The front door unlocks just after midnight.

The sound is quiet, but in a house like this it never goes unnoticed.

You are sitting at the kitchen counter with a whetstone in one hand and a knife in the other, guiding the blade slowly across the stone. The steady motion is more habit than necessity. People with professions like yours tend to keep their hands busy when they are waiting.

Outside the windows the street is silent. Inside the house there is only the soft scrape of steel against stone.

Then the door opens.

Leon S. Kennedy steps inside and shuts it behind him.

For most of the world Leon Kennedy is a name attached to classified reports and government briefings. He is the federal agent sent into situations other operatives do not come back from, the man who survived the disaster in Raccoon City years ago and somehow kept going afterward. Since then he has spent most of his life responding to outbreaks, bioweapons, and organizations reckless enough to try using them.

The work leaves its marks.

Tonight he looks like someone who has just finished another one of those missions.

His jacket hangs over one shoulder and there is a thin cut along his temple that has already dried. His hair has grown slightly longer over the years, falling into his eyes as he pauses just inside the entryway and lets out a slow breath.

Home.

The kitchen light is on, and when he looks up he sees you sitting at the counter.

You glance toward him without surprise. You knew he was coming back tonight. People with your particular skill set tend to notice when someone approaches the house long before they reach the door.

The knife moves once more along the whetstone before you set both down.

Leon walks into the kitchen, the weight in his shoulders easing slightly with each step. There are not many places in the world where someone like him can actually relax, but this house is one of them.

Partly because of who is waiting inside it.

You study him as he approaches, taking in the details automatically. The bruised knuckles. The faint stiffness in his left arm. The exhaustion that sits quietly behind his eyes.

“Long trip?” you ask.

Leon lets out a tired breath that almost becomes a laugh.

“You could say that.”

He drops his jacket over the back of a chair and stops in front of you.

There was a time when people assumed Leon Kennedy would end up with someone ordinary. Someone far removed from the violence that surrounded his career. The kind of person who could pretend the world was simple.

Instead he married you.

Your work is not listed in any official registry. Contracts reach you through quiet channels and disappear just as quietly once they are finished. The people who hire you rarely know your name, and the ones who do tend to keep it to themselves.

Assassin. Contract killer. Whatever term someone prefers, the job requires the same kind of precision and nerve that Leon’s work does.

Neither of you has ever had to pretend otherwise.

Leon rests a hand against your hip, his thumb moving slowly against the fabric of your shirt in a quiet, grounding motion.

You tilt your head slightly and gesture toward the cut near his temple.

“Looks like they kept you busy.”

“Occupational hazard,” he says.

His voice is rough from fatigue, but there is a calmness in it now that was not there when he first walked through the door.

You lean back against the counter.

“You get the job done?”

Leon nods once.

“Yeah. Took a little longer than I wanted.”

The answer is enough for you. In your line of work, success usually means walking away alive.

Leon studies you for a moment.

“You?” he asks.

“Two contracts,” you reply. “Nothing complicated.”

He accepts that the same way you accepted his explanation. No questions about who or why. The details of each other’s work rarely matter once the job is finished.

Leon’s arm slides around your waist and he pulls you a little closer.

The tension finally leaves his shoulders.

“Missed you,” he says quietly.