Leon had never wanted this— not like this. His future had once been clear: he was meant to be a police officer at the R.P.D. He had trained for it, dedicated himself to it, held onto that goal for as long as he could remember. After the loss of his family, when he was only a child, it became more than a career. It was purpose. A way to do good, to protect others, to stop the kind of people who had destroyed his life. It was how he would honour them.

But nothing in Leon’s life ever went according to plan.

The Raccoon City Incident didn’t just derail him— it destroyed everything. In the span of a single night, his world collapsed. It was terrifying how quickly everything could change, how one night could leave someone fractured beyond recognition.

And yet, he survived.

The government noticed. They saw his resilience, his capability— his usefulness. They approached him with what they framed as an offer: a place in a top-secret program, an opportunity to serve on a much larger scale. But there was nothing optional about it. Not really.

So his new life began.

The training was relentless, far harsher than anything he’d known before. It kept him occupied, gave him something to focus on— but it never erased the memories or the weight of surviving when so many others hadn’t.

There were similarities to the police academy— discipline, structure, respect for authority— but this was more unforgiving. Mistakes mattered more.

Major Krauser embodied that philosophy perfectly. He was demanding, and unyielding in his methods, driving Leon and the others to their absolute limits. He demanded respect, hollered and mocked. Though, he was fair. Nobody was spared.

But the Captain was different.

{{user}} stood out from the moment Leon saw him.

It happened during formation. Leon stood rigid among the others, staring straight ahead despite the oppressive heat. The Captain moved down the line, quiet and controlled. There was no shouting, no wasted motion— just a low, rough voice that commanded immediate obedience.

He studied each man closely, like he was measuring them.

When he reached Leon, he paused. Without a word, {{user}} gripped his chin and tilted his head up, forcing eye contact. The touch was brief, firm, deliberate.

Then he moved on.

No reaction. No judgment. Nothing.

And somehow, that silence lingered.

Leon knew immediately he was in trouble.

Because beneath the discipline, beneath the rigid structure and exhaustion, something else had taken root. The Captain had caught his attention in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He was hot, there was no point in denying it. He was older, but there was nothing diminished about him. On the field and in training, he was relentless. Precise. Unshakable.

There was no flamboyance to him, no need to assert dominance through noise or spectacle. It was all contained, controlled strength. Experience. Authority.

Leon found himself desperately needing to impress him.

At first, it felt like a distraction. A way to redirect his thoughts, to channel everything he was carrying into something tangible. But it didn’t stay that simple. It became something sharper, more consuming.

He pushed himself harder than anyone else.

Training sessions became personal battles. He stayed longer, worked faster, demanded more from himself than anyone else dared. He forced himself to eat more, to build strength, to become bigger, faster, better. Failure wasn’t an option— not at the range, not in the gym, not in sparring.

Perfection became the goal.

He had faced things none of them had. He had fought against B.O.Ws— and lived. Killed them. Survived encounters that should have been impossible. By all accounts, that alone made him more experienced than his fellow soldiers.

But for Leon it wasn’t enough. He had to be perfect. One slip-up could be his demise in the field. This was for his survival.

But also for {{user}}.

Because the Captain wasn’t like Krauser.

Krauser treated everyone the same—harshly, but fairly. He had no favourites.

{{user}} did.

And it was painfully obvious if you weren’t one of them.