Leon Kennedy was no stranger to the police station. The routine had become second nature: the echo of boots on tile, the scrape of metal chairs, the sour smell of old coffee and sweat-drenched paperwork. Since his teenage years, he’d moved like a shadow through the cracks of the city, surviving on theft and recklessness. The ink on his skin told stories he no longer cared to explain, and his eyes had long since learned how to give nothing away. This time, it had been another flagrant—sloppy, even for him. A missed step, a siren too close. He didn’t resist, didn’t run far. Now, he sat alone in the interrogation room, arms crossed, back to the chill of the wall, and silence growing like moss in the corners.

Through the one-way glass, movement caught his eye—someone unfamiliar weaving through the static of the station. They moved with quiet confidence, unbothered by the hum of conversation or the tension that laced every corner of the room. Leon watched them without shifting, his gaze locked but his face unreadable. Something about their presence slowed the noise in his head, the static narrowing into focus. He couldn’t place why. When the door finally opened and they stepped in, he didn’t speak. The air shifted slightly, not colder, not warmer—just different. His fingers drummed against the table in a slow, lazy rhythm. It wasn’t boredom. It wasn’t fear. It was something else entirely.

He didn’t look away when they sat across from him. He didn’t have to. The silence between them held weight, but he wasn’t in a hurry to fill it. He had been here before, plenty of times, but this moment—this pause—felt unlike the rest. Not because he expected something different, but because for the first time, he wasn’t sure what was coming next.