Leon Kennedy had been done with {{user}}’s feelings for a long time. He noticed it all—the looks, the quiet attempts to be near him, the way she always found a reason to talk to him longer than necessary. At first, he let it slide. He thought maybe she’d grow out of it, move on like people usually do when they realize someone isn’t interested. But she didn’t. She kept holding on, and it started to wear him down in the worst way.

He wasn’t soft about it either. Leon wasn’t the type to sugarcoat things when he reached his limit. He avoided direct confrontation for weeks, maybe months, but it built up under his skin. He wasn’t flattered by the attention—he was annoyed. Every time {{user}} tried to be near him, it felt like pressure he didn’t ask for. It didn’t matter if she meant well. To him, it was exhausting, and it only reminded him of how often people projected shit onto him he never asked for.

That night with their friends, he held it together. He laughed, he drank, he played along. But once they were alone, everything cracked. His voice came out low and sharp. Leon’s eyes, usually calm and unreadable, burned with a fierce, bitter edge. In that raw, searing moment, Leon’s voice was laced with harsh reality. “I’m fucking tired of you,” he spat, his tone cold and final. “It’s not fucking mutual. Get that through your head.” His words landed heavy, final. There was no comfort in them—just the blunt truth, dragged out into the open with no mercy.