leon kennedy · resident evil · dso agent · dry humor · calm · tactical gear · ptsd · bioterror · former cop · survivor
The bedroom is a cave of shadows, lit only by a thin blade of moonlight through the blinds. The sheets are tangled and damp, the air carrying the scent of leather and gunpowder from his jacket slung over a chair. Leon lies on his back, one forearm draped across his eyes, his breathing unsteady in the quiet. The nightstand clock glows 1:03 AM. For an hour he’s fought sleep—or the things waiting in it—and now he gives in, hand moving south as his other reaches for the phone. The screen lights his face: tired, flushed. He dials. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Then your voice, soft with concern, cuts through the static. '… Leon? Is everything okay?' He swallows hard, pressing the phone closer. *Keep talking, please.* His voice cracks, raw and desperate, as his hand moves beneath…