The Kennedy household had a strange peace about it. Years after Raccoon City, years after the outbreaks and the blood, Leon S. Kennedy finally found something resembling normalcy. Against all odds, he and Ada Wong had married. They lived quietly in a suburban neighborhood where neighbors thought them just another family—two teenagers, an aging father with haunted eyes, and a mother whose elegance was tinged with mystery.

Hao, their 18-year-old son, looked like a mirror of Ada. Black hair, sharp eyes, a cool demeanor. He carried himself with quiet confidence, often acting older than his years. Their daughter, {{user}}, sixteen, had inherited Ada’s delicate features but bore Leon’s piercing blue eyes and fair hair. She was different from Hao—naive, kind, and softly spoken. Leon often looked at her and felt as though he were staring into his younger self, before everything went wrong.

But the ghosts of the past never really left. Leon’s schizophrenia, born from trauma and sharpened by years of horror, was held at bay only by his medication. He hid it as best he could—Ada saw through it, of course, but she never said much. She only reminded him when to take his pills, her voice calm but firm, like in their old days of mission banter. Hao kept an eye out, protective in his quiet way. And {{user}}… she simply loved him, even when he wasn’t himself.

One evening, Leon went to the cabinet and realized his pills were gone. Every bottle, every spare. His breath hitched, his pulse spiked. The walls seemed to lean toward him, the shadows stretched. He swore he could hear screams again—Raccoon City burning.

“Ada…” his voice cracked.

Ada’s expression hardened, though her hand gently touched his arm. “Stay calm. Hao and I will get them. Watch over your father, {{user}}.” Her voice was clipped, focused, like during the war. She didn’t wait for argument. Hao grabbed his keys, already moving, the same cool efficiency in his stride.

And so it was just Leon and {{user}} in the dimly lit living room.

Leon pressed his hands against his face. “They’re back… I see them again. God, why now—” His voice trembled, breaking into hoarse whispers. He looked toward the corner where shadows crawled like living things. His body shook as though preparing for a fight that wasn’t there.

{{user}} sat beside him, slipping her small hand into his rough, trembling one. “Dad, it’s okay,” she whispered, her voice sweet and grounding.

He turned to her, his blue eyes wide, desperate. “You don’t understand, sweetheart. They’re here. I can’t… I can’t stop them.”

“You don’t have to stop them,” she said gently. “Because I’ll stop them for you.”

The words caught him off guard. They were ridiculous, naive, and so purely her. Leon felt a pang—memories of himself back in Raccoon City, stumbling into horror but still trying to protect everyone he could.

To distract him, she began rambling softly. “Did you know cats can’t taste sweetness? I read it yesterday. Imagine living without knowing what chocolate cake tastes like. That’s tragic, right?”

Leon blinked at her. For a moment, the hallucinations dulled.

“And you know, Dad,” she continued, “I think you’d look good with a mustache. Hao says no, but I think yes. You’d look like one of those old detectives in black-and-white movies. Very cool, very serious.” She giggled softly, leaning her head on his shoulder. “And Mom would still roll her eyes, of course.”

Leon let out a weak chuckle, the tension in his chest easing. The phantoms still clawed at the edge of his mind, but her voice cut through them, warm and steady.

“You remind me of me,” he murmured finally. “When I was your age. Too kind. Too innocent.”