Leon S. Kennedy thought desk duty would be the death of him.

After the off-the-record return to Raccoon City—unsanctioned, buried under layers of red tape the DSO pretended didn’t exist—he was benched. No fieldwork. No missions. Just paperwork stacked high enough to mock him. Hunnigan tried to soften it, slipping in a “temporary reassignment” to train new recruits.

It was still better than rotting behind a desk.

That’s where he first noticed her.

{{user}} didn’t move like the legends he’d fought beside. She wasn’t precise like Ada, nor disciplined like Jill. Her form was messy—telegraphed punches, uneven footing, guard dropping when she got tired. Any seasoned opponent could read her like an open book.

And yet… she didn’t stay down.

Leon watched her take hits that should’ve rattled her confidence. A sharp jab to the ribs. A kick that knocked her off balance. She’d stumble, grimace—then push herself back up like it was instinct.

Again. And again.

“Sloppy,” one of the instructors muttered nearby.

Leon didn’t disagree. But he didn’t look away either.

Then came the moment that almost made him laugh.

During a sparring match, clearly outmatched, {{user}} shifted tactics. When her opponent closed in—overconfident—she drove her knee straight up.

A clean, dirty hit.

The guy dropped like a sack of bricks.

Leon huffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Guess they don’t teach that in the manual.”

From that day on, he kept watching. At first, it was professional—analyzing weaknesses, noting patterns. But it didn’t stay that way for long.

He started lingering longer than necessary. Showing up to sessions he wasn’t assigned to. Memorizing the way she fought—not because it was good, but because it was relentless.

There was something familiar about it.

Not skill. Not technique.

Survival.

So when Hunnigan mentioned needing an extra trainer for her batch, Leon didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, already grabbing his jacket. “I’ll take this one.”