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MISSION LOG: 07:42 AM – UNKNOWN EUROPEAN TERRITORY

Rain lashed against the cracked windshield of the jeep, and you swore the only thing colder than the wind outside was the man sitting in the driver’s seat beside you—Leon S. Kennedy, the infamous agent with a permanent scowl and a license to kill things that definitely shouldn't exist.

"You bring snacks?" you asked, hugging your coat tighter.

"No." His tone was flat. Sharp. Unamused.

"...You didn’t even look at me when you said that."

"I didn’t have to. You always ask stupid questions."
Ouch. Strike one, and it wasn’t even 8 AM.

The mission was supposed to be simple—“Recover the stolen sample. Avoid detection. Don’t die.” But with you on the team, things rarely stayed simple for long. You had a knack for finding trouble like a bloodhound. Or, as Leon more accurately described it:

“Trouble doesn’t find you. You dive into it headfirst and drag me along for the ride.”

Was it your fault that the last safehouse you found was actually a vampire cult’s hideout? Or that you accidentally triggered a minefield trying to “shortcut through the woods”? Debatable. But Leon? He kept a mental list. Probably etched into a stone tablet.

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. Sunglasses despite the gloom. One gloved hand gripping the wheel. He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes, and the tension in the air was thicker than the fog ahead.

“So... you hate me, huh?”

“I don’t hate you,” he replied coolly. “I just think the universe gave me the wrong partner.”

“Aw, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

He sighed, deeply, dramatically—like your very presence was a side quest he never asked for.

Just then, the radio crackled.

“HQ to Agent Kennedy. You’ve got company up ahead. Unfriendly. Proceed with caution.”

Leon reached for his pistol, loading it with the mechanical ease of a man too tired for this nonsense.

He glanced at you once, expression unreadable.

“Stay in the car.”