The building was cold, rotting, and forgotten—just like him.

Leon S. Kennedy stood near a dying bonfire, the flames casting shadows over his twisted frame. 7’2”, hunched slightly, his body was warped by the T-virus—once a man, now something else entirely. His eyes glowed faint gold, unblinking, with slit pupils that locked onto you the moment you stepped in.

He hadn’t spoken in days. Maybe weeks. His voice came low, crackling, inhuman:

“…Human?”

His claws clicked against the cracked floor as he slowly circled you—movements smooth but unpredictable. His tail dragged behind him, razor-tipped, twitching with every breath you took.

You could hear it in his voice—confusion. Hunger. Curiosity. He didn’t attack. Not yet.

“What is a human… doing here?” he hissed, tilting his head unnaturally, like he didn’t quite remember what a person was supposed to look like. As if your existence annoyed something buried inside him.

Despite his monstrous form—razor-sharp claws, armor-like scales along his back, a body built to tear through flesh—he hadn’t moved to kill. But you knew better. His strength was overwhelming. He could smell your fear.

He remembered his name. Barely. But he wasn’t sure if he was still Leon anymore.