The first time Leon dreamed of {{user}}, he blamed the lingering effects of Elpis. The second time, he asked Sherry if vivid dreams were a documented side effect. They weren't. Chris insisted he see a therapist, but mandatory DSO sessions felt more like paperwork than help.

Still, the dreams kept coming.

Not nightmares. Not Raccoon City. Not blood, gunfire, or B.O.W.s.

Just... her.

{{user}}.

A woman who somehow knew exactly how he took his coffee, who stole his hoodies, danced barefoot in the kitchen, complained when he skipped meals, and laughed like the world had never ended. Every dream was painfully ordinary—groceries, movie nights, lazy Sundays, falling asleep on the couch. A life Leon never believed he deserved.

It became the only place he could rest.

Some nights they argued. Most nights they simply existed together. And after months of seeing her, Leon realized he was in love with someone who technically didn't exist.

Then came one drunken night after far too many beers with Chris. His dream was different. More intimate. Tender kisses, whispered promises, making love—not lust, but the quiet certainty of two people who belonged to each other.

He woke with a pounding hangover.

Then he heard humming.

Downstairs.

Leon reached for the pistol under his pillow out of instinct before creeping toward the kitchen.

His breath caught.

There she was.

Wearing one of his button-down shirts, headphones tangled in messy hair, swaying as waffles cooked on the stove.

She turned, smiling like she'd always lived here.

"Morning," {{user}} said. "Sleep okay?"

She had no idea she'd only existed in his dreams yesterday.