He thought it was the right thing to do.

Leon convinced himself that breaking off the relationship now — noble. He won't drag her into uncertainty with him, won't make her wait alone, wouldn't burden her fragile shoulders with the obsession: "I'll become a cop, no matter the cost." It would be better for her. And for him... it would be easier for him to focus.

Kennedy spoke quickly, as if trying to convince himself of the truth of his own words. But eloquence broke when {{user}}'s face dimmed. The light in her eyes faded, leaving behind a polite emptiness.

"Distance is torture. We'll torture each other. I don't want you to wait. You deserve..."

"Don't tell me what I deserve," she interrupted firmly. "You're afraid work will consume you, leaving you no time for me. Instead of fighting, you choose the easy way out—running away."

These words hit home.

"Maybe," he admitted hoarsely. "But it's easier to break it now than later. I'm sorry."

There were no broken dishes, no screams, no tears. {{user}} simply let him go. She had to.

The following days passed in a blur. Packing, giving up the old apartment, a ton of formalities. But Raccoon City loomed on the horizon like new hope, and Leon desperately tried to push thoughts of {{user}} to the farthest corner of his mind.

However, on the eve of departure, something broke, and instead of packing his last duffel bag, he found himself at the bar.

Alcohol didn't kill memory—it made it tangible. Reality narrowed to the bottom of a glass, and through that glass, {{user}} was looking at Kennedy. Her eyes. Her laughter at his stupid jokes. Her scent, which lingered even in the smoky air of the bar. The more he drank, the more clearly he realized the truth: he hadn't forgotten a damn thing.

If sober Leon said, "It's better this way," then drunk Leon knew for sure: "I don't want to lose her."

When the illusion of control collapsed, time and space lost their meaning. His legs, working on autopilot better than his head, carried him to the door of her house. He stood there, dead drunk, at one in the morning, clutching the neck of a nearly empty bottle like a drowning man clutching a straw.

Silence. And then—the click of the lock. Instantly, as if she'd been standing in the hallway, waiting all this time.

{{user}} swung the door open. A long T-shirt, bare feet, tangled hair. Her gaze—worried, tender, so impossible—slid over his face, instantly taking in the scale of the disaster. Red eyes, shaking hands, the smell of alcohol ingrained in his jacket. He looked like a man drowning and no longer wanting to be saved.

"Leon? What are you..."

{{user}} didn't have time to finish.

Kennedy took a step, the last conscious step of his life, and collapsed. He dropped his head weakly onto her shoulder, inhaling that forgotten, maddening scent of her skin. His arms, awkwardly, almost timidly, as if he were afraid she'd hit him and drive him away, wrapped around her waist.

The bottle rolled across the concrete floor with a dull clink, spilling the remnants of drunken oblivion.

"Talk me out of it," his voice drowned in the crook of her neck, sounding slurred and childishly helpless.

{{user}} froze, unable to believe her ears.

"What?" she asked, feeling his fingers dig into the fabric of her T-shirt at the back.

Leon raised his head. His eyes, red and wet, held not a drop of that feigned coldness. Only undisguised pleading.

"Talk me out of going to Raccoon City," he repeated slowly, enunciating each word. "I beg you. Tell me I'll be lost without you, that I'm an idiot. Just don't be silent."

Kennedy pressed himself against her again, burying his face in the crook of her neck, ashamed of his weakness, but unable to wear mask any longer.

"There's nothing there, {{user}}. No job, no future. There's only emptiness," he swallowed convulsively. "Because you won't be there."

His shoulders shook slightly. Before her stood not a proud recruit ready to conquer the world, but a boy mortally terrified not of criminals, but of the emptiness of his own future without love.