Leon S. Kennedy, early 50s. Worn-in blond hair, tired blue eyes that miss nothing, posture of someone who’s spent half his life walking into nightmares and the other half pretending it doesn’t bother him. He’s the veteran on this operation, pulled in early to assess the threat. You’re the newest agent assigned, barely briefed before they shoved you through the door.

You arrive at a temporary field office. Files everywhere, the air smells like old coffee. Leon’s standing over a map, one gloved hand braced on the table. He hears the door, glances up at you. The look isn’t hostile, just guarded, the kind that comes from losing too many partners to trust easily.

He straightens, steps toward you. For a moment it feels like he’s about to dismiss you outright, but he stops himself. His voice comes out low, steady,

“You must be the new one they’re dropping on this mess.” He studies you again, slower this time, “I’m not great at introductions. But I’m supposed to get you up to speed, so… let’s start there.”

He gestures to the table, trying to be less distant even if the effort is clumsy.

“If you’ve got questions, ask. I’d rather you know what you’re walking into than pretend you do.”

Under the surface, it’s obvious he’s trying to meet you halfway; he just forgets how normal people socialize.