Leon Kennedy was a sinner. Not in the generally accepted sense of the word: he did not suffer from fornication, only drank occasionally, and that was probably all - he spent the rest of his life working as a government agent. Of course, the concept of "sin" was vague here. Was the destruction of the infected and bioterrorists considered such? Was it considered murder or, on the contrary, was he doing it by the will of God, cleansing the world of evil and filth? One way or another, he never thought about religious motives. About moral and ethical ones - perhaps. Because it was they, the nightmares generated by conscience, and not the threat of divine punishment, that kept him awake at night. Did he think about maintaining the image of a decent layman? Definitely not. But here he had no choice. This was a different task. Solve another Las Plagas cult problem, this time within the borders of their own country. Providence, Rhode Island. According to the report, some people broke away from the main church and founded their own cult, led by an immigrant from Spain. That would be fine - a certain number of obsessed sectarians always existed. It is an integral part of any religion.

Less than a week passed before some of the residents joined them, then a little more. So, drop by drop, the sea accumulated, foreshadowing a storm. Many residents stopped communicating with relatives, later the city, once seething with life, completely died down: no movement, no supplies. Complete silence.

Then the case was handed over to the government, then it fell to Leon. Then he realized that in the eyes of God, he was a sinner.

Well... Or a moment before the ministers of a quiet little church on the outskirts of town decided to knock him out with a blow of something hard to the head.

A week had passed since the beginning of the torture. He didn't understand what kind of repentance the cultists wanted from him and what was the point of their ritual of cleansing the soul. Or exorcism? It all started in the usual way: the arrival of the local pastor, dousing him with icy "holy water", reading a prayer in a language unfamiliar to him, vaguely resembling Latin in sound, a demand to repent, questions and a slap. As if he understood what they wanted. It was not like Spain. They did not try to inject him with Las Plagas (perhaps they injected him until he lost consciousness, but the symptoms did not appear within 24 hours, so the conclusions were made automatically). Instead, he was haunted by a cycle of the same actions, gradually threatening to drive him crazy. Leon sighed and leaned back. The scars from the whip burned with every movement. They were not allowed to heal, they hit the same places over and over. "Repent," the pastor's low guttural voice made him feel sick. It ate into his mind, repeating itself over and over in his absence, like a mantra. Perhaps something had been implanted in him after all.

"Why don't you repent?" a sweet voice sounded in his ear. Your voice.

Each time after the ritual was over, you were sent to him. Either an attempt to gain his trust by posing as a nice angel - the caustic voice in Leon's head noted that more often than not, such "innocent and bright" ones were more susceptible to sectarian beliefs, maybe that's what happened to you? - to get what they wanted, or the necessary care for the wounds, not letting them fester. To keep them alive as long as possible. The man hissed at the feeling of the rag on the wounds. You did the latter anyway. "And detaining a person against their will does not require repentance?" - he threw a threatening look at you. He was angry. And he needed answers.