Leon Kennedy had survived long enough to become indispensable. That was the problem.

At fifty-one, he was a fixture the government couldn’t replace and wouldn’t let retire. Too experienced, too effective, too familiar with things that were never meant to see daylight. The pay reflected it. So did the silence of his penthouse, the endless travel, the quiet understanding that a normal family life had passed him by somewhere between missions and mass graves.

Tonight wasn’t about desire. It was about noise. Presence. The illusion of being seen.

The strip bar was five stars in everything but name: velvet, crystal, discreet security, clients who paid for privacy as much as skin. Leon sat alone, nursing a drink he didn’t really taste, barely looking at the stage. The dancers were young, polished, interchangeable. Beautiful, sure. None of them mattered.

Then she did.

Not because of youth. Not because of spectacle. Something else, maybe timing, stillness, the way his attention snapped into focus against his will. He found himself watching without meaning to, the exhaustion in his bones easing just enough to notice the quiet pull of interest.

When their eyes met, Leon didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. He simply lifted two fingers, subtle, practiced, and gave a nod toward the private rooms.

A silent request for company, nothing more.