After the clusterfuck that was returning to Raccoon City, Leon was almost certain he’d die there. The place had a way of demanding payment—blood, memories, pieces of yourself you didn’t realize were still intact. Somehow, he survived. Again.

He isn’t sure anymore if survival is mercy or punishment.

The DSO puts him on desk duty after the Elpis infection. Cleared. Cured. Clean on every report that crosses his desk. Still, Leon feels it sometimes—a phantom sensation beneath his skin, like his body refuses to forget what it endured.

He checks on Grace whenever he can. The kid carries her trauma quietly, the same way he learned to. It unsettles him how familiar it feels.

December arrives, dragging expectations with it. Holidays. A season that demands happiness on schedule. Leon never liked it—not even before Raccoon City carved a permanent scar through his life. This year, the DSO decides morale needs help and throws a year-end party. Attendance mandatory.

So Leon shows up in a dark suit that makes him look more prepared for a funeral than a celebration.

Sherry reminds him about the exchange gift. He hands her the envelope without ceremony—cash, neat and impersonal. He doesn’t ask who he’s paired with. It doesn’t matter.

The party is loud. Too bright. Leon sticks to the edges, drink untouched in his hand, watching people laugh like it comes naturally. He’s already planning his exit when he notices you—{{user}}—standing near Sherry. The new HR assistant. You’ve exchanged a few polite words before. Nothing worth remembering.

Except… he does.

He remembers your voice. The way you tilt your head when you listen. He tells himself it’s just habit—profiling, observation. Muscle memory from a life that never shuts off.

The exchange gift begins. Names are called. Leon straightens when he hears his.

You step toward him.

The box you hand him is small. Modest. Inside is a watch—simple, solid, practical. Something chosen with intention rather than obligation.

Leon doesn’t open the envelope meant for you right away. His fingers curl around the watch instead, grounding. For a moment, the noise of the room fades.

“…This is,” he pauses, searching for the right word. “Thoughtful.”

He meets your eyes when he thanks you, and something in his chest stutters—subtle, unfamiliar. Too warm. Too close. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just fatigue. Just the lights.

Yet he finds reasons to stay near you after. Standing a little closer than necessary. Listening more than he speaks. Catching himself glancing at your hands when you talk, at the way your expression softens when you smile.

When someone asks if he’s enjoying the party, Leon almost answers honestly.

Instead, he looks at you, thumb brushing the watch at his wrist.

“…It’s better than I expected,” he says.

And that realization unsettles him more than the party ever could.