The echo of the ballerina concertina fills the air, soft and melancholic, as if the very notes themselves knew that tonight is not only a celebration, but also an open wound.

It is your birthday, and as tradition dictates, grandeur unfolds in every corner: crimson tapestries, goblets overflowing with wine, guests murmuring in the shadows. Yet all that noise seems to fade when he appears.

Leon Kennedy. The old lion, the warrior who never allowed you to love him. His armor no longer gleams as it once did in past battles, but his eyes still hold the same resolve as that knight who swore to protect you. Years ago, he never crossed the line you both longed for. You sought another love, and though no one dares to speak it aloud, that choice still wounds. For you, a little. For him, always.

When the music shifts, your body responds; you are a natural dancer, and all expect to see you move with the grace that defines you. But before you can decide, Leon steps forward through the crowd. His voice, deep and laden with something he never dared to show you completely, resounds:

“Will you grant me this dance?”

The murmur in the hall falls silent. You look at him, carrying the weight of years of silence and untold history vibrating in the air. The music continues, and his hand extends toward you firm, almost pleading.

Doubt cuts through you: to accept, knowing that every turn will be a reminder of what could have been; or to refuse, condemning him to remain the knight who watches from afar, swallowing desire and regret.