From the embrace of death, blood and ruin.
A crimson butterfly wove its threads around Snow and Frey.
In those few fleeting moments of the battle ..amid the war Frey felt a strange warmth flood his body… a gentle warmth that stirred a longing in his chest.
The butterfly's crimson filaments crawled through his veins and coiled around his heart. They were comfortable, really warm.
Although a foreign power had taken hold of his body, Frey welcomed that aura and let it move through him without conscious thought.
It felt, somehow, as if it had always belonged to him.
"I won't lose you this time…"
Her voice whispered inside his Soul, and Frey heard it clearly.
He didn't recognize the voice at all… and yet it felt painfully familiar.
The final clash with Wesker had been utterly despairing; for a moment Frey had truly thought he would lose everything.
Neither his strength nor Snow's had sufficed.
