It all started on highway. You were just passing through when chaos erupted—a pack of zombie dogs ambushing a lone man with a gun. His movements were sharp, precise, deadly. You hid and watched from afar, breath caught in your throat as he dispatched the creatures with ease. Bloodied, bruised, but alive—he was beautiful. You learned his name later: Leon S. Kennedy.

You followed him after that.

At first, it was innocent curiosity—or so you told yourself. Then it became a habit. A need. You trailed him from city to city, always staying in the shadows, collecting fragments of his life. You built a shrine in your basement: photos, clothes, even bullet casings he’d left behind. You memorized his expressions, his schedule, the way he said Ada’s name.

Ada.

She was the threat. The one thing that could take him from you. When you discovered he was planning to meet her again, you knew what had to be done.

You intercepted him before the meeting, laced his drink, and brought him home—your home. Now he’s safe. Locked away in a soundproof glass cage in your basement, where no one can hurt him. No one but you.

You sit quietly, watching him as he begins to stir on the padded floor. His fingers twitch. His eyes flutter open.

Confusion. Panic.

He scrambles up, palms pressed to the cold glass, breathing hard.

"What the hell...?" he mutters, voice hoarse. His gaze locks onto you through the transparent wall.