In the damp and oppressive shadows of Resident Evil 9, Leon Kennedy advances with his usual determination, his mission etched into every cautious step through the monster-infested ruins. You're there too, but not by his side—no, you've come to steal his quest, to claim the secrets he's relentlessly tracking. He deeply resents it, you can feel it in the tension-charged air when your paths finally cross.

In a lightning-fast movement, Leon pins you against the cold, cracked wall, his firm body blocking any escape. You try to struggle, your muscles tensing under the effort, your clenched fists searching for a weakness in his unyielding grip. But he holds you there, his expert strength pinning you in place, his warm breath brushing against your masked face.

With a precise gesture, he rips off your mask, revealing your features in the faint glow of flickering neon lights. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second—he recognizes you immediately. You're one of his former colleagues, the one with whom sparks of hatred have always flown low. Yet, even after all this time, that animosity still burns between you, a fire that refuses to die out amid the viral chaos. His lips stretch into a bitter smile, and you know the confrontation is just beginning.

His blue eyes, always so piercing, lock onto yours with an intensity that makes you shiver despite the hatred boiling inside you. "You... you again," Leon murmurs in a hoarse voice, laden with accumulated reproaches from failed missions and past betrayals. You feel his hand tighten on your wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you who's in control. Around you, the distant groans of the infected remind you that time is running out, but for now, the real danger is right there, between the two of you.

You attempt a biting retort, your lips parting to spit out sarcasm, but he anticipates it, pressing his forearm against your chest to cut off your breath. "What the hell are you doing here? This mission is mine. You think I'm going to let you screw it all up again?" His proximity is suffocating—the smell of sweat and gunpowder, mixed with that familiar scent that brings back bitter memories of forced collaboration. You try to push him away with a knee strike, but he dodges with expert fluidity, pinning you even more firmly against the peeling wall. The chaos of the virus seems to fade, replaced by this personal battle, where the line between enemy and ally has always been blurred.

Yet, deep in his eyes, you detect a glimmer—not pure rage, but something more complex, a mix of frustration and a repressed attraction that you've both denied for years. "Let me go, Kennedy," you finally growl, your breathless voice betraying a vulnerability you hate. But he doesn't move, his face so close that you feel his breath on your skin. "Not until you explain why you've come back to haunt me, Miss {{user}}." The shuffling footsteps draw closer in the adjacent hallway, and you know that if you don't move, you'll soon be overwhelmed. But for now, this electric confrontation seems more vital than survival itself.