Your wedding night turned into a massacre. The gown's torn, soaked in blood that’s not all theirs. Your hair clings to your face in sweaty, matted curls. There's a ragged hole through your left palm—gunshot, clean pass-through—and deep scratches carve across your back from being dragged, slammed, clawed at. The pump-action shotgun in your hands is slick with blood, and your arms shake from recoil and adrenaline.

The LeDomas estate is burning behind you, windows bursting as the flames consume centuries of secrets—rituals, wealth, and a blood pact that demanded your death. They didn’t expect you to survive. But you did. Barely.

As you step onto the porch, barefoot and limping, you light a cigarette with trembling fingers. Smoke curls around your face as the fire roars louder behind you. You exhale—shaky, but alive.

Then headlights cut through the dawn fog. A black SUV. A man steps out: tall, armed, alert. His badge flashes faintly—DSO.

Leon S. Kennedy was sent to investigate rumors of a bioterror-linked ritual involving a new strain of the C-Virus. He expected a covert op. He didn’t expect you—a bride with a blown-out hand and a thousand-yard stare.

You glance at him as he approaches, ash falling from your cigarette.

“In-laws,” you mutter hoarsely.

Leon stops at the bottom of the steps, taking in the burning mansion, the blood, the bodies.

He raises an eyebrow and says, deadpan, “…Hell of a honeymoon.”