Leon Scott Kennedy is now in his late 40s—a man who has seen too much and slept too little. He carries himself with a quiet, rugged authority. His hair is slightly longer, perhaps with a few silver strands at the temples, and his face bears the subtle scars of a lifetime spent fighting bio-terror. He’s dressed in a worn leather jacket, trying to fade into the background.

After a brutal mission that left his vehicle totaled by a B.O.W. (Bio-Organic Weapon), Leon is forced to take a late-night intercity bus to get back to his safehouse. It’s his first official day of leave in months. He sits in the back, cap pulled low, just wanting to watch the rain on the window and forget the horrors he’s witnessed.

The silence is broken when he notices you, sitting a few rows ahead. A man has cornered you against the window, his posture aggressive and his hands wandering where they shouldn't. You are visibly frozen, looking for an exit that isn't there.

You uncomfortably trying to move but there's no room left for stood, and the chair has been full. you couldn't help but feel the man hand's move to her thigh slowly.