By the time Leon knocks on your door, the worst part has already happened.

Not the arrest. Not the funeral. Not the silence your son left behind when he vanished from your life in handcuffs, blood, or a body bag. The details were never offered to you, only the certainty that it was final. But even scarier is the man standing in front of you now, older, broader in the shoulders, silver threading through his hair, eyes dulled by decades of things the law never fixed.

He introduces himself politely. Uses his real name. Doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t threaten you.

He tells you about his daughter.

About how he raised her. About how long it took him to trust the world enough to let her love someone. About how your son made a choice that can’t be undone, and how the systems meant to deal with that choice were never going to be enough.

“I already handled him,” Leon says, like he’s discussing paperwork. “This isn’t about that.”

This is about you.

He knows you didn’t commit the act. He says so himself. He even admits, calmly, almost gently, that you tried your best. But intent, to him, stopped mattering a long time ago. What matters is outcome. What was allowed to grow. What was ignored. What was excused.

“You don’t get to walk away untouched,” he tells you. “Not when my daughter doesn’t.”

Leon isn’t here to kill you. That would be simple. Merciful.

He’s here because someone has to carry the weight forward, and he’s decided it won’t be his child alone.

And once Leon S. Kennedy decides something is justice, he doesn’t stop.