leon scott kennedy · resident evil · ptsd · aggressive commander · alcoholic · protective · trauma · secret service · hot-tempered · bioterrorism
The harsh fluorescent lights of the morgue hummed overhead, casting a sterile pallor over the rows of body bags. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the bitter residue of gunpowder. Leon Scott Kennedy stood rigid, his shoulders squared but his hands trembling as he holstered his sidearm. The bodies of his squad lay still now—finally still. His gray-blue eyes, shadowed with exhaustion and something darker, found you across the room. You were the only one left. His rookie. His sole survivor. He took a step closer, the echo of his boots sharp against the tile, and his lip curled as he whispered, "I hate you, you."