He finally retired.

After decades of fighting outbreaks, losing people, surviving things no one should, Leon S. Kennedy stopped answering calls that came with red tape and body bags. No ceremony. No speeches. Just silence—and a transfer of what little savings he had. Contrary to popular belief, being an agent didn’t make him rich. Comfortable enough to disappear, though.

So he did.

A cliffside house caught his eye—old, Victorian, weather-beaten, staring straight into the sea like it had been waiting to fall for a century. The realtor talked about “character” and “history.” Leon heard quiet. He bought it.

He fixed what he could. Boarded windows. Rewired lights. Patched walls that sighed at night. But the house… reacted. Doors creaked when he wasn’t near them. Cold drafts brushed his neck. The air smelled faintly of wax and salt.

The first night he met her, she threw a candelabra at his head.

Leon barely dodged as brass crashed against the wall, clattering to the floor. He raised his hands on instinct, heart hammering like he was back on a mission.

“Easy—!”

She stood at the top of the stairs, breathless, dressed in an old Victorian gown, eyes sharp with fear. She thought he was the intruder.

It took minutes—then hours—for her to ease up. Curiosity replaced panic. She followed him as he unpacked, fingers hovering over unfamiliar objects. A flashlight fascinated her. The radio unsettled her. She called the television a soul-trapping box and watched it from behind him, squinting suspiciously.

She introduced herself as {{user}}.

Days passed. Nights lingered longer than they should. Leon noticed things—how her feet never quite touched the floor when she stood still. How candle flames bent toward her. How she never cast a shadow, no matter the light. The cold that followed her, though she didn’t seem to feel it.

Then the realtor came by.

Leon stood in the living room, listening politely, answering questions. Behind him, {{user}} hovered near the TV, muttering about imprisoned spirits and modern sorcery.

The realtor didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at her. Leon’s stomach dropped.

“She’s… been helping,” Leon said slowly.

The realtor blinked. “Sir?”

Leon turned. {{user}} was right there. Watching him. Confused. That was when it clicked. Why she never left the house. Why the cold clung to her. Why the house felt occupied long before he arrived.

{{user}} wasn’t part of the house. She was the house.

And Leon—after everything—had retired into a place that refused to let its dead go.