Mold and Blood (Ethan Winters x Reader)

Your eyes sweep the room in desperation, searching for anything remotely useful, until they land on an old, dusty fire poker leaning against the wall. It's rusted and heavy, its cold metal biting into your fingers as you wrap your hand around it. You lift it, testing the balance. It feels wrong – foreign in your grip – but it's something. It's better than nothing.

"This will have to do," you mutter, trying to convince yourself more than anyone else.

"I'm afraid not," Ethan says, his voice cutting through your thoughts like a knife.

You grip the fire poker tighter, irritation flaring up. You're exhausted, barely holding yourself together, and now he's questioning you on this too? "What else do you suggest, then? There's nothing better," you snap, your voice sharper than you intend.

You can practically feel Ethan's calm demeanor, his crossed arms, and the way he's probably rolling his eyes in a frustratingly patient way.

"That's not going to protect you," he says, his tone level like he's explaining something obvious to a child. "It's heavy, sure, but you'll barely swing it before you're overwhelmed. And it's not going to cause enough damage. You have to see that."

Deep down, you know he's right. The damn thing isn't going to save you from anything lurking in this hellhole. But that only makes the frustration burn hotter.

"It's the only thing here! I don't have a choice, Ethan!" The words explode out of you, too loud, too fast. You lift the poker, shaking it at him as if it's proof of your argument. "This is all there is! What do you expect me to do? Just stand here and wait for something else to magically appear?"

You feel how Ethan takes a step forward, his voice firm but not unkind. "No, I expect you to listen. We'll find something else. I know where you can get something better." As he gestures to the fire poker, golden specks surround it and for some reason, you know that his eyes are meeting yours. "But this? That's just going to get you killed."

That's the last straw.

Your exhaustion, your fear, everything you've been bottling up – it all boils over, erupting in a wave of anger. You hurl the fire poker across the room, watching it clatter uselessly against the wall.

"Alright, mister-know-it-all besides a quick and easy way out of this nightmare, where am I supposed to find a weapon that'll help me in this fucked up situation, huh? Enlighten me!"

Ethan's presence is still in front of you, he didn't flinch at your outburst. Instead, you hear him exhale softly, his expression probably softening, but still determined. "I show you."

Just as he speaks, a faint glow catches your attention, and suddenly, an arrow of light appears on the wall to your right, pointing towards a door adorned with an intricate scorpion design.

You narrow your eyes, walking toward it cautiously. Your heart pounds as your hand reaches for the handle. It doesn't budge. Locked. Of course. You immediately sigh, the frustration bubbling back up, but then a familiar weight presses against your side, and you remember the lock-picking tools tucked inside your jacket.

You pull them out, and a small spark of relief lightning is in your chest.

"At least something's going my way," you think as you drop to your knees in front of the door. With practiced hands, you slip the pick into the lock, working it carefully. The motions are muscle memory by now, and as each tumbler clicks into place, a quiet victory settles over you.

You feel Ethan standing beside you, silent but steady, his presence a reassuring weight. You can feel him watching you, waiting, but he doesn't push or rush you. He just lets you do what you need to do.