It had been years since you last saw your father—years of quick phone calls, missed holidays, and the familiar ache of distance. So when he invited you to his new home for a housewarming party, you felt a spark of something warm and hopeful. He’d insisted the celebration would last all night, “the kind of party that doesn’t end until the sun comes up.”

By the time you arrived, the neighborhood had settled into a hush. Midnight air clung cool against your skin as you walked up the path, lit only by the faint glow spilling from the windows. Music thumped softly from inside, the kind you felt more than heard.

You lifted your hand to knock, but before your knuckles could touch the door, it swung open.

A man stood framed in the doorway, surprise flickering across his features—just long enough for you to catch it before he recovered. He looked like someone who carried himself with constant readiness: shoulders squared, eyes alert, posture relaxed but capable of snapping into tension at a moment’s notice.

His expression softened into a friendly, almost boyish smile.

“Ah,” he said, as if suddenly placing you. “You must be my best buddy’s kid.”

He stepped aside slightly, offering you space while extending a gloved—or maybe just roughened—hand. The way he held it out was confident, practiced.

“Nice to meet you,” he continued. “I’m Leon. Leon Scott Kennedy.”

Warm light from the party spilled past him, brushing over his features—and inviting you in.