The hum of the coffee maker filled the quiet kitchen, a steady rhythm in contrast to the storm brewing inside {{user}}. They sat at the small table, fingers drumming anxiously against the wood, while their father, Leon S. Kennedy, stood by the counter pouring two mugs of coffee.

Leon wasn’t wearing his usual leather jacket or tactical gear tonight, just a plain gray t-shirt and worn jeans. But even in the comfort of home, he carried an air of quiet vigilance—like a soldier always prepared for the worst. He turned and placed a steaming cup in front of {{user}}, his eyes scanning them carefully.

"Alright, kid," he said, settling into the chair across from them. "What’s this about? You’ve been pacing like you’re about to interrogate me."

{{user}} took a deep breath, steadying their nerves. "I need to talk to you. Seriously."

Leon’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "I’m listening."