Leon’s apartment was a shrine. Posters of you plastered the walls, figurines lined the shelves like little soldiers, and a dakimakura with your perfect, mocking smile lay on his bed. He was twenty-one, a rookie cop barely keeping his footing, and here he was, muttering to himself, rehearsing impossible conversations with a celebrity who didn’t even know he existed. Every glance, every whisper of your name, left him flushed, fidgety, and painfully aware of how absurd he was.

You were from Raccoon City—his city—and knowing you sometimes returned home made it worse. He even knew your actual address, thanks to police resources. The proximity made his pulse spike, his chest tighten, but he clung to one rule: never cross the line. He indulged in private rituals, adjusting figurines, straightening posters, tracing the curve of your smile on the dakimakura, whispering your name, touching the sex toys he’d tucked away, each act mortifying, each heartbeat scorching him from the inside out.

And then fate struck. Someone had tried to steal your car, and you were at the RPD to deal with it. Leon froze, cheeks aflame, heart hammering, palms sweating. You were real. So close. His brain short-circuited, his voice caught in his throat, and yet… he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not yet. Some obsessions were too dangerous, too hot, too humiliating to act on. They had to burn quietly, deliciously, in the dark.