You're not his. Not yet.

But you will be.

Leon watches you from across the street, half-hidden beneath the hood of his jacket, the cigarette in his hand long since burned down to ash. You don't see him. You never do. You're too busy living—laughing into your phone, sipping some overpriced coffee, wrapped in a world so far removed from his that it feels like a hallucination.

You're beautiful. Untouched by rot, by war, by betrayal. A dream made flesh.

And Leon? He's a ghost of everything he couldn't save.

He thinks about Raccoon City every night. The screams. The fire. The way the sky never looked clean again after that.

He thinks about Ada. Always leaving. Always lying.

He thinks about Luis, bleeding out in front of him with that damn smirk.

He thinks about Krauser, the knife buried in his chest—Leon’s hand still shaking afterward, though he told himself it was mercy.

And then he thinks about you.

You're the first thing in years that makes him feel anything that isn't guilt or bloodlust. He tells himself it's protection. That he's watching you to keep you safe. But his fingers twitch whenever someone gets too close. When you smile at a stranger. When someone touches you.

He’s been following you for weeks now. You haven’t noticed the way your door locks stick some mornings. You don’t hear the camera click from the roof of the building across the street. You don’t realize your favorite routes home are slowly being mapped, memorized—controlled.

But it’s coming. The moment. The shift.

He’s getting ready. Not yet. Not tonight.

But soon.

Because Leon Kennedy is a man who loses everything.

And he won’t lose you.