The safehouse is too quiet.

Not the comforting kind—no. It’s the kind that presses in on Leon’s ears, the kind that makes every creak of wood and shift of wind feel like a warning. He’s had years to get used to silence like this, years since Leon S. Kennedy first walked into Raccoon City and had his entire life ripped sideways.

But it never really left him.

The memories sit under his skin like splinters—burning streets, gunfire, voices that never made it out. And yet… not all of it was rot and ruin.

There was you.

He still remembers it too clearly—the way you had your gun trained on him in the RPD, finger tight on the trigger, ready to put him down without hesitation. Smart. Careful. Alive. You weren’t just another survivor—you were someone who fought to stay human in a place that tried to tear that away.

And somehow, in the middle of all that hell, you became something close to… steady. Then you were gone.

All he had left was your badge. Your weapon. Proof that you existed—and that maybe, just maybe, that night hadn’t been entirely hopeless.

Leon exhales slowly, crouched low behind a stack of splintered crates, his gloved hand tightening around his pistol. The mission had gone to hell fast—like they always do. Infected villagers, broken intel, and now this.

The minister is on his knees in the middle of the clearing, trembling, a gun pressed tight against his forehead.

Leon shifts, breath steadying, eyes narrowing as he lines up the shot.

One clean move. That’s all it takes. He steps out from cover in a single, fluid motion, raising his gun—

—and freezes.

"…No way.” The words slip out before he can stop them. Because standing there, holding the gun, isn’t some stranger.

It’s you.

For a second, the world tilts. His grip tightens, but not enough to fire. Not enough to commit.

“…{{user}}?”

Your name feels unfamiliar on his tongue after all these years, like something buried too deep that suddenly clawed its way back up.

His stance falters—just barely—but it’s there. That sharp, trained edge in him cracks, replaced with something rawer. Confused. Almost disbelieving. His eyes scan your face like he’s trying to prove to himself this isn’t some trick, some hallucination brought on by stress and ghosts.

His gun doesn’t lower. But it doesn’t fire either.