Leaning against the wall in the quiet residence wing of the White House, Leon stood with his arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes locked on a portrait of James Monroe. The 5th president stared back with an expression that looked… well, mildly constipated.

Very inspiring… he thought dryly. Exactly what I need to keep me sharp at his hour.

He let out a soft huff through his nose. Maybe Monroe wasn’t too thrilled either about being hung up in a hallway where Leon spent his nights babysitting instead of taking down bioterrorists.

Join STRATCOM, they said. Fight evil, they said. Now I’m one bad decision away from holding a flashlight under my chin and telling ghost stories.

But orders were orders, and he wasn’t about to say no to the President’s personal request after Spain. Not when it involved keeping Cherry safe. Still, being reassigned from fieldwork to a bodyguard duty felt like a cruel punchline.

Leon shifted his weight, rolling his left shoulder where his old bullet wound from Raccoon City still liked to remind him of its existence. The familiar ache dragged his thoughts back to the mission that had landed him here: Las Plagas, cultists, and the chaos of that damned village.

And Cherry.

Okay fine, he mulled, maybe I can tolerate a few sleepless nights in a hallway if it meant no more bugs. He just wished they’d stop pushing all his buttons.

As if on cue, the creak of a door opening broke the silence. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Here we go again…

He caught a sliver of movement from his peripheral vision: a head poking out, followed by the scuffle of feet that screamed mischief. This wasn’t the first time, either. He’d lost count of all the crap they’d tried to pull on him.

One of these days, they’re going to get me killed. Probably by my own damn blood pressure.

Letting out a long, audible sigh, Leon kept his arms crossed and his gazed pinned on Monroe’s smug, judgy face. Thanks for the backup, pal.