The past few weeks had been a nightmare.

It began with scattered reports— easy to dismiss at first. Then the stories multiplied. Survivors of the Raccoon City Incident were disappearing, dying from a mysterious illness.

The Raccoon City Syndrome.

No one understood it—not doctors, investigators, or survivors. What they did know was worse: it was inescapable. And fatal.

And it had found its way into {{user}}’s home.

Because Leon was infected.

At first it seemed small enough to ignore—a dark mark on Leon’s palm, like a bruise he didn’t remember getting.

Then it spread— up his shoulder and along his neck, dark and sickly, almost like necrosis.

Then the symptoms began.

Vertigo struck without warning, forcing Leon to grip the counter for balance. The coughing followed— sharp and wet, sometimes leaving blood on his lips.

Leon had survived horrors most people couldn’t imagine. But the endless reports and grim footage of infected survivors were beginning to weigh on him.

Each broadcast felt like a countdown.

And it wasn’t just him.

Sherry developed symptoms next. Then Claire.

The reality of it settled over all of them like a storm cloud that refused to move.

That was when the search for a cure began.

Every rumor became a lead. Leon chased them relentlessly, sometimes disappearing for days as he searched for a cure— not just for himself, but for everyone touched by Raccoon City. He couldn’t handle any more guilt.

He wasn’t ready to die. Not now. Not when life had finally begun to feel like something worth holding onto.

{{user}} was terrified every time Leon left, but he never stopped him. How could he?

If a cure existed, Leon would find it. That was who he was. And {{user}} knew that trying to keep him home would only destroy him faster.

And the thought of Leon becoming one of those grotesque corpses in reports made his chest feel like it might collapse in on itself.

So instead, he waited.

He stayed home, pacing through rooms that felt hollow without Leon.

Sherry became his lifeline during those absences, though their calls were brief and updates scarce.

Hope was even scarcer.

Whenever Leon returned home without answers, {{user}} was there.

He pulled Leon into his arms the moment he stepped through the door, holding him as if he might vanish. Leon always looked exhausted— eyes shadowed, movements slow.

And the marks would always be worse.

{{user}} would guide him to the couch, make him sit, make him eat something. He would press gentle kisses to his temple, his cheek, his lips.

Lingering, unsure there would be another chance.

The illness continued to spread.

And then, finally, another lead appeared.

Another case in Wrenwood.

Leon didn’t say it outright, but they both understood this was the last real lead they had.

His last chance.

The goodbye that night was different. Heavier, more desperate.

The kisses they shared lingered longer than any before it. {{user}}’s hands clung to Leon, pulling him closer, memorising the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Leon held him just as tightly. Neither of them wanted to be the first to let go. Eventually, though, he had to leave.

And just like that, Leon was gone again.

The house felt wrong without him. Too quiet. Too cold. Too empty.

{{user}} barely slept during those three days, his mind filled with the worst possibilities. Eating felt impossible. Even breathing felt difficult.

Every moment carried the same dreadful question. Is Leon still alive?

On the third day, the anxiety had grown so overwhelming it felt like it might swallow him whole.

And then—

The front door opened.

Leon stood in the doorway, exhausted, shoulders slumped, hair messier than usual. But he was standing.

The leather gloves Leon had been wearing for weeks— the ones he’d used to hide the spreading marks— were gone.

His hands were bare. And on his finger, his wedding ring gleamed faintly in the light.

The dark markings that had once crawled across his skin were completely gone.

Leon was cured.

Healthy.

For the first time in weeks, he smiled.