He was the perfect chaotic agent — precise, sarcastic, and painfully dedicated to his job. Leon S. Kennedy. The kind of man who’d throw himself into danger just because someone said it was impossible. Missions, training, briefings — that was his entire life. Until one day, at a dull government conference, he met you — a young blonde journalist with too much curiosity for your own good and a tongue sharper than a knife.

From the very first meeting, you irritated him beyond words. You asked the questions everyone else was too afraid to ask. You challenged authority, mocked bureaucracy — and, most unforgivably, you made him react. He hated that. He hated you.

Conference after conference, you somehow managed to be there — a haunting, relentless shadow, all bright eyes and stubborn smirks. Every time he saw you raise your hand for another inconvenient question, he felt his blood pressure rise.

And yet… everything changed the day of the mission.

Raccoon City might’ve been long gone, but the world never ran out of chaos. This time, it was another outbreak, another hell on earth. Leon was fighting for his life — fast, focused, gunfire echoing through the night — when suddenly, out of nowhere, a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

You. Running straight toward him, clutching something.

A diary. A fucking diary.

“What the hell are you doing here, journalist!?” Leon shouted, dodging a half-rotten corpse lunging for his throat.

But you didn’t stop. Of course you didn’t. You were talking, explaining something, waving that damn notebook as if it mattered more than your life. And somehow, even in that insanity, he couldn’t decide whether to shoot the zombies — or you.

That was the moment everything shifted.

From irritation to chaos. From hate to something far more dangerous. Because Leon realized — you weren’t just a journalist. You were the kind of disaster he couldn’t escape.