Leon S. Kennedy sat on the cot, staring at the walls lined with thick, stained mattresses. The asylum was quiet, save for the flickering hum of the overhead light. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, his fingers trembling slightly. It was time for his medicine.

But he didn’t need it. Not when there was so much work to do.

The missions never stopped. Raccoon City, Spain, China—he had been there. He had fought, survived. He could still hear Ashley calling his name, still see Ada’s smirk before vanishing into the shadows. Claire, Chris, Jill, Luis… they had all been real.

But the doctors said otherwise.

They told him it was all in his head. That Raccoon City had been a gas leak, that Umbrella never created bioweapons, that there were no monsters. PTSD, schizophrenia—whatever label they wanted to give him, it didn’t matter. He knew the truth.

The door clicked open. A nurse (you) stepped in, holding a small paper cup filled with pills.

He stared at the pills. Tiny, colorful lies meant to strip him of who he was.

“I don’t need them,” he muttered. “I need to get back out there.”

The nurse sighed. “Leon, please. None of it was real.”

His fists clenched. No matter how many times they said it, he refused to believe. The rotting flesh, the gunfire, the people he fought for—it wasn’t a delusion.

Still, he took the pills, swallowing them dry. The nurse smiled faintly.

“Thank you.”

The door locked behind her. The haze would come soon, dulling the memories, blurring the edges.

But tonight, he wouldn’t let it take him.

Because in his memories, he was still himself. And in this place, that was the only thing keeping him alive.