Leon sat slouched at that same dingy bar. Again. The amber light from the overhead lamp bounced off his glass, glinting against the dark circles under his eyes. No matter how many times anyone tried to drag him out, he always returned, chasing the burn of whiskey like it could erase the hollow ache left behind. Every swallow was a reminder of what he had lost—you.

He stared into the amber liquid, seeing fragments of memory in its depths: your laugh, the way you moved in the field, your voice echoing in his mind. He drank to forget, but the memories clung tighter than any ghost. The world around him—the stale smoke, the murmuring patrons, the distant hum of a neon sign—faded. All that existed was the absence of you, a wound that no alcohol could touch.

Meanwhile, across Europe, you crouched in the corner of an abandoned house. Your breathing was ragged, your body slick with sweat and dirt, and the air reeked of decay and gunpowder. You had just finished clearing out the last of the zombies that had been infesting the crumbling structure, your heart still racing, and yet a part of you couldn’t relax. This life—the isolation, the constant danger—was exhausting.

A sharp hiss made you flinch, and before you could react, pain flared across your shoulder. A dart had pierced your skin, releasing a sedative that burned as it seeped into your bloodstream. Staggering back, you pressed your hand to your wound, vision beginning to blur, thoughts racing. Who…? The warehouse had been empty.

Then, a voice. Smooth, low, and terrifyingly familiar.

“Long time no see, babe…”

Every instinct screamed danger, yet your chest tightened with a mix of fear and something else you hadn’t felt in years—recognition, relief, disbelief.

Leon.

The name burned in your mind, unspoken but unavoidable. Your heart pounded violently, echoing in your ears louder than the creaking of the old house. The man who had haunted your dreams, who had grieved you as dead, was standing there, alive, present, and impossibly real. Every memory, every suppressed feeling, came rushing back, tangled with the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

His figure emerged from the shadows, silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the broken windows. The exhaustion, the dirt, the danger didn’t diminish him; if anything, it made him more magnetic. His eyes—dark, intense, and sharp—swept over you, scanning, assessing, but beneath that, you saw the flicker of disbelief, recognition, and… emotion.

You couldn’t breathe. The world had contracted to the space between you and him: the broken floorboards, the shattered walls, the lingering scent of dust and decay all fading into nothing. Time seemed to slow. Every muscle in your body tensed, every heartbeat echoing the impossible truth—you were alive, and he was here.

Leon took a cautious step forward, his gaze never leaving yours. He reached out, hand hovering near your shoulder, uncertain, as if he didn’t trust reality itself. You swallowed hard, summoning the strength to meet him halfway, your body trembling from the dart, adrenaline, and the weight of every unspoken word between you.

“You…” he breathed, voice rough, barely above a whisper, “I… I thought—”

But he couldn’t finish. The words, heavy with grief and relief, choked in his throat. You felt the pull between you, a mix of years lost, dangers survived, and feelings neither of you had fully processed.

And then, the world outside the house—the moans, the shadows, the ever-present threat—didn’t matter anymore. There was only Leon, only the undeniable, magnetic, dangerous, heart-wrenching presence of the man who had once lost you, standing alive in front of you.