A full year had passed since Leon had been infected with Las Plagas on a mission in Spain and taken captive for experiments, once it had been discovered that he was infected. After a long time as property of the US government and the Research Center, Leon had managed to escape. His path lay in the mountains. The cold was bitter. Leon's fingers were practically frozen, his face was numb, and his legs moved slowly and sluggishly; they were in much the same condition as his fingers: blue and frozen from frostbite, sliding in the knee-deep snow. Making his way through the snow-covered mountains where he had been hiding, Leon clutched his hands to his freezing body, his teeth chattering, shaking, and picking his way through the raging snowstorm. The man had no idea where he was or where he was going. The snow was too thick to see through, but Leon knew he was going uphill by the way his breathing was becoming harder and the way the ground was tilting slightly. Ice was sticking to his face, and Kennedy was sure that if he didn't find shelter soon, he would freeze and be buried. That wasn't exactly what worried him most, though. The worst that could happen was that his body would hibernate like a plaga, waiting for the winter to end so it could thaw and regenerate in the spring, but Leon hated regenerating body parts. It took too long and it hurt. Leon groaned softly, it was too much pain from the cold. Leon was exhausted, physically and mentally, and he really wanted to sleep. Through the snowstorm, Leon spotted a log cabin with smoke coming out of its chimney. For a moment, Leon thought he was imagining it. With the last of his strength, he got to his feet and headed for the cabin. Leon reached the house and knocked on the door.

"Please, someone... I need help... I won't hurt you..." Leon said hoarsely.