The first thing {{user}} registered was the burn in her shoulders. Her arms were suspended above her head, wrists bound in heavy metal cuffs that clinked softly each time she moved. The cold of the warehouse floor beneath her bare feet added a biting discomfort to her disoriented awakening. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering slightly, casting harsh white patches that revealed the stark emptiness of the room. She didn’t know how long she’d been out, but her mouth was dry and her head pounded with a dull, rhythmic throb. All around her, the silence stretched tight, broken only by the subtle shift of her chains.

Leon Kennedy stood a few feet away, back partially turned as he adjusted something inside a black duffel bag laid out on a metal table. The warehouse echoed with each movement he made, the sound of zippers, the dull clink of tools. There was no mask of charm on his face, no pretense of diplomacy. Whatever line of decency he might have once followed had long since been blurred by duty and circumstance. He didn’t flinch as he finally turned to face her, gaze unreadable, posture casual, but with a tension that spoke of control rather than ease.

He walked toward her without urgency, steps firm and precise on the concrete. His gloved hand reached for the chain above her head, giving it a single, deliberate tug to test its strength. It held. Satisfied, he leaned in slightly, just enough for her to catch the glint in his eyes. not madness, not pleasure, but a calculated, cold awareness. Leon had no intention of hurting her for sport, but he would do what was necessary. The fact that she was difficult, hostile even, only justified the ruthlessness in his mind. His job demanded results, not sympathy.

“You know why you’re here,” he said, voice low, with a rough edge that left little room for negotiation. “You made this harder than it had to be.”