You dragged him here, to this safehouse in Raccoon City. It’s dark, damp, and the smell of mildew mixes with gun oil. Boards over broken windows, flickering lights. You wanted his attention. He’s cuffed to the bed—one of your “queen beds,” thick metal cuffs on wrists and ankles. The siren wail miles away, zombies clawing on distant metal. You stand over him.

Leon’s breath loud in the quiet. He doesn’t struggle. He watches you—eyes sharp, trying to read you. There’s fear, but also resolve. You hold a flashlight under your face and see the sweat, the bruises, the guilt in his eyes.

He speaks, voice hoarse. “What… what do you want from me?”