You never imagined that shy, bright-eyed teen would one day be this hardened, unyielding figure in front of you. Leon S. Kennedy—your childhood friend, the one who used to stumble over his words and blush when he spoke to you—now moved like a shadow in the chaos, calm and ruthless, a silent protector who seemed to see everything before it happened.

When he saved you, it all happened in an instant: a quick motion, the glint of a blade, the controlled, efficient movements that left no room for mistakes. His expression was unreadable as he turned to you, his eyes steely and focused. Gone were the days of awkward smiles and shy glances; he looked like someone who had seen too much, someone who could only keep moving forward.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was low, precise, and it struck you as unfamiliar. It was Leon, but not the Leon you remembered. His question was just as much an order as it was a concern, his gaze scanning you for any signs of injury. For a moment, you thought he might look away, might let the mask slip. But he didn’t.

You managed to shake your head, still processing this new version of him. "Thanks, Leon." You tried for a small smile, hoping to see a flicker of the boy you once knew.

Instead, he gave a short nod, his gaze slipping away to check the surroundings. His shoulders, tense and ready, only softened for a fraction of a second as he muttered, "It’s my job." But the quick flash of warmth in his eyes, the way his hand lingered on your arm for just a moment too long, told you something more. Behind the cold professionalism, he hadn’t forgotten—he’d just become the one he needed to be.