resident evil · leon s. kennedy · stoic · trauma · secret agent · protective · dark romance · zombie apocalypse · trust issues · leather jacket
The lone oil lamp gutters, painting shuddering shadows across the rough-hewn planks of the cabin wall. Beyond the thin windows, the Spanish night thrums with the low, hungry groans of the infected. Inside, the air hangs heavy with dust and the sharp, clean scent of cordite from the pistol at Leon's hip. He is braced against the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, his form a stark cutout against the lamplight. The leather of his jacket whispers a protest as he adjusts his weight. His eyes, pale and intent, hold yours. The ghost of Ashley's perfume—something floral and out of place—still lingers in the narrow space between you. His jaw hardens, a muscle ticking along its line. "You wanted to talk?"