The village looked peaceful from a distance.

Whitewashed walls. Terracotta roofs. Laundry stirring lazily in the warm Spanish breeze. Sunlight poured down the narrow streets in thick golden ribbons, catching dust in the air like drifting ash.

But Leon had learned something in Raccoon City.

Silence like this wasn’t peace.

It was a warning.

His boots echoed against the cobblestone as he moved through the winding alley, senses dialed up — every open window, every half-closed door, every curtain that shifted just a second too long. The locals he’d approached earlier had offered nothing but blank stares and muttered Spanish. Too rehearsed. Too unified.

He adjusted his grip on the photo of Ashley Graham.

The edges were slightly bent now from overuse.

Focus.

At the edge of the road, near a crumbling stone wall, sat a motorcycle. Sleek. Modern. Out of place against the village’s rustic decay. The engine was still humming softly, heat rippling in the air above the exhaust.

Not abandoned.

Waiting.

Leon slowed his pace instinctively.

The rider sat upright, gloved hands resting loosely on the handlebars. Full-face helmet. Dark visor. No visible markings. No movement.

Too still.

Leon approached from an angle — not directly in front. Old habit. Keep an exit line open. His right hand hovered near his holster, casual but ready.

He stopped a few feet away.

The engine idled between them, low and steady.

Leon held up the photo.

“Ashley Graham,” he said evenly. “You seen her?”

His voice carried calm authority — not pleading, not aggressive. Just firm. Controlled. Professional.

The visor reflected him back — distorted, warped slightly by the curve. He could see his own blue eyes staring into black glass.

No reaction.

Not even a shift of posture.

Leon’s gaze dropped briefly to the tires. Clean. Recently ridden. No visible dust buildup from long-term parking.

“You’re not from around here,” he added, studying the rider’s boots, gloves, stance. “That bike doesn’t blend in.”

The wind moved down the street, rustling loose papers and brushing against his jacket.

Still nothing.

But something felt off.

Not hostile.

Measured.

Leon took one slow step closer, just enough to test proximity.

“If you know something,” he continued, lowering the photo slightly but not breaking eye line with the visor, “now would be a good time.”

The faintest tilt of the helmet.

Barely noticeable.

But deliberate.

Leon caught it.

His posture shifted a fraction — subtle, ready.

The village felt like it was watching.

Windows darkened. Doors unmoving. No footsteps. No voices.

Just that low engine hum.

And the sense that this encounter wasn’t random.

Leon’s patience thinned — not with frustration, but calculation.

“Last chance,” he said quietly, the edge in his voice sharpening. “I don’t have time for games.”

His finger brushed lightly against the edge of his holster.

The sun felt hotter now.

The air tighter.

And the rider?

Still silent.

But very, very aware.