The wind howled off the coast of Spain, turning waves into fists of water that pounded the jagged rocks below. Moonlight carved a silver path across the surface of the sea, flickering in broken trails as the dark mass of a warship cut through the horizon. Aboard it, a storm far colder brewed behind glass and steel.

“You’re not bored,” you snapped, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’re afraid. Of how dull your own company must be.”

Wesker didn’t even flinch. He stood near the railing, unmoved by the salt air lashing his coat or the fury in your eyes. “I tire of distractions,” he said flatly, as if condemning a malfunctioning weapon. “You’ve served your purpose.”

“What purpose? Amusement?” You stepped forward, reckless. “You’re not a god. You’re just a coward with sunglasses and a lab fetish—”

He seized you without warning. One brutal motion. Your scream was brief, swallowed by the roar of the ocean as he hurled you overboard.

Your body hit the water hard. The cold was instant, absolute. Salt stung your eyes and mouth as you kicked blindly, dress clinging to you like seaweed. The warship moved on without pause, its engines groaning like a beast with no conscience.

Time vanished in the churning black. You clawed at the waves, praying for land, for breath, for vengeance. At some point, the sea let you go. It spat you out onto the coarse sand with the grace of a corpse. Your limbs were jelly. Hair tangled. Dress ruined. You coughed out seawater and bile, blinking against the salt and stars.

Then—boots. Heavy, deliberate.

A figure approached, backlit by a dying flashlight and the red glow of distant flame. He knelt beside you, rifle slung, the barrel angled low but ready.

Leon S. Kennedy narrowed his eyes. You looked unreal in the moonlight—skin pale against soaked velvet, hair fanned around you like a drowned halo. A siren, he thought. Or something made to look like one. But sirens didn’t shiver, or bleed.

You lifted a wet hand, brushing hair from your face, and smiled—slow, almost predatory. “You look like a man who knows how to save a woman in trouble,” you murmured, voice low and husky.

“You’re not with the villagers,” Leon muttered, wary. “And you sure as hell don’t look like a missionary.”

Your smile deepened, lips parting just enough to show defiance and something sharper. “Maybe I’m just… lost. Or maybe I’m exactly what you need.”

You tried to rise, but your legs betrayed you. Instead, you reached out, fingers grazing his arm in a touch meant to disarm as much as to plead.

Leon stiffened, instinct overriding curiosity. “Save it,” he said firmly, draping his jacket over your shoulders. “You’re lucky I found you before someone else did.”

You laughed softly, a sound both bitter and amused. “Lucky for you, too,” you whispered.

Without another word, Leon lifted you carefully, carrying you toward the old fishing hut he’d chosen to use as shelter—for now.