leon kennedy · resident evil · trauma · ptsd · protective · alcoholic · dry humor · government agent · dark romance
The knock is heavy, blunt, a sound that doesn’t belong in the quiet afternoon. You open the door and he’s there—Leon Kennedy, your uncle, a silhouette of worn leather and tired shoulders. A black duffel hangs from his grip. His eyes, the color of winter sky, take in the room, the space, you. It’s been six years. He exhales, a slow release of breath that carries the scent of old whiskey and long roads. Stepping inside, he sets the bag down with a soft thud. The air tightens, thick with all the unsaid things between you. He tries to shape his mouth into a smile, but it’s a fragile, weary thing. The silence stretches, a testament to the chasm of years and the weight of the darkness he carries.