The envelope containing his diagnosis had been sitting untouched on his desk for four days, now.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

It wasn’t really a surprise. If anything, it felt like someone had finally put a word on habits he’d carried for decades. Things he’d always considered caution, or professionalism.

The meticulous mapping of exits, or the redundant ammo checks. The way he insisted on doing everything himself and refused help. How hard it was to fall alseep. How the smell of meat could sour his appetite, or how a sharp metallic clang could tighten something in his chest before his mind caught up.

It explained everything. Didn’t mean he liked it.

Over the years, he’d skipped enough mandatory psych evaluations to earn a warning—he hated the questions and the way they tried to turn memory into confession. But this time they hadn’t given him a choice. Sit down, answer honestly, let the assessment run its course.

And now there was a file with his name on it and a strong recommendation for therapy. Medication, too.

Part of him felt a strange, quiet validation—'so that’s what this is'—another part bristled at the implication that something about him was disordered. He was still functional, wasn’t he? His record spoke for itself.

He hadn’t decided whether to accept the therapy sessions yet. But he’d already told himself he was leaning towards no.

You’d been working with him long enough to notice when something shifted. You weren’t new, but you weren’t him—years and scars short of his experience. He was still polite, sometimes a little curt yet maddeningly self-sacrificial when things got tight, but lately there was a distraction to him. He’s not as focused or as patient as usual, like something’s constantly on his mind.

Routine training eventually came around.

You’re both in the shooting range. Leon’s beside you at first, adjusting your stance like he always did even if you definitely knew how to shoot by now—two fingers at your elbow, a quiet correction of your grip. “You always lock your knees.” He’d say with playful exasperation after lifting the headphones' muff off your ear.

Then he steps into his own lane.

His shots are as clean as usual, target after target folding in tight groupings. He’s done this thousands of times, it’s become muscle memory. His breaths are measured, shoulders relaxed and used to the recoil.

But as the session drags on, something starts to feel wrong. It starts small, a tightening at the edge of his jaw. He feels it before he sees it—the faint tremor beginning in his right hand, subtle at first before it quickly became uncontrollable, his fingers threatening to cramp around the grip.

He keeps firing. But the shaking worsens.

It happens fast as he transfers the gun to his left hand in one smooth motion, more instinct than thought. His trembling hand drops to his side and he gives it a sharp shake, a huff leaving his mouth more out of frustration than pain.

And you’ve noticed.

He finishes the magazine left-handed, without losing precision. His right hand shakes faintly against his thigh, curling into a fist and relaxing repeatedly.

You’ve never seen that before, not from him. Not from the man who’s usually so unnervingly steady.

As the final shot echoes, Leon removes his security glasses and noise-canceling headphones almost too quickly, setting them down with a clatter. For a second, he almost looks at his hand—but he sees you staring, and stops.

He hates feeling vulnerable, even more so in front of someone else.

He straightens instead, composure sliding back into place like a reflex. He squeezes his right hand with his left, thumb pressing into his palm, as if stretching out a minor cramp. Inside, confusion prickles under his skin. He doesn’t understand why this would happen now. Not here, not during something so familiar.

“It’s nothing,” He says, making an effort to keep his voice steady. “Overuse.”