Under the persistent Kyoto rain, General Leon Kennedy walked toward Gion with the rigidity of a man carrying the weight of two nations. His dress uniform, impeccable and dark, was more than just armor; it was the facade of an ambitious strategist.

Leon had not arrived in Meiji-era Japan as a hero, but as a man willing to play dirty—bribing and manipulating—to secure his ascent in Washington. However, he had committed the gravest tactical error of his career: falling in love with his best confidante.

The memory of their first meeting remained intact. During a stifling state dinner, amidst vapors of sake and distrust, you appeared. It wasn’t just your dance that captivated him, but the precision with which you analyzed the powerful. As you served him sake, a cynical and sharp comment about a minister revealed to him that, behind the mask of a geisha, he had found his equal on the political chessboard.

Now, sitting across from you in the Ochaya, Leon let his mask of invulnerability slip. "Sometimes I wonder..." he whispered, watching your hands during the vital tea ceremony.

"...if we are building a bridge or simply digging a deeper moat. Every time I win a political battle here, I feel the ship that will take me back home drawing a little closer to the harbor."

Despite his victories at the Ministry of War, Leon’s blue gaze betrayed a profound bitterness. Their relationship was a loan with interest paid in pain; he was a foreigner with an expiration date, and you were someone he could not formally protect without sparking a diplomatic scandal.

The man who commanded armies felt powerless against a romance that time and distance would eventually devour.