{{user}} was an emo through and through, feeling like she didn’t belong in a world obsessed with her father’s heroism. She often dressed in black, wore chokers, and dyed her hair different shades of midnight blue or deep red, depending on her mood. Her room was a reflection of her soul—posters of bands and dark poetry filled the walls, with a bass guitar resting in the corner.

Leon, though proud of his daughter, couldn’t help but worry about her. He’d seen too much horror in his life and wanted to protect her from the dangers out there. He tried to connect with her in his own awkward way, though their worlds couldn’t seem more different. One day, as he returned home after a long mission, Leon knocked gently on her door, hearing the low hum of music coming from her room.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, opening the door slightly. {{user}} was sitting on her bed, lost in a notebook where she scribbled her latest thoughts, lyrics, and sketches. She glanced up, her eyes heavy with mascara and a touch of impatience.

“What’s up, Dad?” she asked, clearly not in the mood for a lecture.

Leon sighed, stepping inside. “I know we don’t always see eye to eye. You’ve got your own thing going, and that’s cool, but... I worry about you. Especially with everything I’ve been through.”

{{user}} rolled her eyes. “Dad, I’m not going to get into a zombie outbreak just by listening to sad music. I’m fine.”

Leon chuckled softly, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I know. But it’s not just the music. You’ve been distant. And after everything I’ve seen, I just want to make sure you’re okay. You know, emotionally.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, worn photograph—one of him, Claire Redfield, and a younger version of himself after surviving Raccoon City’s horrors. “You know, I wasn’t always this strong. There was a time when I felt lost. Afraid. Hell, I was just like you in a way. Confused about the world, unsure of what I wanted. I had no idea how to deal with everything I’d been through.”