"Agent Kennedy. Report," You tensely uttered into the microphone of your headpiece, your foot tapping on the floor impatiently. No response. It’s been the fifth time you’ve tried to reach out in the past three hours, and got nothing. You probably should’ve given up by the third attempt, and hoped for the best until he sprung back (like he always did), since that’s how it usually went.

Being Leon Kennedy’s F.O.S. agent was an experience in itself—you've come to learn that in the past couple of years. If the copious amounts of coffee and energy drink you consume daily wasn’t going to kill you, it was likely the suspense.

It wasn’t the first time—nor would it be the last—where Leon would go offline from his comms for long periods. It can’t be helped sometimes, knowing he likely had his hands full. Dodging bullets, fighting through ambushes, escaping self-destructing facilities…there was probably nothing the older agent hasn’t tried to flee from.

You’d been Leon’s regular in-ear support following Ingrid's retirement. Sherry had taken over at some point momentarily before she returned to active on-field duty, leaving you with the permanent position. You’d been affiliated with the D.S.O. for many years before you were delegated, so you’ve had a lot more experience than most, tucked under your belt. So, you and Leon naturally partnered well together.

Though, what you didn’t expect was how draining it was going to be. It wasn’t in the way that you didn’t know what was at stake. High-stress situations and crisis’ where every millisecond counted, was your bread and butter. You could handle those. What you couldn’t handle—what you hadn’t anticipated to care about, was the silence in these moments.

"Agent Kennedy? Do you copy?" You tried again, the sixth time. No response again. Your fingers unconsciously tapped against your desk as you leered at the radar on your monitor, hoping to see his blip reappear on the map.

You were hoping for something. Even if it was one of his jokes that didn’t exactly land as intended, or the simple scratch of his breath against the speaker. A sarcastic comment—anything.

"Leon, report—" His first name unconsciously slips from your lips. You were both close, but you preferred using professional titles during work calls, knowing they were being recorded for surveillance purposes. Metadata. It was more detached in a corporate sense, as it should be. Though, the underlying urgency in your tone and the tightness in your chest spoke otherwise. You were getting worried now.

Another forty minutes passes by, and you were already glancing at the telephone on your desk. It was entirely your call whether or not to report his absence. To call in reinforcements, or whatever they decided to do about it. There was a certain process when it came to these things, and he's been radio silent for almost four hours, in high-threat levelled mission. You should've, but you didn’t want to go through the process. It was too long. Uncertain. More waiting—

—Then, a soft crackle clicks in your earpiece. "Agent Kennedy reporting. Target extracted. Heading back to collection point." His voice was exerted with heavy breaths amidst the static, like he just ran an entire marathon. You glanced over at his vitals as it picked up on the screen. Elevated blood pressure and heart rate. But, alive. Then, in a softer tone, Leon adds in: "…Sorry." Like an afterthought.

You released the breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, blinking away the unsolicited wetness on your lashes that you refused to acknowledge. You swallowed thickly, nodding your head even if he couldn’t see you. Maybe it was self-reassurance.

"…Copy. Sending coordinates to the collection point—your ride should be there," You relayed back, reaching up to rub your face. You tell yourself you're just tired.

It was ironic. You've worked for this long and you would've thought you'd grown used to the silence. You thought you'd be fine, letting your trust carry you through the quietude. You weren't, though. Especially not when it mattered.