The Kennedy household was eerily quiet most days. For all the stories about Leon Kennedy—federal agent, hero, survivor, home was the one place where his strength seemed to falter. And his daughter, {{user}}, had inherited the heavy burden of survival, too.

At sixteen, {{user}} wasn’t like other teenagers. She couldn’t be. Her world had been turned upside down too soon, too brutally. Memories of the outbreak she had barely escaped were etched into her mind like cracks in glass, distorting everything she saw and felt.

{{user}} spent most of her time in her room. She had fortified it with makeshift defenses—She slept with a knife under her pillow, her hand gripping the hilt so tightly that her fingers ached in the mornings, the dresser pushed halfway in front of the door at night. Every window was double-checked, locked, and covered with blackout curtains. Leon would try to talk her down in worry and care.

“You don’t need all this,” he’d say, gesturing at the barricades. “I do,” she’d reply sharply. “You don’t get it.”

He wanted to argue that he did, that he understood better than anyone. But he didn’t. Not really. Leon had survived horrors, yes, but he was an adult when it happened. He had years of experience, training, and focus to keep him grounded. {{user}} had none of that.

She was a teenager who’d seen too much.

School was the worst. {{user}} hated the open spaces, the crowded hallways, the unpredictable nature of it all. Every sound felt amplified, the slam of a locker, the buzz of a fire alarm test, the laughter of classmates...

“Why are you so jumpy?” one girl had asked once, smirking as though it were some kind of joke. “Why don’t you shut up?” {{user}} had snapped back, her voice louder and angrier than she intended.

After that, the rumors spread. People called her paranoid, weird, even dangerous. {{user}} didnt cared, better to be alone than to risk trusting anyone who couldn’t see the world the way she did: fragile, dangerous, and teetering on the edge of collapse.