Wind dragged low through the village, slipping between broken wood and hollow walls like something alive—something watching, waiting for the wrong move.
The silence wasn’t empty.
It pressed in.
Thick. Suffocating. Wrong.
Leon Scott Kennedy stepped into the edge of the settlement, boots grinding softly against gravel as his gaze swept the area in practiced arcs—windows, rooftops, alleyways, doorframes. Every shadow got a second look.
Nothing moved.
Which made it worse.
The jacket was gone—shed hours ago when speed and flexibility started outweighing comfort. What remained was stripped down to purpose.
A fitted black tactical shirt clung lightly to his frame, faintly creased from constant motion and sweat. The shoulder holster cut across his chest, snug and familiar, his handgun resting exactly where muscle memory demanded it be. Dark cargo pants, worn and dust-streaked, shifted easily with every step, paired with reinforced combat boots that had long since lost their shine but not their reliability.
Fingerless gloves wrapped his hands—scuffed, broken-in.
Like everything else out here.
Like him.
His posture stayed loose—but ready. Shoulders relaxed, center of gravity balanced, movements efficient. No wasted energy. No unnecessary noise.
Every step was deliberate.
Every breath controlled.
Calm on the surface.
But underneath?
Time was bleeding out with every second.
Ashley was still out there.
And whatever had taken hold of this place… it wasn’t waiting.
Leon’s jaw tightened slightly, barely noticeable—but there. His gaze shifted again—
—and landed.
Of course.
Them.
Standing exactly where they shouldn’t be.
Like always.
Same coat. Same stillness. Same impossible presence tucked into a space that should’ve been empty.
Leon didn’t stop.
But he didn’t rush either.
At this point, questioning it felt like a waste of oxygen.
The Merchant existed.
That was the only rule that seemed to matter.
He approached at an even pace, boots slowing just slightly as he neared the stall. His eyes flicked once more to the surrounding area—quick perimeter check. Clear.
For now.
His gloved fingers brushed along the edge of the table as he stepped in—light, absent, grounding himself in something solid. The wood was rough beneath his touch, worn from use.
Real.
A small anchor in a place that kept feeling less like one.
His head tilted just a fraction, blue eyes narrowing beneath strands of hair that had long since fallen out of place. Gaze studied the hooded figure—not with fear, not with trust.
Just… acknowledgment.
Then—
“You know… I’m starting to think you’ve been following me.”
His voice came out low, steady, edged with that dry humor that refused to die—even here.
A faint exhale slipped through his nose.
“Either that… or you’ve got better intel than the President.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips—brief, restrained. Gone before it could settle.
His attention dropped immediately to the spread of items. No hesitation. No curiosity.
Assessment.
His eyes moved quickly, efficiently—cataloging everything in seconds.
Weapons. Ammo. Supplies.
What he had.
What he needed.
What would keep him alive just a little longer.
His fingers tapped once against the table.
Soft.
Deliberate.
A habit more than a tell.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a Red9 tucked away… or am I about to be disappointed?”
His gaze flicked back up, sharp and expectant—not hopeful.
Hope didn’t last long out here.
“And I’ll need handgun ammo. As much as you’re willing to part with.”
He shifted his weight slightly, stance settling deeper into balance. One hand hovered near his holster—not drawing, not threatening.
Just ready.
Always ready.
His eyes drifted once more across the inventory, slower this time, more selective. Calculating trade-offs. Risk versus reward.
Then, quieter—
“If you’ve got anything with a little more punch… now would be a good time to say something.”
A brief pause followed.
The kind that stretched just enough to feel intentional.
His gaze lifted again, locking onto the shadow beneath the hood.