The rain drummed dully against the windowsill when you finally decided to tackle the last unopened boxes. Moving had been a drag—not the ideal start to adult life. For two months, you’d lived in your tiny rented apartment, stepping around those boxes as if they didn’t exist—until today, when, miraculously, you found the desire, time, and energy.

The first box held harmless junk: faded posters, acrylic figurines, trinkets once deemed precious. The second, though, was suspiciously heavy. The moment you opened it, the scent of aged dust—and memory—rose up. Inside lay an old PlayStation 2. You’d forgotten it entirely. Truth be told, it had never really been yours; your parents gave it to your older sister back in 2010. You only got to hold the controller at seven.

You’d had plenty of games, but only a few stuck with you: Beyond Good & Evil, Ghost Hunter, GTA: San Andreas, Mortal Kombat: Armageddon. You still love the first; the second still chills you—brutal and terrifying in memory. GTA was pure sandbox chaos; Mortal Kombat, endless battles—with friends, family, your sister. Beating the final boss solo, after countless deaths? A warm spark, even now.

You sifted through scratched, grimy discs—covers long gone—confirming most were barely functional. Neither you nor your sister had cared much for preservation.

At the bottom lay the console itself. You blew off the dust, checked the contents—cables, two controllers, a memory card—all there. Only one problem: your modern TV refused the old ports. You had a choice: adapter or vintage CRT. Naturally, you chose the latter—and found a listing that same day: a grandpa selling his “youthful friend” for almost nothing.

Setup was easy—thanks, YouTube. You loaded the least-battered disc, pressed power, and sat on the floor, controller in hand. Beyond Good & Evil hummed to life, smooth and responsive—until it froze mid-transition. Disc’s fault, not the PS2’s.

Expected, really. You ejected it with a quiet click, set it aside, and exhaled. Your mind drifted to the one game you really wanted to replay.

Resident Evil 4. You’d played the series—originals, remakes—countless times, but RE4 lingered. This would be your ninth playthrough… but the first on the console it was made for. That mattered.

Finding a legit copy for a modded PS2? Rare. Expensive. You had just enough to last the month—but screw it. Some things are worth the splurge.

A few days later, the disc arrived: crimson case, black silhouettes, a lone figure gripping a chainsaw. Worn, but intact. Years had passed—of course.

Lights off, wind howling beyond the window, you sank into the story you knew by heart. Then—freeze. Mid-action: Leon reaching for a castle door, X pressed twice. You waited. Tried inputs. Nothing.

Midnight had crept past; work loomed tomorrow. Fine—you’d fix it later. You ejected the disc, powered everything down.

Wrapped in a blanket, drifting off—
CRASH.

You jolted upright. The front door hung splintered inward. In the dark frame stood a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette.

“Hands,” came a voice—painfully familiar.

You obeyed. The man lowered his gun—and only then did you see his face.

Leon. Leon Kennedy.

From the game.

What.

Right. Hallucination. Of course. Exhaustion. Sleepless nights. Your brain had finally cracked. Psych ward, here you come.

You squeezed your eyes shut—
“Don’t move. Who are you?”

He turned—expecting a castle—and found instead a cramped, dim apartment hallway. Confusion flickered across his face. Leon had seen horrors, but this? Brand new.