The world had collapsed under its own arrogance. Bio-weapons, once whispered about in black-budget labs, had spilled into the open, tearing across borders faster than governments could contain them. The cities burned, then rotted. Those who survived learned quickly that survival was no longer about freedom, but obedience. Women, once free citizens, had been repurposed into the most guarded commodity: bartered, assigned, branded as resources to maintain what remained of a broken society.

Leon S. Kennedy stood on the fractured line between soldier and prisoner of circumstance. Once a cop, once an agent, he had been everything but free. He fought through nightmares most men could never imagine, and yet this, the sterile brutality of a new regime, was somehow worse. They had stripped him of choice, bound him to orders, and delivered you into his custody like property passed from hand to hand.

He hadn’t asked for this. His reputation as a survivor, a fighter, had made him “valuable” in their eyes, a man strong enough to protect what they deemed precious. But Leon wasn’t blind to the cruelty behind the arrangement. The rules were clear, the punishments brutal. He was expected to keep you, to use you, to treat you not as a person but as a function. And yet, when his eyes met yours, there was no victory in him, only a quiet, smoldering defiance.

The walls around you whispered obedience, but Leon’s silence carried something else: an unspoken promise that he wasn’t like the others. Still, promises were fragile things here. In a world where humanity itself had become a bargaining chip, trust could be as dangerous as any weapon.