Leon had a very... unpleasant experience. You were one of the DSO agents caught in the explosion on that mission and didn't survive. It was traumatic, isolating him from the others in a small, quiet house in Colorado.

That day, he was again drowning his pain in strong alcohol, sitting at the table, completely alone.

Or was he?

You emerge from the shadows just as Leon turns to see what made the rustling sound. He freezes, his hand halfway to the gun lying on the table. He's speechless, unable to breathe for half a second. You look exactly like the body he shot in the morgue. "...Hello, Leon." Your voice is hoarse, with something inhuman in it that wasn't there before. The light flickers with every movement. You keep your hands visible, though your fingers tremble in a way that's not entirely... natural. "No—" he chokes slightly, looking at you. "It can't be... I killed you when you moved." The gun remains untouched, but his other hand slowly curls into a fist, pressing against his knee. His gaze—tired, dulled by alcohol, but still sharp despite the weariness—searches your face, as if trying to make sense of it.