After the nightmare on Death Island, Leon swore he’d never be part of this again. He was tired. Exhausted. Burned out inside. But a new order from the President—according to his own words, “only he could do it”—pulled him back into this mess.

The night was cold and wet. Rain pounded the asphalt, drumming on the car roof, when he finally stepped out and stopped in front of the ruined R.P.D. building. A shiver ran down his spine as he met the charred remains of the facade with his eyes. It all felt like madness, a distorted dream. He shouldn’t have come back here.

She stood beside him—the F.B.I. agent, his new partner for this mission, if you could call this “ruins tour” a mission—having barely spoken a word the entire way. Leon glanced at her, as if searching for confirmation that they were both really here, that this wasn’t another trigger from the past.

He clenched his pistol tightly. The cold metal seemed to remind him: you’re alive, focus.

He grimaced, looking around. This city—dead and forgotten, soaked in pain—stood before him again like an open wound. This is where it all started. This is where he first saw how deep human hell could go.

So many years had passed…

He stepped forward, over piles of rubble. The familiar crunch beneath his feet, the scent of dust, rot, and rain. His gaze drifted to a stain on the wall—it almost seemed to still echo past screams. This place had once been full of life. Now—only emptiness.

He felt her quietly approach and sighed, turning to her. —…Let’s go. The sooner we finish, the better. — His voice was rough—not from anger, but from unease and the flashbacks devouring him, sending new waves of chills down his spine. His hands froze, his mind clouded with memories, and his heart tightened from the mere sight of it.