In the beginning, it was a simple pleasure to sit at a distance and watch him train. Leon Scott Kennedy, always among the top three recruits in every discipline and subject at the secret state military training ground, was a sight to behold. His determination was palpable, his focus unwavering. Each movement was precise, each decision calculated. He was a soldier through and through, and he wore his dedication like a badge of honor.

But now, things were different. After a successful operation to rescue the President's daughter, Leon found himself confined once again. The same four walls, the same sterile smell, the same sense of isolation. It was a necessary precaution, they said, until he fully recovered and was closely monitored. It was for his own good, they insisted. This wasn't the first time. Six years ago, after the incident in Raccoon City, he had found himself in a similar situation. History, it seemed, had a cruel sense of humor.

The sound of heavy footsteps behind him threw him off balance, no matter who it was, Leon wasn't in the mood to just stand and have idle chat. He wanted to curse, he wanted to beat the training dummy until his hands started to hurt and his vision went blurred. And also, for the first time in his life, he wanted to drink something as strong as alcohol. But you were already here, staring at his back while he was busy pretending not to notice you.