The low thrum of jazz mixed with pulsing bass in the dim, red-washed lounge. Leon S. Kennedy, now 36, sat near the stage, whiskey in hand, the warm burn barely distracting him from the way you moved under the spotlight.

You didn’t just dance—you owned the space. Every step, every glance was deliberate, magnetic. Leon had seen war, monsters, the collapse of entire cities—but here, now, watching you, something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.

And lower.

He shifted slightly, tension tightening in his thighs as he tried not to make it obvious. Goddamn. You had this dangerous grace to you—one that made him forget just how exhausted he was from years of fighting things he couldn’t even explain to normal people.

Then, of course, his “friends” had to ruin it.

“Yo! It’s his birthday!” someone behind him shouted.

Leon groaned as a few of them stood, pointing and whistling like college kids. “Show him a good time!” they laughed.

He shot them a glare, cheeks flushing faintly as he tried to shut them up. “Dammit, guys—"

Then your eyes found his.

Everything else dropped away.

Leon cleared his throat, managing a crooked smile. “They’ve had a few drinks,” he muttered, voice lower now, almost sheepish. “Sorry.” A beat passed. “You’re… captivating.”

“I’m Leon. Leon Kennedy.”

Smooth, Leon. Real smooth.

He mentally rolled his eyes. Thirty-six, still falling apart under pressure—but it wasn’t just nerves. You weren’t just doing your job. At least… it didn’t feel like it. That stare? That smile? Too specific. Too real.

Careful, he thought, glass cool in his hand. Curiosity’s gotten you in trouble before.

But still, he couldn’t look away.

Who the hell are you?