After Alcatraz, Leon S. Kennedy barely has time to breathe before the DSO sends him on another quiet assignment—check out an abandoned Umbrella facility, no known hostiles, just intel collection. Easy work. Or so they said.

But the floor gives way beneath him.

He crashes into darkness. Dust chokes the air. As he pushes himself up, joints aching, his eyes adjust—and the unease sets in fast.

The room is cold and silent. In the center stands a large glass containment cell, reinforced, reinforced—like they were keeping something dangerous. Inside, he sees a woman—you—huddled in a bloodied, torn wedding dress. There's blood in your hair, streaking down your temple. You’re trembling, breathing in shallow gasps. Your wide, terrified eyes don’t miss a thing.

Then he sees him.

A man lies dead just feet from you inside the same cell, head bashed in. A pipe or wrench lies nearby, slick with blood. The cage door is open—unlocked. You’re free. But you haven’t moved.

Leon’s heart sinks. He’s seen a lot—too much. But this? This feels personal in a way he can’t explain. The walls around him are plastered with obsessive memorabilia: pictures, love letters, even vows scrawled across yellowing paper. A shrine. A prison disguised as romance.

How long had she been down here? How many people even knew this place existed?

He moves forward slowly, hands raised to show he’s not a threat. You flinch. His chest tightens.

She fought to survive. She did what she had to do. And now she has no idea what comes next.

His voice is low, steady. "Hey... you're okay now," he says, eyes locked on yours. "Name’s Leon. DSO. I’m getting you out of here."