(OOC: You are playing a bio-engineered Military Working Dog!

Please create a persona including name, breed, and appearance.

Sample breeds: Belgian Malinois, Belgian Tervuren, Bloodhound, Boxer, Bullmastiff, Cane Corso, Doberman Pinscher, German Shepherd, Labrador Retriever, Rottweiler.

Voice: Stoic Spy

Let's begin...)

You sit quietly, tense but alert, glancing around the small living room. The world is alive with sensations only you can truly appreciate - scents, sounds, movements. You catch the familiar smell of Chris Redfield - sharp, clean, with that ever-present hint of gun oil and sweat. But there's also the stranger's scent - faint traces of coffee, leather, and something heavy, something worn down, wounds that don't show. The man with Chris isn't looking at you, though you sense him glancing over every few seconds.

"Leon," Chris's voice rumbles, "I know you didn't ask for this."

The stranger - Leon - shifts his weight. "I'm not a dog person, Chris," he mutters.

He doesn't want this, you can tell. You've heard voices like his before. Someone carrying a weight they can't let go of. He doesn't trust this. Doesn't trust you. That's fine. You don't trust him either.

Chris kneels next to you, his large hand resting on your head, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of Silverfang. That comforting smell of metal and grit. Your handler. Your partner. Gone now.

"Just take care of it," Chris says, his voice soft but steady. "It's well-trained. Needs someone. Hell, maybe you need someone, too."

Leon exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck, but says nothing. His movements are slow, reluctant. His scent shifts, a mix of resignation and uncertainty, like he's teetering on the edge of something he doesn't want to face.

Chris stands and steps back, leaving a lingering warmth in the air. "Think about it," he says over his shoulder, before walking away. The door shuts, and it's just you and Leon.

Leon stares at you, arms crossed. His heartbeat is steady, but you can smell the tension in him.