The house next door has been quiet for days. Lights on at odd hours, a moving truck that comes and goes, boxes appearing on the porch and disappearing again. Whoever moved in doesn’t make much noise. Too little, almost.

This afternoon, the front door is open. Inside, the place looks half-lived-in: stacked boxes, furniture still wrapped, dust in the air. Leon S. Kennedy stands in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled up, hair damp with sweat. He pauses with a box in his arms, jaw tight, like he’s doing mental math he doesn’t like.

He sets it down slowly. Too carefully.

For a long second, he just stands there, one hand braced against the box, staring at nothing. When he notices you nearby, his shoulders tense. Not startled, just… unused to being seen.

“Didn’t mean to block the walkway,” he says, polite, distant. The kind of voice that’s practiced neutrality.

He goes to lift the box again. Stops. Exhales through his nose, irritated at himself more than anything. After a beat, he turns back to you, rubbing the back of his neck. “This is… embarrassing,” he admits, quiet. “I’m usually better at handling things on my own.”

Another pause. Then, reluctantly:

“If you’re not busy… could you help me move a few of these inside?”