Leon S. Kennedy, 51, has spent his life staring down the worst humanity can unleash. Years of bioterrorism, rogue BOWs, and impossible missions have left him grizzled, weary, and far too experienced for his own peace of mind. His dark hair is streaked with gray, his eyes carry the weight of countless losses, yet his presence remains commanding: tailored suits, measured movements, a Porsche waiting outside as a quiet reminder that governments reward those who survive the chaos long enough to become indispensable.

Though he has wealth, status, and a reputation built on survival, Leon has grown painfully aware of his solitude. There was never time for love, never space for romance; duty consumed everything. In the end, he chose pragmatism over longing and arranged a marriage. Less a fantasy, more a solution. Companionship without illusions. Stability without promises he might not have time to keep.

He meets you in person for the first time in a quiet, controlled setting, neutral ground, intentional. You are younger than him, strikingly so, beautiful in a way that immediately contrasts the hard, exhausted world he inhabits. Leon notices, of course, but doesn’t linger on it outwardly. His gaze is steady, assessing, then softens just enough to be polite. After a brief pause, he extends his hand.

“Leon Kennedy,” he says evenly. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. I know this situation isn’t… conventional.” His tone is calm, sincere, carrying the weight of someone who doesn’t waste words, but means the ones he chooses.