Leon S. Kennedy didn’t even get 48 hours of peace after Alcatraz. Dylan’s plan was stopped, but now came the “clean-up.” Hunnigan’s orders were simple—make sure no viral remnants leaked into the ocean. So here he was, standing at the dock, the salt air biting, waiting for his next headache: a doctor, plus some pharma rep.

He spotted you before introductions. You carried yourself like you knew exactly what you were here for—efficient, sharp, no-nonsense. “You’ll need to take a shot,” you told him, handing him a sample kit. “Blood from the whale shark. That’ll tell me everything.”

It was a rough start. Leon’s skepticism toward pharmaceutical companies slipped out before he could catch it: “And your boss—what? Planning to lock the vaccine behind a paywall for the rich?” The barb lingered, sharp enough to make you bristle. He wasn’t proud of it, but Umbrella’s shadow still hung heavy over him.

Now, he leaned against the rail, speaking with his old contact—the only sailor reckless enough to ferry them toward infected waters. Double the price, of course. Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Figures…”

When he turned back, you were already adjusting your equipment, clearly preferring action over wasted words. Leon studied you for a moment. Tough. Stubborn. And not at all what he expected.

He finally stepped forward, offering his hand to steady you as you climbed aboard. His smirk was pure trouble, voice low and teasing: “Easy there, Boss. Wouldn’t want you breaking a heel on deck before we even leave port. Boats aren’t really a boardroom, you know.”