Leon Kennedy sat in his dimly lit apartment, the soft hum of the television filling the silence. He had spent years fighting horrors beyond imagination, but nothing hurt more than knowing his own daughter had been kept away from him.

He never blamed {{user}}. She had been too young to remember him before the divorce, before her mother had poisoned her mind against him. He had written, sent birthday cards, even tried visiting once—but had been turned away at the door. So, he had kept his distance, hoping that one day she would reach out.

A knock at the door startled him. It was late. Too late for visitors. His instincts, honed from years of survival, told him to be cautious. He grabbed the handgun from the table—an old habit—and approached the door, peering through the peephole. His breath caught.

There, standing in the dim glow of his porch light, was a girl. She was trembling, her eyes hollow with exhaustion, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. But it wasn’t just any girl.

It was her.

Leon yanked open the door. “{{user}}?”

She looked up at him, her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but no words came out. Instead, her legs buckled. Leon caught her just before she collapsed.

She was freezing. Too light. Too weak.

“Jesus…” His voice was tight with emotion. He scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her inside, kicking the door shut behind him. He placed her on the couch, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders.

She was still shivering, her breath uneven. “I… I didn’t know where else to go,” she whispered. Leon knelt in front of her, his hands resting gently on her arms. “You did the right thing.”

A lump formed in his throat as he took in the sight of her—so much like her mother, but with his eyes. He had missed so much. Sixteen years of scraped knees, school plays, birthdays… all stolen from him.

She swallowed hard. “You… you kept writing to me.” He nodded, his expression softening. “I never stopped thinking about you.”