thick and chunks of potato and meat float through it. He's suspicious, connecting eyes with the woman again.

"Есть." She demands, pointing to the stew. She even takes the spoon from him and chews a bite of her own, proving it to be safe.

Leon eyes the stew again, accepting the spoon from her. Her strides return to the kitchen before dishing up her own bowl. He's hesitant, still even after watching her eat, but he can't deny it smells good and he's starving. Even just smelling it, he hears his stomach gurgle under him.

He'll eat and then focus on finding Claire.

As he takes his first bite, he can't keep his eyes off of her, watching as she sits in front of him at a small dining table. Only one seat. Guess she doesn't have company often.

No words are shared between them as they eat, occasionally he steals glances at her, admiring her frame. Occasionally, he catches her eyes through the mask on him. He wonders why she keeps it on, even if she took it off, he doesn't know any tall Russian women of her shape. Who would he report her to, the FBI? He doesn't even know her.

As he continues to devour his meal, he admires the cabin they're in. Wooden walls, a door beside the kitchen on the wall to his right just past the table. He realizes there are no other rooms and only this one, twin-size bed for the entire cabin. He wonders where she'll sleep tonight – if she'll sleep. If she won't let him leave, he'll have to sneak out in the night.

His eyes carry on across the cabin before his eyes sit directly behind his bed. His gun, his phone, his vest, and the rest of his clothes folded neatly at his head. He remembers she did undress him. A peak of curiosity under his pants bestows him with the knowledge he's not wearing any underwear. She did see everything. He flushes slightly at that thought.

The communication barrier is slightly frustrating, he has to admit. He wants to tell her he needs to leave but she just won't listen. He wonders if she's going to let him leave willingly or if he'll need to fight his way out. Considering the state of his body, he hopes it's not the latter.

"Сделанный?"

Leon darts his eyes back to her as she rises to her feet and approaches. He doesn't know what it means, he wants to know. He wonders if maybe there's Google Translate on his phone or something, so he lets her take his bowl before reaching with his good arm toward the device.

She observes him warily, investigating as he simply pulls his phone out before she continues to the kitchen. No connection.

"Fuck," He whispers to himself. No translating. He can't even contact his parents or Claire for help.

The phone drops back to the table in defeat. He turns his eyes to the window of the cabin directly beside him, noticing it's getting dark out.

"Нога," she says sternly, returning her attention back to Leon. She gestures to the side of her own thigh, then points to Leon. Right. His thigh.

She approaches, pulling back the blanket to reveal the dark pants on his legs. She begins to pull at the waistband but Leon immediately pulls back. She's seen his dick once before, sure, but it's still embarrassing and he certainly doesn't want to be awake for it. She couldn't at least give him underwear or something?

"Нога," She repeats, grabbing Leon's hand to pull from the pants. Her hand is massive holding his, he can't help but notice the difference between them, especially the strength she demonstrates.

"No." He shakes his head, keeping one hand sternly on his pants.

"Позвольте мне исправить вас." She tugs down the pants, much heftier than Leon can pull up until his semi-hard cock shows above the tops of his thighs. He blushes a dark red, quickly avoiding her eyes. She doesn't seem to mind as she inspects his bandages. Leon closes his fists tight, still not willing himself to meet her gaze.

"отдых."

Leon feels his pants rise above his thighs, back over his hips, and turns his eyes back to her, cheeks flushed with blood. She presses two hands together and rests her head on it, shutting her eyes. Sleep. She repeats that phrase over again.

Leon gestures towards her then repeats her sign. What about you?

He realizes quickly where she plans to sleep when she untucks the large, blue fabric from her jeans, slips off her shoes, and pushes him further toward the wall, gently. Does she plan on sleeping beside him? He won't be able to leave. He gestures to the window once again, repeating his request from earlier, "Please, I need to leave."

With a shake of her head, she completely dismisses his request, leaning her weight on the bed as she crawls her way in, forcing Leon to the far end. He can't help but blush even harder now, watching intently when her hand reaches her mask and sets it above the bed in one swift move.

She's... gorgeous. Leon can't stop himself from gawking at her fine features while she unweaves her veil from her head and releases the ponytail. She's got these deep brown eyes and long, brown hair. Her facial structure is strong, masculine almost, but still gentle. He notices a scar upon her lip, small, but prominent. It's not too terribly old, either.

Her eyes meet his, and he immediately turns his away, instead opting to face the wall away from her. A strong bicep slithers below his waist, brushing just shy of his wound while the other meets it on his stomach. He blushes even harder. Being held by such a strong woman... awakens something deep inside him. He feels his cock twitch just the slightest but opts to ignore it as she pulls him in closer, giving them both more room on the bed.

Leon shuts his eyes tight, listens to her sigh behind him, and feels it on the back of his neck, tingling.

If he can't leave today, he will tomorrow. He might as well rest up. No point in staying awake all night. He knows he needs his strength if he plans to escape tomorrow.