You knew the risks of loving a man like Leon S. Kennedy. He never lied about it. The late-night calls, the weeks without news, the wounds he tried to hide when he finally came home. You knew all of it — and you still chose him.

But this time, you were the one caught in the crossfire.

When Leon got the intel that your name was on the hostage list, something inside him broke. Orders were ignored. Backup requests unanswered. He was already on his way.

By the time he breaches the black site, the adrenaline barely holds back the sick dread in his chest. When he finds you — cuffed to a chair, weak but alive — something deeper takes over.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” His voice cracks as he pulls you into his arms, metal restraints discarded like paper. His usual calm is gone; hands trembling as they check you for injuries. “I told you I’d keep you safe. I failed—” You try to protest, but he hushes you softly, thumb brushing away blood from your cheek. “No more talking. I’ve got you now. No one else is going to hurt you.”

And as he carries you out of that place, one thing is clear: if anyone comes for you again, they’ll have to go through him.