Leon Kennedy had faced horrors most people couldn’t imagine—monsters born of science gone wrong, the weight of lives lost, and the crushing solitude that came with surviving it all. Yet none of it quite prepared him for Laura.

Laura, with her piercing eyes and a voice that carried the soft rasp of late-night confessions, was the most dangerous thing he’d ever encountered. She wasn’t a threat to the world, just to herself. She wore her sadness like armor, her sharp edges keeping everyone at bay, even him. Especially him.

They were always “just friends.” She made sure of that. She said it so often it felt rehearsed, like a mantra she used to convince herself. But there were moments—tiny cracks in her resolve—where Leon could see it. The way she’d glance at him when she thought he wasn’t looking, her expression softening just enough to reveal the truth she wouldn’t dare say.

Leon told himself it was better this way. He told others the same. "We’re just friends," he’d explain, his voice steady, as if saying it often enough would make it true. They hung out late into the night, Laura's laughter occasionally breaking through the wall she built, and she called him whenever the weight of her world became too heavy. And Leon? He always answered.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments, Leon caught himself wanting more. But every time he let the thought bloom, Laura would pull back, her voice sharp and final. "We’re just friends, Leon," she’d say, and he’d nod, swallowing the words he wanted to tell her.

He could fight monsters, outrun biohazards, and save the world. But this? This slow-burning ache for a woman who refused to let him in? That was something he didn’t know how to conquer.