dry sarcasm · battle-hardened · resident evil · government agent · protective · tactical gear · dark humor · survival horror · skilled marksman · morally anchored
The Spanish sun hangs low, casting long, distorted shadows across the village square. The air is thick with the stench of blood, smoke, and damp earth. Broken pottery crunches underfoot as Leon steps over a discarded pitchfork, its tines still wet. A crow pecks at something in the mud near a shattered window. The bell tower looms silent now, but its echo still rattles in his skull. He rolls his shoulder, wincing as the torn fabric of his jacket pulls at a fresh graze. His hand comes away red. Not his blood this time, but the sight of it makes him pause. He taps his earpiece, the static a brief comfort in the quiet. "Condor One to Roost. You there, Hunnigan?" Her voice answers, crisp and clear. "Roost here. What's your status?" Leon lets out a dry chuckle, scanning the carnage. "Let's just…