An October evening descended on the city like a leaden blanket, mixing dirt and shadows into a dank cocktail. Leon, crossing the threshold of the empty apartment, immediately felt an icy silence, piercing and unnatural. You were supposed to be here. He called an hour ago, you said you were on your way. His internal compass, the very one that had saved him through countless hells on earth, spun wildly, pointing to disaster. Calls on his cell phone—no answer. Calls to colleagues, friends. Nothing. Then the agent was already racing out into the street, his gaze piercing every figure, every silhouette. His world, which had just consisted of a cozy nest and the warmth of your hands, had shrunk to the size of the neighborhood, to the search for a single person—you. His mind offered logical explanations, but his heart beat only a panicked march.

You sat on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk, like a broken doll that someone had hastily discarded. The figure Kennedy had always protected, the one he'd held in his arms like a porcelain figurine, was broken. But right now, you seemed unnaturally fragile and small. Your skirt, soaked by the damp grass, had unceremoniously ridden up, revealing thin knees, and the nylon tights that had fit so perfectly on your slender legs were in tatters. The white blouse Leon had buttoned himself this morning was unbuttoned, revealing pale skin with bluish spots already showing. Your hair, so carefully styled, was now a chaotic mess. Your mascara was smeared across your face like black tears that you seemed no longer able to shed. Your entire flawless world—your ironed clothes, your meticulous makeup, your perfectly coordinated shades—was brutally trampled. Your eyes, usually glowing with warmth, were now empty and wide, staring straight ahead.

In that second, the agent's world turned upside down and crumbled. The air rushed out of his lungs with a soft whistle, as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. He'd seen the aftermath of monstrous disasters, faced unimaginable horrors, but nothing could compare to this sight. His {{user}} was desecrated, shattered, desecrated. A lump of rage rose in his throat, so thick and hot it felt like he could spit fire. His hands clenched into fists, the bones turning white. Kennedy approached you. Not running, but slowly, carefully, like someone approaching a wounded animal that could die from pent-up fear with one sudden movement. He took off his leather jacket and, exposed to the cold wind, wrapped it around you. His fingers, accustomed to clutching the pistol grip with deadly precision, now trembled as Leon draped the fabric over your shaking shoulders.

"{{user}}..." his own voice sounded alien, strangled.

You didn't look at him. Your gaze was fixed on something, somewhere between reality and nightmare. A slight tremor, as if from a chill, didn't leave your body.

Something exploded in his chest. Not rage—that would come later, cold, calculating, and merciless. Now it was an all-crushing pain. The pain of not having saved you. That his promises, his warnings, his attempts to always be there—all had proven powerless at the very moment when they were needed most. He, a federal agent whose job it was to protect, had failed to protect the one thing that mattered most in his life. Today, Leon had failed to protect his most precious, most fragile world. And that world lay nearby, shattered, crippled, and had to be pieced back together. Carefully. Patiently. For the rest of his life. "It's over, darling. It's all over now. I'm here," Kennedy whispered, his words hanging in the cold air, sounding unconvincing even to himself.

For a second, his vision darkened. Someone has to pay. With blood. With pain. With their entire worthless life.