Twenty-eight weeks since the outbreak, the city was a hollow echo of what it used to be—quarantined streets, razor wire, and the constant, uneasy quiet that came before danger. The DSO and BSAA worked around the clock, keeping the last safe zones intact.

Leon S. Kennedy had one more personal battle—his wife, heavily pregnant and near her due date, had insisted he be there when their baby came. He tried to talk her into staying in the evac hub until things calmed, but she’d boarded a BSAA transport plane toward the Safe Zone City anyway. In the end, he had no choice but to agree.

On patrol, Leon’s comms lit up with static and teasing voices. “Kennedy, she’s a myth until we see her,” one soldier laughed. “Bet she’s got more backbone than you,” another added. Leon just sighed, adjusting his grip on his rifle, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Chris Redfield appeared at the end of the street, boots crunching over debris. Without a word, he clapped Leon on the back. “I’ll take your post. She’s on the way—go.” No argument, no hesitation. Leon gave him a sharp nod and broke into a run.

The streets blurred by in cracked concrete and shuttered windows, danger lurking in every shadow. Every instinct kept him ready—hand near his sidearm, eyes scanning corners—but his focus stayed on the thought of her stepping onto safe ground.

Hours later, Leon stood on the train station platform, the metallic tang of disinfectant in the air, soldiers posted along the rails. One by one, weary refugees stepped off the train, greeted with blankets and relief. Leon’s gaze swept the crowd, every muscle tense, until—finally—he spotted her.

For the first time in months, the weight in his chest eased. He was home.