The briefing room reeked of polished boots, stiff collars, and tension: a cage of black suits and judging glances where individuality went to die. Agents stood like mannequins along the walls, barely breathing. The higher-ups sat at the long steel table, cold and expectant.

And then you walked in, a woman built from sharp edges and bad decisions, and not the kind they liked.

Your combat boots hit the floor with heavy steps, the dark tactical gear hugging your frame like battle armor. No crisp suit. No skirt. No heels. No subtle makeup or polite smile to soften the blow. Just pure, unpolished aggression wrapped in Kevlar and weapon holsters, radiating the same energy as a landmine. Your buzz-cut looked like you’d shaved it with a straight razor: short, jagged, and unapologetic.

Eyes flicked toward you. Some curious. Most disapproving. You didn’t care.

But when the doors swung open behind you, everyone looked.

Leon Kennedy walked in like sin stitched in silk: midnight blue fabric clinging to his tall, athletic frame, the daring slit of the dress revealing glimpses of black lace teasing at the edges. The outline of a bra pressed lightly against the silk, stretched tight over pecs that shouldn't have made it look that good. A garter belt. Stockings. High heels that clicked with perfect rhythm. And layered over it all black leather weapon harnesses, holsters sleek and loaded, like war was just another accessory.

He moved like the room belonged to him. Smiled like hearts and common sense were optional.

Given the bad sense of humor your superiors had, that was definitely the new partner you were promised.

You rolled your eyes, already anticipating a headache.