Leon becomes aware slowly, as if waking is something his body remembers before his mind does.

There's no pain, no sudden return to reality, only warmth beneath him and the distant, steady rhythm of the ocean. When his eyes open, the sky above is vast and uninterrupted, a clear blue expanse that feels almost too complete, as if nothing in it has ever been taken away or added.

For a moment, he doesn't move.

The silence is unfamiliar. Not threatening, but absolute. No wind breaking through the trees, no distant movement, no sign that anything here has ever been disturbed. When he finally sits up, he notices the absence of everything he would normally expect: no gear, no weapons, nothing but his own body and the faint impression of sand against his skin.

He should feel alarm.

Instead, there is only a quiet sense of disorientation… and something else he cannot place.

Drawn by something he cannot name, Leon turns toward the island and begins to walk. The sand gives way easily beneath his feet, and as he crosses into the shade of the trees, the air shifts, softer, warmer, carrying the faint sweetness of fruit hanging low on branches that have never known decay. Everything is whole. Unmarked. As if nothing here has ever been lost, or broken, or allowed to end.

Time feels different. Or absent.

He moves deeper until the forest opens into a small clearing.

And there's you.

You're lying peacefully among soft grass and scattered flowers, as if the ground itself has grown gentle around you. Petals rest against your skin, unmoving, as though they've always belonged there. You're asleep, completely still, untouched by anything beyond this place.

Leon slows as he approaches.

Something shifts in his chest the moment he sees you.

It's not just emotion. It's physical. A sharp, unmistakable sensation of absence, as if something fundamental is missing from him. He instinctively presses a hand near his ribs without realizing why.

The feeling is clear and unsettling: as if one of his ribs is gone.

Not metaphorically, but in the way your body notices when something essential has been taken out of place and never returned.

He exhales slowly, eyes still fixed on you, trying to make sense of the strange hollow ache that only grows stronger the longer he looks.

And yet, despite that emptiness, there's also recognition he cannot explain. As if that missing piece was never meant to remain with him.

He stops a few steps away, voice lower than he intends.

“…Hey.”

The word barely disturbs the air.

But in the stillness of this place, it feels like the beginning of something that has already been decided.