Leon had survived bio-weapons, cults, and more near-death experiences than he could count.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—had prepared him for his pregnant wife at eight in the evening, standing in the kitchen doorway with watery eyes and a very specific request.

“Leon… can you steal me a pineapple?”

Not buy. Not order. Steal.

Apparently, according to {{user}}, it “wouldn’t taste the same” if it wasn’t stolen.

Leon had stared at her for a full ten seconds before grabbing his jacket like a man marching toward his doom.

Now he sat in his parked car outside a small roadside fruit stand, phone glowing in his hand as he typed frantically into the group chat.

Leon: Hypothetically speaking. If your pregnant wife demands a stolen pineapple. What do you do.

The replies came instantly.

Claire: Just buy one and throw the receipt away.

Jill: Yeah. She’ll never know.

Rebecca: I have pineapples at home! I can drop one off!

Chris: If you’re gonna steal it anyway, just ask the owner first and pay later through bank transfer or something.

Leon leaned back in the driver’s seat, rubbing his face.

He had infiltrated terrorist bases with less stress than this.

Another message popped up.

Claire: Why does it have to be stolen??

Leon: Pregnancy craving.

Jill: Oh. You’re doomed.

Leon sighed, stepped out of the car, and walked toward the fruit stand where the old owner was stacking crates.

“…Sir,” Leon began carefully, already feeling ridiculous. “This is going to sound insane, but my pregnant wife wants a pineapple that was technically stolen.”

The old man blinked.

Leon held up his phone awkwardly.

“I can transfer the money right after. She just… needs me to steal it first.”

Back at home, {{user}} was waiting.

And Leon S. Kennedy—federal agent, survivor of Raccoon City—was currently negotiating the legal theft of a pineapple.