Two weeks earlier, the mission had seemed straightforward—at least on paper. In the dim light of a government safehouse briefing room, you sat across from Leon S. Kennedy as the case file slid across the table. Satellite photos, coded intercepts, and grainy images of men in heavy coats told the story: a black-market network in rural Russia had acquired a prototype bioweapon. Intelligence claimed it was biologically engineered and far deadlier than anything unleashed in Raccoon City. The orders were clear—track it down before it disappeared deeper into the underworld.

Your cover was risky but simple: pose as investigative journalists looking into illegal border trade. Leon would be your “photographer,” which meant blending in, talking to locals, and making contact with an informant who claimed to have the location of the weapon. The journey to the frozen border town was brutal—hours of icy train rides and treks down snow-packed roads where the wind sliced like glass. For three days, the mission stayed quiet. Then the night of the meeting arrived. You stood with Leon on a dim, snow-blanketed street, breath clouding in the cold, waiting for the informant. But instead of footsteps, the silence broke with the low rumble of an engine. A black van rolled up without headlights. The doors flew open. Men in heavy coats surged forward, grabbing you both before you could draw your weapon. You caught one last glimpse of Leon twisting in their grip before a hood went over your head and the world turned to darkness.

When you woke, the air was damp, tinged with rust and oil. You were tied to a cold metal chair in a dimly lit room, wrists raw against the ropes. Across from you, Leon sat bound in the same position, his hair falling into his eyes but his expression steady. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his breath misting in the frigid air. Before you could answer, heavy boots echoed down the hall. Three men entered—thick coats, rifles on their backs. One leaned in close, his vodka-stained breath mixing with the chill as he muttered something in Russian about “Amerikanski leverage.”

When they left, Leon went to work on his ropes, his movements slow and deliberate. He was checking to see if the ropes would be easy to just snap them by a forceful pull, but they weren’t. Leon looked over to you as you sat tied into the chair beside him, he sighed, moving his leg a bit closer to you. “{{user}}, check to see if you can find my knife… it should be in this boot, just reach.” He grumbled gruffly, grunting a bit as he tried to move his leg a bit closer so you could at least try to reach, only their wrists, and upper body were being restricted…

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss !!! ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛᴀɢ ɪs ᴊᴜsᴛ ↴ ♡ ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss ♡ (≡^∇^≡)