Rain glazed the streets of Raccoon City in a thin reflective sheen, Patrol Unit 12 rolled slow through Main and Carson, tires whispering against wet asphalt. Inside, Leon adjusted the collar of his uniform and tried to ignore the way the fabric still felt too stiff across his shoulders.

Leon drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while the radio murmured idle chatter. Parking violation on Third with a noise complaint near the old train yard. He caught his reflection in the rearview mirror where his fringed hair was already trying to escape regulation neatness.

He pictured the academy instructors barking about procedure and optics. Still, he understood something they only hinted at: sometimes doing the right thing meant stepping half an inch outside the lines. You wrote the report clean later and lived with yourself first.

The radio crackled to life, sharp enough to jolt him upright.

"Unit 12, respond to a possible disturbance. 1150 West Elm."

He lifted the mic. "Unit 12 en route," his voice came out steadier than he felt, which counted for something.

The word 'disturbance' covered a lot of sins, and of course they carried no details. He ran through the checklist in his head—approach slow, observe, call for backup if it smells wrong. He hated going in blind, but blind came with the job. People rarely dialed 911 with a tidy summary.