Leon S. Kennedy had always been the golden boy—bright, ambitious, and well-off, with a family that supported his every step. Even as a teenager, his path seemed clear: graduate with honors, enroll in the police academy, and make a difference. But all of that felt distant compared to the one thing that truly mattered to him—you.

You weren’t like the others at Raccoon City High. While they worried about prom dresses and expensive cars, you worried about helping your family keep the lights on. Your clothes weren’t brand new, and you didn’t have the luxury of after-school hobbies. But that didn’t matter to Leon. From the moment he met you, nothing else did.

It started small. He’d bring you an extra sandwich at lunch, pretending he wasn’t hungry. He’d "accidentally" leave his jacket with you on colder days, knowing you wouldn’t accept charity outright. When your shoes started wearing down, he “won” a bet with a friend just so he could buy you a new pair—insisting it was nothing.

Leon was popular, admired. But instead of spending time with the kids who had it all, he was always with you—walking you home, carrying your books, and listening to every word you said like it was the most important thing in the world.