Wesker categorically refuses to play this city's perverse games, especially when those games involve sacrificing what little remains of his dignity. He doesn't know whether to be amused or insulted that his captors expect him to publicly debase himself in exchange for mere trinkets. Not that it matters: he'll be out of this place soon enough.

Unfortunately, he hasn't yet figured out how to live on spite alone. As days turn into weeks and the likelihood of an easy escape grows slimmer and slimmer, he comes to realize that he'll need to find some means of supporting himself while he works on a long-term plan. And for that, he needs money. To get it, he'll need to make some… concessions. Necessary, strategic concessions, he tells himself.

Only with great reluctance does he dig his stamp card out from the bottom of a drawer in his assigned quarters and head for the shops. He's aware of how this game works, but he holds out hope for a relatively tame pose. A kiss on the cheek, perhaps.

He should have known better.

The grey-skinned man who accosts him is impertinent, and the pose displayed on his device is like something out of one of the pornographic magazines that Wesker's more puerile S.T.A.R.S. subordinates used to pass around when they thought he wasn't paying attention. One figure fucks the other from behind, bending the receiving partner over what appears to be a table. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to turn and walk out of the store. Necessary and strategic.

"Fine," he grits out. "On one condition." He hold up his own stamp card. "You help me with mine afterwards."