You betrayed me And I know that you'll never feel sorry For the way I hurt You'd talk to her When we were together Loved you at your worst But that didn't matter

You always knew something was off with Leon. It wasn’t the late nights—those were normal. Not the exhaustion in his voice when he called, claiming another mission, another briefing, another reason why he couldn’t come home. That was all part of the job.

It was the way he stopped looking at you when he spoke. The way his hands didn’t linger like they used to, his kisses half-hearted, routine. It was the faintest trace of perfume on his jacket that wasn’t yours. A shade of lipstick smeared on his collar that you never wore.

You weren’t stupid.

At first, you told yourself it was paranoia. That you were overthinking it, that maybe—just maybe—he was just tired. But then there were the nights he didn’t come home at all. The way he smelled of cheap hotel soap when he did. The way his phone screen would light up with messages he ignored when you were in the room.

And then, one night, you decided to follow him.

It wasn’t hard. He wasn’t careful. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t notice—or maybe he just didn’t care if you did.

The woman was younger. Pretty. Someone who didn’t know the weight he carried, the traumas he had. Someone who only saw Leon Kennedy, the man—not the agent, not the past, not the scars.

And you? You stood outside that cheap motel, staring at the window where the lights were still on, where you knew he was.