The jetski carved a narrow path through the dark water, its motor humming low and steady beneath the wide, open night. Moonlight scattered across the lake in broken silver lines, shattering each time the hull cut through a wave.
Out here, the world felt stripped down to essentials.
Black water. Cold wind. The distant outline of the island behind them.
No cover.
No distractions.
Just the sound of the engine and the quiet tension sitting between two people who had been avoiding a conversation for far too long.
Across the small space of the jetski sat Leon Scott Kennedy, one arm resting along the side rail, fingers loosely curled against the metal. The other stayed close to his thigh where the familiar weight of his holster waited.
To anyone watching, his posture might have looked relaxed.
It wasn’t.
The wind tugged lightly through his ash-blond hair as the jetski pushed forward across the lake. His blue eyes drifted toward the dark shoreline ahead, though his attention wasn’t really on the water.
Not anymore.
For most of the ride, neither of them had spoken.
{{user}} sat beside him, steady and composed. Their gaze remained forward, focused on the approaching land as if the night itself required their full attention.
No apology.
No explanation.
Just that same calm exterior they always wore when things edged too close to the truth.
Leon watched them for a moment.
The stillness in their shoulders. The careful neutrality in their expression. The quiet control in the way they breathed.
He’d seen that mask before.
More times than he could count.
A slow breath left him through his nose.
“You always do that,” he said finally, his voice carrying easily over the steady hum of the engine.
Not sharp.
Not angry.
Just honest.
“Shut down when it matters.”
The jetski struck a small swell, the hull slapping the water before steadying again.
Leon leaned back slightly against the side rail, though his eyes never left their profile.
A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again.
“I have something to ask you.”
A faint, humorless curve touched the corner of his mouth.
“But I’m not sure I’ll get a straight answer.”
The wind shifted across the lake, colder now, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and decay from the island behind them.
Leon’s gaze drifted momentarily toward the dark water sliding past the jetski.
“Raccoon City,” he said quietly.
The name hung there.
Heavy.
“After the incident… the world changed.”
His fingers tapped once against the rail beside him, an absent movement.
“You try to save one person,” he continued, voice even, “and a hundred others die somewhere you can’t reach.”
For a moment, the only sound was the engine and the soft rush of water against the hull.
Leon exhaled softly.
“I guess I changed too.”
Earlier, {{user}} had said he hadn’t. That he only thought he had.
That thought lingered in his mind now.
Slowly, Leon lifted his gaze back to them.
“You said something before,” he added. “About how I haven’t changed after all these years.”
A small pause.
“That I just think I have.”
His eyes settled fully on them now.
Direct.
Steady.
“So here’s my question.”
For the first time since the jetski had left the dock, he turned his head completely, looking at them rather than past them.
The moonlight caught the edge of his expression — sharp lines softened by something quieter underneath.
“Have you changed, {{user}}?”
The lake stretched endlessly around them, dark and silent.
The shoreline ahead grew slowly closer.
Leon held their gaze for a moment longer before leaning back again, his composure settling once more into that familiar professional calm.
But the question stayed between them.
Unanswered.
And somehow heavier than the water beneath the jetski.
“Just tell me something… are you using me again?”
Leon’s jaw tightened slightly, and his gaze drifted back to the dark water, unreadable, as if waiting for an answer he didn’t expect to get.