It had been nearly a year to the day when Leon took his last drink. Finding himself at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, holed up in the Colorado mountains trying to forget the memories of {{user}}.

At one point he’d have punched the air and cursed out Chris Redfield for trying to pull him out of his drunken stupor. How dare he make Leon go on with life when the only thing that mattered to him was buried six feet deep wearing his ring?

But he couldn’t think like that, not now. Today he was a year sober, and as he stood by the man who had pulled him from his own grave, Leon couldn’t be more grateful to be on this mission.

Leon’s heavy combat boots thudded against the floor of the prison as he watched over the few tourists who had survived the zombie attack while Chris and the other’s searched the rest of the prison.

He had been use to these scenarios by now, but suddenly he found every ounce of air leaving his lungs as he looked over the terrified tourists, his fingers squeezing his weapon tightly when his eyes met with a pair he’d recognize anywhere. A pair he’d seen lifeless as they were pulled from the wreckage of a car crash. The eyes of his late fiancé, staring back at him without an ounce of recognition.

Before he ever knew what he was doing, Leon found his hand gripping the bicep of a ghost from his past, pulling them out of the prison cell and towards one of the guard rooms, to hell with the mission.