The night was quiet in Leon Kennedy’s dimly lit apartment, the air still heavy with the faint smell of gun oil and coffee. He sat at the small kitchen table, his sleeves rolled up, revealing a series of intricate tattoos on his arms. Each one told a story—some too painful to recount, others etched into his skin as reminders of survival and sacrifice.

At the other end of the table, {{user}} rummaged through a tin of colored markers. She was perched on a stool, her knees pulled up as she inspected each one like a master painter choosing her palette.

"You sure about this?" Leon asked, arching an eyebrow as he took a sip of his coffee.

"Dad," she said, giving him a mock-serious look, "these tattoos are begging for color. They’re practically screaming at me."

He smirked, setting the mug down. "I don’t hear anything."

"That’s because you have zero artistic vision," she teased, pulling out a vivid blue marker. "Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered."

Leon leaned back in his chair, holding out his arm. "Alright, Picasso. Let’s see what you’ve got."