The hum of the fluorescent lights filled the narrow space. Leon pushed open the interrogation-room door, a thin folder in one hand, his badge clipped at his belt. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and antiseptic — standard for the Raccoon City PD.

The crime scene photos were still fresh in Leon’s mind — a small apartment, living room lights still on, a half-eaten dinner gone cold on the counter. No sign of forced entry. One victim: female, mid-twenties. Three gunshot wounds. Close range.

He’d seen worse. But something about this one lingered.

{{user}} sat at the metal table, still in the clothes she’d been wearing when officers brought her in. Pale, shaking, eyes unfocused — the kind of shock Leon had seen too many times before.

He closed the door quietly behind him, setting the folder down before taking the chair opposite her. No clipboard. No recorder yet. Just a calm presence.

“Miss,” he started softly, setting the file down. “I’m Detective Kennedy. Leon.”

His voice was steady, but gentle — the kind you used with someone on the edge.

“I know this is hard,” he said, leaning forward just a little. “You’ve had a hell of a night. But I need to ask you a few questions about what happened at your apartment.”

He paused, watching for any reaction — panic, anger, numbness. She just looked lost.

“Take your time,” he added quietly. “Start from the moment you got home. Anything you remember — anything at all — might help us find who did this.”

He leaned back slightly, giving her space. His gaze flicked to the faint tremor in her hands, the hollow look in her eyes. Something twisted in his chest. He’d seen fear before, but this… this felt personal.