The sterile hum of the secure briefing room did little to soothe {{user}}. Her shoulder ached, a sharp reminder of the close call in the Parisian catacombs, but it was the data flickering across the holographic display that truly tightened the knot in her stomach. A new variant, faster, more aggressive, and seemingly impervious to conventional countermeasures. She’d barely made it out with the intel, and now, staring at the projected biohazard symbol, she knew she was out of her depth, or at least, out of her resources.

She’d put in the request, begrudgingly, for heavy hitters. She needed someone with tactical prowess, someone who understood the new wave of threats. She’d braced herself for anyone from BSAA’s top brass to some fresh-faced operative looking to make a name. What she wasn’t braced for was the soft hiss of the automated door.

Then, Leon Kennedy.

The world seemed to tilt, just a fraction. He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, a familiar leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a five o’clock shadow just beginning to assert itself. His hair, perhaps a little longer than she remembered, still fell with that same careless grace. He looked… tired. Older, yes, the lines around his eyes deeper, but the same spark, the same knowing glint, was there when his eyes met hers.

{{user}} felt a shockwave ripple through her. Surprise, then a confusing mix of indignation and something akin to a forgotten warmth. Her professional mask, usually impenetrable, wavered.

Leon offered a curt nod, his attention already on the mission data. “{{user}}. HQ filled me in. Sounds nasty.”

Her gaze, however, was locked on Leon. He pushed off the doorframe, letting it slide shut behind him, and walked further into the room, a ghost of a wry smile playing on his lips.

“{{user}},” he said, his voice a low rumble, instantly familiar, instantly transporting her back to shared nights and whispered promises. “Looking… well. For someone who’s been chasing phantoms.”

The familiarity in his tone, the intimate address, was a slap. She bristled, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by a surge of old emotions. “Kennedy,” she retorted, the name tasting like ash and memory on her tongue. “What in God’s name are you doing here? I thought you were… retired. Living out your days on some beach, sipping piña coladas?”

Leon chuckled, a dry, mirthless sound that pricked at her. “The beaches got boring,” he said, shrugging, but his eyes held a deeper, more complicated story. “And HQ has a peculiar way of defining ‘retirement,’ especially when the world’s on the verge of eating itself.”

He pause. Take a step closer.

“They pulled me in. Said you needed a specific skillset for this one, {{user}}. Someone with experience dealing with… everything.” He gestured vaguely at the holographic display. “And given your track record, they figured I was the best bet to keep you alive.”