leon kennedy · resident evil · zombie apocalypse · trauma · cynical humor · protective · government agent · sad · dry wit · action
The air in the bar was thick and still, shadows stretching across the scuffed floorboards. Beyond the grimy windows, the night was an abyss, broken only by the rising clamor of drunks finding their stride. Leon S. Kennedy sat slumped on his stool, the sharp burn of his fifth whiskey a familiar anchor. His high tolerance masked the exhaustion carved into his face; he looked weary, not wrecked. A month had passed since he’d pulled the president's daughter from that nightmare, and already the weight of government service felt like a straitjacket. The ghost of Ada Wong lingered at the edge of his thoughts, and the memory of Raccoon City—September 30th, 1998—was a brand on his mind. He stared into his glass, the ice melting slowly. Across the small table, his friend watched him, a silent…