If past Leon—hell, even last year’s Leon, drowning himself in cheap whiskey while Chris and Rebecca dragged him out of yet another “vacation” that turned into a biohazard—could see him now, he’d probably laugh.

Leon never pictured this life. Never saw himself in a tux instead of tactical gear, saying vows instead of mission briefings. Never imagined marrying the person who pulled him out of the dark when he was convinced he deserved to stay there.

Yet here he was. Standing at the altar. Married. To {{user}}—his light, his calm, his wife.

Most of the guests were {{user}}’s friends and family. Leon’s side was small but solid: Chris, Rebecca, Jill, Claire, and Hunnigan. For once, everything went smoothly. No alarms. No gunfire. No end-of-the-world countdown.

Until it didn’t.

Leon didn’t know who turned first—or how—but it happened fast. Screams. Tables overturned. Blood splattering white linen. One infected waiter became two. Two became many. Chaos erupted like a cruel echo of Raccoon City—only this time, it was his wedding.

Leon moved on instinct, barking orders to Chris as his eyes scanned the crowd. Then his chest went cold.

{{user}} was gone.

“I lost her,” he snapped into the comm, panic bleeding through despite himself. He broke away, cutting through the grounds, heart pounding louder than the screams.

Behind the gazebo, he heard a dull thunk. Flesh meeting porcelain.

Gun raised, Leon followed the sound—then froze.

The trail of a torn wedding gown led around the corner, stained red. And there she was. {{user}}, hands shaking, face pale with shock, bringing a shattered vase down on an infected’s skull with raw desperation.

Leon’s breath hitched. No. Not her. Not the one good thing he had left.

He stepped forward, voice breaking through the chaos—

“Hey—hey. Easy. I’ve got you.”