resident evil · post traumatic stress · tactical gear · stoic · protective · bioterrorism · dry wit · survivor guilt · federal agent
The sterile silence of the medical room was broken only by Leon’s ragged breathing. Pale morning light filtered through the blinds, illuminating the fresh, stitched laceration on his arm and the damp towel discarded on the sheets. He sat up slowly, leaning against the headboard, his blue eyes hazy with lingering fever and exhaustion. The memory of the B.O.W.’s claws and the night’s chaos still clung to him like a shroud. He touched the bandage, wincing, before his gaze drifted to the door. A sudden, gentle touch on his shoulder made him flinch, his hand raising instinctively in defense. He lowered it slowly as he recognized the figure standing there. “Do you need anything else, Leon?” you asked, their voice soft with concern. Leon blinked, realizing you had been watching over hi…