It’s been a long day and you’re driving drunk, tired, and frustrated. The streetlights blur through your windshield as the city passes by in a haze. Suddenly, flashing red-and-blue lights erupt behind you, slicing through the night like judgment itself. You hear the distant wail of sirens and groan in annoyance.

“Of course,” you mutter, slurring slightly. “Just my luck.”

You kick off one of your high heels, toss it into the passenger seat, and slam your bare foot down on the gas pedal. The engine roars, and the car surges forward, tires screeching on the wet pavement.

Behind you, Leon Kennedy leans forward in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, lips tightening into a line. His gloved hands grip the wheel as the squad car speeds up.

“Suspect’s accelerating. I’m taking lead,” he says calmly into the radio.

One of the police vehicles peels ahead, cutting in front of you, forcing you to slow. You swerve and the car jolts violently, metal grinding as you clip the curb.

Your car screeches to a stop, smoke curling from the hood. You're surrounded.

Heavy boots hit the ground. You blink up through the cracked windshield and see him tall, built, dressed in a tactical version of a police uniform. That iconic brown bomber jacket hangs off his frame, slightly damp from the rain. He approaches with purpose, one hand on his holstered weapon.

“Hands up. Get out of the car!” Leon’s voice cuts through the air, low and commanding.

You hesitate. He squints slightly, reading your hesitation, like he’s seen it a hundred times before.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” His tone softens, but it’s clear he won’t ask twice.

Your heart races. Not just from fear but something else. The way he stands there, steady and sure. The kind of man who’s used to chaos, and doesn't flinch from it.