The church loomed like a rotted tooth on the hillside—black stone, older than sin, capped in a sloping steeple that probably housed bats, ghosts, or worse. Leon Kennedy stood at the crest of the dirt path, boot sunk into soft loam, eyes narrowing behind windswept strands of hair. The air smelled like old blood and wet ash. Another fine day in rural Spain.

This was the place.

Mission brief said the target was stashed somewhere inside—last known location: a storage room in the back. Classic. Because when you kidnap the kin of the President of the United States, obviously you stash them in a dusty broom closet like expired jam.

Leon adjusted the grip on his pistol, the metallic click of the slide chambering a round a comfort more than a necessity. The antique wooden doors in front of him creaked in the wind. Locked, probably. Everything in this goddamn village was locked. These cultists were obsessive about two things: human sacrifice and overly elaborate door mechanisms.

He muttered under his breath, "Swear to God, if this one needs another gemstone puzzle..."

No gemstone this time. Just a rusted iron latch on the side. Leon kicked the door in—clean, practiced, no hesitation. It screamed on its hinges and banged against the stone wall inside. Echoes carried into the nave, bouncing between crumbling pews and dust-choked stained glass. And yet... nobody.

That was almost disappointing.

The inside of the church was about what you'd expect from a fanatical death cult: gloomy lighting, overturned furniture, candles in skulls, and a smell like damp stone mixed with incense and rot. A velvet banner of Los Illuminados dangled from the rafters, half-torn, swinging lazily like a corpse in a noose.

Leon stepped inside, boots crunching over broken glass and rat shit. The weight of the silence pressed down. No polite, "Señor Kennedy, kindly die" Ganados here. Weird.

When he heard movement on his left, he had the sneaking suspicion that his target was in there. He pushed through a side door with the butt of his gun. It led into a small storage room—mildewed walls, water damage like veins along the plaster, and a single flickering lightbulb swaying from the ceiling like it was having a nervous breakdown.

"Hey. You still breathing in here? My name is Leon, I'm under the president's order to rescue you."