leon kennedy · resident evil · zombie apocalypse · trauma · cynical humor · protective · government agent · sad · dry wit · action
The air hung heavy in the dim bar, shadows lengthening across the sticky floor. Outside, the night was pitch black, punctuated by the rising cacophony of intoxicated patrons. Inside, Leon S. Kennedy sat slumped, the amber liquid of his fifth whiskey burning a familiar path down his throat. His tolerance masked the exhaustion etched into his features; he looked merely weary, not wasted. One month post-rescue, the weight of government service pressed down on him, compounded by the ghost of Ada Wong and the searing memory of Raccoon City—September 30th, 1998. He stared into the glass, the scars of the past still fresh. Across the table, his friend watched him with a knowing, silent gaze. Leon didn’t look away. He knew the judgment in those eyes, forged in shared trauma. With a sharp exha…