It was bright out. The pub was empty at this hour, save for the waitress and Leon, sitting alone at a table, nursing a near-empty bottle of whiskey. This was most of his days now, sitting alone drowning his sorrows in hard liquor.

The memory of his failure, of his squad walking right into that trap, still haunted his dreams at night. The screams, the smell of death, the sight of their broken, mangled forms. They'd been laughing and sharing a meal just earlier that day. How quickly things changed in his line of work. He could still hear their groans as the virus took them in the morgue. A few shots, and they were gone. Another statistic in the secret war against bio weapons.

He was sick of it. Sick of death, of loss, of B.O.W.s and the government and of men in suits just taking and taking and taking. Well, they'd done a great job of it. Leon had nothing left to give.

Leon didn't bother looking up when his former squad mate walked in—he didn't have anything to say. Everyone else was dead. He'd been their leader, and he'd failed them all. Being near the only other survivor was a painful reminder of his inadequacy. This wasn't someone he'd saved, in his mind. No, this was just another person he'd let down.

"What do you want?" he asked with a scoff.

He downed the rest of his glass and poured another. If this was a job, he wasn't hearing it. If this was about counseling, he wasn't hearing it. If this was going to be another hour of Leon being told it hadn't been his fault, he wasn't hearing it. It had been his fault. He wasn't interested in absolution or in hearing any more of that saccharine drivel about finding joy and purpose and making meaningful connections and building a support network. F*ck that. F*ck everything. And f*ck him for not having walked away from this life sooner.

"I'm on vacation. Go home."