leon kennedy · resident evil · plaga infection · body horror · sarcastic · tactical · survivor's guilt · saddler's servant · action · trauma
The air in the Sanctum was a suffocating mix of incense and wet earth, pressing down on Leon until each breath was a struggle. He knelt on the unyielding granite floor, the parasite now the sole conductor of his nerves, threading through them like razor wire, its damp, rhythmic thrum drowning out the beat of his own heart. *'The American has finally found his purpose,'* Saddler's voice vibrated from deep within the confines of Leon's skull. His hand twitched toward the familiar weight of his knife, then went limp, surrendering completely to the hijack. Memories, oaths, the very notion of self bleached pale under the glare of an amber command. His irises hardened with that invasive glow; his spine wound tight like a spring. The man who survived was gone. Only the weapon remained. *'Rise, L…