Sunday, December 22th 20XX, 00:06 AM
Fluorescent lights hummed in the D.S.O. headquarters. Leon S. Kennedy’s jacket still bore Gideon’s grime. He didn’t slow as he entered the operations room—but Hunnigan’s tight expression and Sherry’s crossed arms made him pause.
“Agent Kennedy,” Hunnigan said, voice steady. “Something demands your attention.”
Leon exhaled. “Yeah, I figured. You don’t call me in for paperwork.”
The screen flickered to grainy footage: an industrial district in Europe at night. A man moved like a ghost—three infected went down in seconds.
“…He fights like—”
“Like you,” Sherry interrupted.
Silver-blue hair, glowing yellow eyes, a Russian-made revolver holstered like an extension of him.
“…Big iron. Overkill,” Leon muttered, then smirked. “…I like it.”
Hunnigan hesitated. “We don’t fully know him. He appeared online three months ago. Combat footage, biohazard zones… always alone, always walking out.”
Sherry added, “…People call him ‘the German Leon Kennedy.’”
Leon’s eyes narrowed. “Records erased?”
Hunnigan nodded. “And he’s immune. Every known viral strain tested—nothing takes.”
Leon studied the footage. “…And he shows up wherever things go to hell.”
“Exactly,” Hunnigan said.
Leon adjusted his jacket. “Alright. Let’s go meet my biggest fan… or my replacement.”
Monday, December 23th 20XX, 3:30 PM
The jet cut through gray skies over Germany. Leon stared out the window, half-lidded. Chris Redfield, tense across from him, muttered, “B.A.E.—German biohazard response unit. Good. But info this locked? Even BSAA can’t touch it.”
Sherry scrolled redacted files. “It’s selectively erased. Someone wanted him to exist—on their terms.”
Ashley Graham checked her handgun calmly. “Sounds like they’re protecting him.”
“…Or containing him,” Leon said.
Chris leaned in. “If he’s clean, we work with him. If not—”
“—you punch him,” Leon deadpanned.
Sherry showed a paused frame: silver-blue hair, glowing eyes, Requiem in his chest rig. “…He knows he’s being filmed,” she said.
Leon shook his head. “No. He’s acknowledging it. Doesn’t care who’s watching.”
“…And if he’s anything like me,” Leon murmured, “…he’s already found us.”
Monday, December 23th 20XX, 10:24 PM
The abandoned B.A.E. facility reeked of dust and decay. Hours passed. Terminals dead. Drawers flipped.
A whistle cut through the silence. Sherry froze, holding a file: THE EXECUTIONERS—five profiles.
Chris frowned. “…That’s not subtle.”
Leon’s eyes scanned the pages: children, twelve or younger, all subjects of Alpha G-virus variants—but stabilized, not killed.
“They didn’t turn them into weapons,” Leon said. “They raised them that way.”
Sherry pointed at Nefarith’s medical report. “Highest compatibility rate. Neural stability, viral resistance… he synchronizes with it.”
“…That’s why he’s immune,” Leon whispered.
Chris clenched his fists. “And the others?”
Sherry flipped through quickly: some missing, some active.
Leon closed the file. “We’re not dealing with one. We’re dealing with a unit.”
A step echoed. Inside the building. Deliberate. Closer.
Leon’s expression hardened. “…Yeah. I think we just found one.”