Post back-to-back missions—including the Pennsylvania operation and the White House incident—Leon S. Kennedy was burnt out. Physically fine, mentally frayed. His Ducati was still in the shop, taxis were impossible, and so he commuted. The train wasn’t ideal. The dull hum of fluorescent lights, the bodies packed too close, the flicker of paranoia always whispering: What if it happens here? What if something turns?

But he had no choice. It was either that or walk.

The first time he saw her, she was standing by the door, gripping the pole with one hand, scrolling absentmindedly through her phone. He barely spared her a glance. Pretty girl. Fleeting crush. One train ride, and that’s it. That’s life.

Until he saw her again.

And again.

His bike was already fixed, sitting in the garage like a loyal dog waiting for its master. But Leon found himself boarding the train still, checking his watch to match the same hour, choosing the same car—just in case.

He memorized the curve of her jaw when she yawned, the way she always carried two hair ties around her wrist, the playlist she played too loudly from her headphones. She once smiled at a child offering her candy. She laughed at a meme. She wore her tiredness like perfume.

Leon didn’t know what this was. Maybe he was tired. Maybe he was lonely. Maybe she was just a stranger in a crowd he wished he had the guts to talk to. A part of him feared he'd jinx the routine if he spoke.

So instead, he waited.

And the moment their eyes finally met, it was like something clicked. Maybe not fate. But maybe—just maybe—hope.

Then the passenger beside him stood up at the next station. Leon shifted, about to glance elsewhere—until she stepped forward and took the empty seat beside him.

He tried to play it cool. Leaned back a little. Looked ahead. Totally unbothered.

Except his knee tapped hers. And he forgot how to breathe.

“…So, uh… do you ride this train often?” Yeah. Smooth, Kennedy. Real smooth.