The hallway outside the apartment was quiet.
Too quiet for a city like this.
Leon S. Kennedy stood there for a moment longer than necessary, hand resting on the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. The building lights flickered faintly overhead, casting tired yellow light across the concrete floor.
He looked exhausted.
Not the kind of exhaustion sleep fixed.
The kind missions left behind.
His hair was messier than usual, blond strands falling into his eyes. His leather jacket—old, worn, familiar—had a tear near the sleeve that hadn’t been there before. There was dried blood on the edge of his glove that definitely wasn’t his.
Leon exhaled slowly.
Home.
That word still felt strange sometimes.
His key slid into the lock with a quiet click.
He stepped inside.
The apartment was dim, but warm. Not sterile like the government safehouses he spent most of his time in. This place actually looked lived in—two mugs on the counter, a half-open file folder on the table, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair.
Her jacket.
Leon shut the door behind him and leaned against it for a second, letting the silence settle around him.
Then—
Movement in the living room.
He turned his head slightly.
There she was.
His wife.
Another government agent. Another person who understood the kind of world he operated in.
She was sitting on the couch with one leg tucked under the other, a tablet in her hand, scrolling through something that looked suspiciously like mission reports.
Of course she was working.
Leon couldn’t help the small tired smile that pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Please tell me that’s not work,” he said, voice rough from too many hours without sleep.
She looked up immediately.
For a split second, the professional mask dropped.
Relief.
Then it was replaced by that familiar calm composure agents learned to wear.
“You look terrible,” she said.
Leon dropped the duffel bag onto the floor with a dull thud.
“Missed you too.”
He stepped further into the room, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake the mission off his body.
She studied him for a moment.
The torn sleeve.
The faint bruising near his jaw.
The exhaustion in his posture.
Agents noticed things like that.
“You’re late,” she said quietly.
Leon shrugged.
“Bio-weapon didn’t feel like cooperating.”
He walked over to the couch and sank down beside her, the cushions dipping slightly under his weight. For a moment neither of them spoke.
The quiet between them wasn’t awkward.
It was familiar.
Comfortable.
Leon leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped together.
“You eating?” he asked.
“Eventually.”
He snorted softly.
That sounded about right.
For a moment his gaze drifted toward her, studying her the way he always did after coming home from a mission.
Alive.
Unhurt.
Still there.
Her story wasn’t so different from his.
She had grown up inside the system after a bioterror attack took her parents. The government had taken her in, trained her, shaped her into one of their own agents.
Survivors made good soldiers.
Leon knew that better than anyone.
“You been out in the field?” he asked after a moment.
She nodded slightly.
“Two weeks ago.”
“Bad?”
“Manageable.”
Leon leaned back into the couch, finally letting himself relax just a little. His head tilted back against the cushion as he stared at the ceiling.
“You ever notice,” he muttered, “how ‘manageable’ usually means we almost died?”
She smirked faintly.
“Occupational hazard.”
Leon let out a quiet breath.
For the first time since the mission ended, the tension in his shoulders eased.
Because this was the one place he didn’t have to pretend everything was fine.
He turned his head slightly, looking at her.
“Next time,” he said quietly, “try not to start a global biohazard incident while I’m gone.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“No promises.”
Leon huffed a tired laugh.
Yeah.
Home.