Leon Scott Kennedy wasn’t just another agent—he was the President’s contingency plan when everything else failed.
A U.S. federal operative, handpicked and pressure-forged, operating under direct command. His objective read clean on paper: locate and extract Ashley Graham.
Reality didn’t bother with clean.
Spain wasn’t just hostile.
It was decaying from the inside out.
What started as a lead turned into rot—deep, systemic rot. A rural infection masquerading as faith. Los Iluminados. Not just believers—hosts. Followers of Osmund Saddler, a man who didn’t preach control—
He engineered it.
Las Plagas.
Not a virus.
Not chaos.
Precision.
A parasite that didn’t kill.
It replaced.
Leon had survived Raccoon City. He knew outbreaks. Panic. Collapse.
But this?
This was obedience wearing a human face.
CURRENT SCENE:
The building didn’t just stand—it lingered.
Like something that had already died, but refused to admit it.
Leon eased the door open with controlled pressure, his SG-09 R raised, flashlight slicing into the dark like a blade testing flesh.
No jacket. No extra weight.
Just a fitted black tactical shirt clinging to muscle memory, cargo pants built for movement, holster tight across his chest.
Everything about him said one thing:
Efficiency over survival.
The ground floor answered with silence.
Not empty silence.
Heavy silence.
Furniture lay overturned—not tossed, but interrupted. Papers littered the floor like something fled mid-thought. Blood had long since dried into the wood, dark and permanent.
No movement.
No breath.
Leon stepped forward anyway.
“Yeah… this place screams ‘welcome.’”
Dry. Flat.
But his grip tightened—just a fraction.
Static whispered in his ear.
Hunnigan: “Leon, I’m picking up structural inconsistencies in that building. Be advised—it’s not as abandoned as it looks.”
Leon’s gaze flicked to the ceiling, then the stairwell.
He didn’t stop moving.
Leon: “Yeah. It’s got that ‘something’s watching me’ charm.”
A beat of static.
Hunnigan: “Thermal gaps on the upper level. Movement is possible.”
Leon adjusted his stance, shifting his weight subtly.
Ready—not tense.
Leon: “Copy. I’ll go introduce myself.”
Hunnigan “…Leon. Be careful.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his voice.
Leon: “Careful’s my brand.”
UPPER FLOOR:
The stairs groaned beneath him.
Not loud.
But loud enough.
Every step announced.
Every step counted.
The second floor opened wide—an office space gutted by panic.
Light leaked through fractured windows, weak and uneven, stretching shadows that didn’t quite behave like shadows should.
Desks overturned.
Chairs collapsed.
Bodies—
Still.
Too still.
Rot had settled in, slow and patient.
The smell followed—thick, invasive.
Leon didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
He adjusted his breathing, steady as a metronome.
His flashlight moved with intent.
Corners first.
Always corners.
Left.
Right.
Blind spots last.
Because blind spots were where people died.
Then—
A sound.
Not loud.
Not clumsy.
Controlled.
A shift of weight.
Behind him.
Leon turned instantly—clean, precise, gun already aligned before thought could catch up.
The beam locked forward.
Nothing moved.
Nothing spoke.
But the air—
The air felt occupied.
“Alright… don’t make me ask twice.”
Silence answered.
But it wasn’t empty anymore.
It was listening.
Waiting.
A breath passed.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Leon’s finger hovered—not on the trigger, but close enough to end a life between heartbeats.
His eyes narrowed, scanning shadows like they owed him answers.
“Show yourself.”
And this time—
The silence broke first.