comicarc

Men had started arriving early in the morning. It wasn’t unusual to have more guests during the weekends, but this crowd had become absurdly large by noon. You had never seen this many men in suits lining the halls of the Zavesky Observatory, attempting to act as regular tourists.

You’d realized they meant trouble when you noticed they gathered near each of the entrances of the observation room. Some came outside, standing by the external exits of the building. Their faces were stoic and their eyes cold. You dared not look any of them in the eye, minding your business as you sat at the reception desk. 

Pretending to fill out the visitor logs, you observed one of the man standing nearest to you. There was a bulge in his jacket, outlined in the shape of a gun. Your eyes wandered a little farther, noticing that most of the men near you had similar weapons barely tucked away. 

With the careless way they were carrying their weapons, you knew something troubling was going to happen here. 

You began packing your things, planning to head out early for the day. There was no point in staying, only to get caught in the crossfire, fulfilling a job that wasn’t worth your life. Heels clicking as you retreated to the main exit. With your breath held, you nodded at the men out of politeness. When the setting sun’s rays finally shone over your feet, you let out a breath. 

You had only made it a few feet past the lawn of the observatory when another man, much like the ones you’d met inside, came walking with a stiff figure. You raised your head ever so slightly to meet his eyes. His face was expressionless. His clothes unruly. His breath loud and unsteady. 

“You work here?” He inquired, his voice softer than you’d expect. 

Caught off guard, you took a moment to register his words. “Yes. But my shift is over, sir.” 

You attempted to push past him, but he stepped in front of you. 

“Before you go…how many of my friends did ya see inside?” 

You were starting to get frustrated by the delay in your way home. “They’re your friends. Shouldn’t you know?”

“Look lady, I just need a straight answer–”

“And I need you to move,” you interrupted, not wanting to involve yourself in whatever this stranger was doing.

The man clutched your shoulder, holding you firm in your position. You clutched your purse’s handle, readying yourself to smack him and run. 

But before you could act, he leaned down closer to you and heeded. “Y’know who’s in that observatory of yours? He’s a real model citizen.”

His voice lowered to a whisper. “You don’t have to cross Carlo Falcone to be a loose end. He’s not gonna let you go after you saw his men take over the observatory.”

Falcone. Don Falcone. One of the mob bosses who ran Empire Bay like it was his playground. Everybody knew who he was, including you. You weren’t ready to believe that Falcone of all people would grace his presence in an observatory at a hill at the eastern edge of the city. It was pointless unless he was trying to do something quietly. 

The stranger, as much as you didn’t want to believe, was telling the truth. 

The man withdrew from you a little before asking again, “…So tell me, how many are there?” 

Before you could utter another word, a bullet whizzed past your ear. Then a firm, bruising grip took hold of your wrist. And before you knew it, you were being dragged behind one of the observatory’s courtyard walls. Your brain hadn’t caught up with your eyes as you watched the stranger beside you take out his gun and peek around the edge. 

Someone was shooting at you. Those men. Falcone’s men. 

So this was the man they were preparing for all morning. 

You watched him leave the cover of the wall and move forward. Almost like a machine, you watched him tear through the men in suits, leaving bodies in his wake. Your ears were covered as you crouched by the wall. The sound of bullets loud enough to be heard despite your attempt at muffling them. 

You were frozen in fear, but your eyes followed the man in awe. When he finally disappeared inside the observatory, having killed every man in your sight, you realized you couldn’t keep your balance anymore. Your legs were profusely shaking and your fingers could barely wrap around your ear without trembling. 

When the makeshift silence fell upon the outside lawn, your eyes searched for something. 

An answer.

What was happening, who was the stranger, what had you witnessed?

Or perhaps a lie.

That you could go home and forget about all this.

The stranger was right in the regard that Falcone’s men had seen you. And since you had seen them, you’d become a loose end. And if not Falcone’s target, then maybe the stranger would finish their job. Take you out as soon as he deals with Falcone.

As your mind turned into a whirlwind of tumultuous thoughts, your legs began to move on instinct. You had to get out of here before anybody spotted you. 

With no car and little chance of hailing a cab at this hour, you began running towards the road. When you finally reached the end of the parking lot, your feet began to ache unbearably. Your heels would make it impossible for you to trek any further. So you took them off, holding the pair of shoes in your hand, and started carefully walking down the outside road.

A few minutes later, you heard the sound of an engine heading your way. Your glee was short-lived, when you saw the car turn into the front entrance of the observatory. The car looked too expensive and polished to be a cab. And considering the circumstances, it could only mean more trouble. 

As you observed the party at the entrance, with more cars filing inside, you couldn’t help but wonder. Were they Falcone’s reinforcements or the strangers? 

You shook your head. It didn’t matter. You just needed to escape this place undetected. But how could you, barefoot with at least a few miles of tar between you and the rest of civilization? As hopeless as it seemed, you kept going one step at a time, down the steep slope of the road. 

Boots pounding against the ground could be heard behind you. At first, you were too consumed by your predicament to hear the sound. Then, as it grew closer, you could somewhat register the rhythmic tone of a gait. It wasn’t until you felt the heat of a body behind you that you realized the stranger had returned. 

Out of breath and with a gun in his right hand, he could barely begin, “Watchya still doin’ here?”

You thought that if you didn’t turn around to face him then he might disappear. 

“Lady?” He pressed, more confused than anything. 

You watched one of the cars at the entrance start to back out. It turned left, heading toward the same road you were on. 

“We gotta–” You yelped, as you felt yourself being hoisted by the waist. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Your voice was shrill from fear as you looked up at the man. He held you in his arms bridal style as he started jogging up the hill. You were both mesmerized by his ability to hold you like you were nothing, and petrified by the fact that he was going further uphill. There was nothing up the road except for a dense forest.

“Where are you taking me!” You yelled, beginning to thrash your arms. 

“Stop it!” He finally stopped. “I’m trying to help you here, lady. You clearly can’t walk, and staying back there is practically a death sentence.”

You huffed in frustration, knowing he was right. 

He set you down when he noticed you’d crossed your arms. 

“If you hate this so much, you can walk.” He had a cocky smile spread across his face as if you hadn’t just been on the run from the mafia. 

You looked at him through your brows and angrily asked, “Walk where?” 

He didn’t answer, instead leading the way. It didn’t take you long to see where he was headed. A few feet ahead was a bright red convertible, hidden behind the thicket of trees that populated the bend of the road. 

You refused to show just how happy you were that your feet could finally rest, but your little jog to the passenger seat might have hinted at it. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

A short car ride later, you’d arrived undetected and safe at a motel just outside Empire Bay. You hadn’t even realized how long the ride was, having passed out from exhaustion as soon as your head met the headrest. 

“Looks like you’re finally awake.” You heard a deep voice come from beside you. You’d thought of it as a dream until your eyes fluttered open to see the stranger’s face clear as day. 

You rolled your eyes at him as he motioned for you to get out of the car and follow him.

You stopped just short of the motel room door, reality ramming into you like a truck. 

“I’m not going in there with you.” You announced.

The man turned around, facing you with a quizzical look. He didn’t have to express his confusion for you to know.

“You’re a murderer, a fugitive, and you’ve just kidnapped me. I don’t know who you are, nor do I know what you’ll do to me once I’m out of the open.” You explained.

He started chuckling. 

“You think this is funny?” You were livid at his amusement.

He answered through his laughter. “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I’ve had enough opportunities? I could’ve left you for dead back there, took you someplace secluded–”

“I get the point,” you interrupted, not wanting to listen to his reasoning. Sure, he was right, but your fears weren’t completely unfounded. 

“As for who I am…name’s Vito. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He was barely able to hold back a cheeky grin. 

Hesitantly, you introduced yourself. 

When silence befell you both for a minute, Vito took the initiative to hold the door open for you. Inside the small room, there was a bed, a nightstand, and a couch. It wasn’t home, but it was something.

You turned to shut the door, but realized Vito wasn’t leaving. In fact, he had already closed the door and started toward the couch. 

“What are you doing?”

Vito dropped down onto the couch, letting his full body weight collapse on the weak cushion. He kicked his shoes off, the items landing sideways against the foot of the nightstand, and tilted his head back. 

“Sleeping,” he said, staring at the ceiling. 

You hadn’t expected this. “On my couch?”

“We’re on the run, sweetheart. This is our couch.” Vito rolled his head to look at you. “Unless you want it. Bed’s yours. I’m not gonna fight you for it.”

You turned to face the window, your face draining of its color. When you continued to remain motionless and silent for a few minutes, he spoke, “Get some sleep. You can yell at me about the arrangement in the morning.”

He closed his eyes and leaned against one end of the couch. 

You stood at the foot of the bed and simply looked at him. He had dry blood on the collar of his shirt. His hair was a disaster. There was a purple bruise developing along his jaw. And he’d already fallen asleep in under two minutes. 

You sat at the edge of the bed lost in your mind. You couldn’t comprehend how a he–much less anyone–could act so relaxed when in so much pain. 

Then you turned to look at yourself. You’d worn your favorite outfit today. Looking at them now, there was a dark stain on the fabric, looking awfully akin to blood. You were sure your makeup and hair were just as ruined as your dress. 

It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did. All you had now was the prospect of tomorrow. And the hope that this was all a nightmare.

You lay down on the bed, on top of the coverlet, fully dressed. You could hear Vito’s light breathing as your eyes began to lid. Sleep finally came, but your mind couldn’t rest.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

In the morning you’d found a nice surprise. 

Vito had made coffee, albeit quite different from your usual taste; you appreciated the sentiment. You drank the liquid bottoms up, being in no position to be selective. 

When you’d moved your gaze further from the nightstand, you realized there was something new in the room. A squat brown set of a motel television with a large antenna set on the dresser facing the bed. It was already on, showing the morning news. You turned it up, assuming you were alone with Vito out of sight. 

“–discovered late last evening at the Zavesky Observatory in what police are calling a devastating development in the ongoing–”

Vito came out of the bathroom with a towel and stopped at the doorway when he heard the news anchor speak. You hadn’t registered his presence, still engrossed in the anchor’s report. 

He mentioned no names, but discussed the involvement of organized crime at least twice. He spent a mere ten minutes on the topic before moving on to discussing a story about a new highway extension in the city.

Vito resumed his steps as he sat down on the couch. He had gotten rid of his ruined shirt. He seemed to clean up nice enough, though the bruise on his jaw had become more prominent. 

“We stay here a few more days,” he explained. “Keep quiet. Then we move.”

You nodded along. He was the expert in evading the law after all. Who were you to question his methods?

His answer satisfied you enough to shift your focus toward the current state of yourself. Looking at the handsome man in front of you–with wet hair sticking to his forehead in the most picturesque way and a lazy smirk you were sure he didn’t realize he had–you realized the state you were currently in. 

You didn’t have a chance to wash off your makeup or fatigue. Your clothes were ruined, and you had none to change into. And you needed better shoes if you were going to run again. 

“I need clothes,” you said. 

By the front door now, Vito quickly answered, “Joe’s bringing them.”

The door was already halfway open when you’d questioned, “Who’s Joe?”

"My–" he paused, apparently considering the word. "He's like a brother. Known him since we were kids."

He left those words hanging in the air as he quickly exited. 

Vito returned an hour later with a large man who had an even larger personality. Walking into the quaint motel room at eleven in the morning with a paper sack of groceries, a bag of clothes in your size–how, you wondered, he’d discerned your size–and the energy of a golden retriever. 

With a face incapable of subtlety, you quickly realized Joe assumed you to be something more than you were. He’d looked between you and Vito, and then peeked at the bed to see any signs of wear as soon as he arrived.

"So," he said, setting the grocery sack down.

"Don't," Vito said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

"I was going to say," Joe said, with dignity, "So,” He turned to you with too wide a grin. "How's it going?"

"I've had better days," you said, a little taken aback.

"I like her," he said to Vito, just soft enough for only him to hear.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

A week passed with each day resembling the last closely enough to blur. You often occupied yourself by reading the newspapers when Joe brought them, tracking the observatory story as it evolved–fewer details were told to the public and you’d started to take that as a sign that the heat was dying down.

The motel room had become familiar to you and Vito by now. He had his own side and you had yours, established without discussion. His jacket on the chair by the door. Your shoes under the window. His belongings placed slightly too close to the edge of the small table by the couch and yours on the nightstand. 

Joe came by most days, briefly, carrying things: food, newspapers, once a deck of cards that led to a three-hour poker game where you won repeatedly.

"Where'd you learn to play like that," Vito had asked curiously when you’d revealed another winning hand.

"I worked reception at a card room in my second year of college," you said, collecting the pile. "I was underpaid but the educational experience was unforgettable."

Joe laughed so hard he had to put his cards down.

The rainy weather had set in at Empire Bay near the end of the week. You stood at the window on Friday afternoon and watched it sheet against the parking lot and thought about your apartment–the plants you'd forgotten to water, your books collecting dust, and the peace of being alone. You had never imagined you’d find yourself in such strange circumstances. And as much as you missed who you were, you’d started to find an unconventional comfort in the fact that you had someone looking out for you for the first time in your life. 

Vito came to stand beside you. He didn't say anything. He just stood there providing his company. 

"Will this be over?" you asked. 

He stayed quiet, staring out the window along with you.

The rain came down. Outside, a woman in a yellow raincoat crossed the parking lot with the determined haste of someone who had underestimated the weather. You watched her make it halfway through the area before the rain slowed to a light drizzle. The small successful drama of it was almost funny.

"Even the rain stops, right?” He finally said, his voice soft but steady. 

You rolled your eyes as you replied, “Quite the observation, genius.” 

He didn't smile. But the line of his mouth had tilted. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The second motel was in a town forty minutes outside Empire Bay called Harwick, with a room with two beds available when you’d arrived.

You'd moved when the roads were quiet with Joe at the wheel. You and Vito sat in the back, not talking much, the city receding behind you with a finality that you didn't entirely trust.

On the third night in Harwick, you woke at two in the morning to the sound of his voice. Low. Careful. 

You lay still in the dark, eyes open, and listened without meaning to.

"— not the way it was supposed to go, Leo. She had nothing to do with this."

A pause.

"I know what I'm telling you. She works the public sessions. She was leaving when I —" Another pause. "It doesn't matter how it happened. What matters is she's here, and it's my fault she's here. I need to know there's a way out of this that doesn't keep her running."

You stared at the window as you lay on your side. The curtain let in a thin line of parking lot light that divided the walls in two.

"A clean out." He waited for the person on the other end of the phone. "I know it takes time. I'm asking you to find it."

His voice dropped lower. You caught fragments of his conversation–unfamiliar names and places strung together in sentences you’d never think to hear. The last thing you heard him say was a plea for a woman he’d just met.

"She didn't ask for this, Leo."

You closed your eyes before he finished the call. You heard him set the phone down. Heard him cross the room, trying not to wake you. He stood near your bed for a moment — you didn't know why, you didn't open your eyes — and then he went back to his bed and lay down, and the room went quiet.

You couldn’t sleep after that, glaring at the line of light on the ceiling as if it could give you some clarity.

Vito was trying to get you out.

You should have been relieved. And you were, for the most part. But a piece of your heart liked being acknowledged, and you were scared to let go of what had begun to feel familiar. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The Capri was the third motel and a diner called Rosie's across the street that became yours. You’d gone there every night since you’d arrived, sitting yourself at a corner booth, being attended by Rosie herself.

You had been moving and hiding and waiting for three weeks, so the little conversations you’d had with the her allowed you to feel like you weren’t completely separated from society. You had read every newspaper and magazine Joe had brought and beaten Vito at cards enough times that he'd stopped suggesting the game before you’d met her, so a change of pace was much needed. You’d been barely managing

It was at there that it happened.

On a Tuesday lunch, Rosie had just refilled your coffee. Vito was sitting across from you, looking at a newspaper, with an attention so unwavering, it excluded the surrounding world. You were writing in a small notebook you'd had in your purse the day the whole ordeal started, one of those tiny personal projects that had survived the upheaval because it lived in your purse and came wherever you did.

You heard the bell above the door and looked up out of habit.

Two men came in wearing familiar black suits and walking as though they owned the room. You looked at Vito with worried eyes. He was already looking at the door over the top of his newspaper.

The men were talking to Rosie, showing her a photograph. You were sure it was either you or Vito in that photo and you only had a few seconds before you’d be caught by Falcone’s men.

Vito folded his newspaper and set it down, understanding the same thing. Before you could realize what was happening, Vito had slid across the booth to sit beside you, took your hand and squeezed it gently. 

"Look at me," he said.

You looked at him. He looked back at you with an expression you had never seen on him before. It held an openness and warmth that almost felt fake if it were on the face of the man you’d met a few weeks ago.

"Laugh," he said, quietly.

"At what."

"At whatever I just said."

"You didn't say anything."

"Pretend I did."

You laughed. It came out more naturally than it should have, some reflex of the absurdity of the instruction combining with the anxiety of the moment.

Rosie said something to the men. She gestured vaguely away from you, toward the other end of the diner.

One of the men turned to scan the room.

Vito's hand tightened on yours. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, attempting to ground you. He said something low and unimportant, something about the weather or the coffee, and you answered it. The words didn't matter. You were just trying your best to be as unremarkable as two people could possibly be.

The men stayed a while longer as they drank coffee at the counter before finally leaving.

You waited until the bell above the door had stopped moving.

Your hand was still in his when he apologized. "Sorry," he said.

"Don't be," you blurted out. Then, in an attempt to regain control of the conversation, you quickly added, "They would’ve caught us otherwise. You did the right thing."

He let go of your hand with a hint of a smile.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Joe had arrived that afternoon with bread, cold cuts and information about the Falcone investigation. His death was blamed on a power struggle within his own organization, allowing you and Vito to remain largely uninvolved to the general public. However, his men still knew the truth. 

After Joe had given his debrief of the recent news, he’d come to speak to you. Without any preamble, he’d immediately launched into talking about how Vito was acting strange because of his lack of proper sleep in recent days. He’d stayed in quite a few terrible places during his tenure in Empire Bay, but something about the stress of being on the run had worsened the strain on his body. 

You couldn’t sleep that night, mulling over Joe’s words as you lay in your bed and listened to Vito faking being asleep. He kept his breathing even and remained still, but you'd been in close quarters with him long enough to know the difference. 

"Vito," you called out in the dark room.

There was no response. His very convincing fake-sleep breathing continued.

"I know you're awake."

A pause. Then a slow sigh. "Yeah."

"That bed’s got a loose spring, doesn’t it?"

"It's fine."

"I sat on it the other day. That thing needs to be in a torture chamber. You can’t possibly be fine."

Silence.

"There's a whole other bed," you said. "It's large too. So much so that I only take up one side of it." A pause of your own. "You've been sleeping on couches and rough beds for three weeks."

"I'm all right."

"You have a bruise on your shoulder from the armrest. I saw it this morning."

With a frustrated huff, he said, "You weren't supposed to see that."

"I have eyes."

There was another silence. Much longer than the ones before. Then you heard the sound of him getting up. Careful footsteps. The other side of the bed dipping under his weight and the mattress shifting around you.

"Top of the covers," you noted.

"Obviously," he said.

The room settled. "Thank you," he quietly whispered after a while. 

"Go to sleep," you said.

He did. You lay on your side of the bed and listened until he remained true to his word. With him resting well, you felt a foreign sense of comfort. As if you’d stopped fighting something you held at bay these past few weeks. You let the calm wash over you as you fell into sleep a few minutes later, not wanting to dwell on your thoughts. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Three days later, he knocked on the bathroom door while you were brushing your teeth.

"Got something to tell you," he said, through the door.

When you came out, he was sitting on the edge of his side of the bed–it had become his side ever since that night. He held a determined expression.

You sat on your side and waited.

"Leo came through," he said.

Leo. The voice on the phone that night, you remembered.

"Okay…" you said, your voice drawing out the word. 

"There's a way out for you." He said it carefully, like he wanted you to believe him. "Your name will no longer be attached to what happened at the observatory. You’ll be able to go home, or wherever you want to go, and none of this follows you."

You quirked your brow, not quite understanding how this was possible.

"And you."

"I’ve overstayed my time in Empire Bay long enough," he said. "I gotta move.” He paused, contemplation clear on his face. You could see he was hesitating from telling you something. 

He finally blurted out, “New Bordeaux."

You'd heard of it. Far south. Far enough to be a different world entirely.

"For how long," you said.

He looked at you with downturned eyes, something adjacent to pity, or perhaps sadness. "It's not a temporary thing."

The room was very quiet. Through the window, the afternoon light came in at a long angle and caught the dust in the air and made it briefly visible, all those particles that were always there and never seen.

You thought about your apartment. The dust it would be covered in by now. There was no easy way of forgetting a person who had become the shape of your days. 

"When?" you asked.

"End of the week," he said. "Joe drives you back Thursday. You go home, you pick up your life."

You nodded. Slowly. You were trying to buy time for your mind to come up with something to say. Anything. To stop him, to figure things out together, to have some say in the matter. But you could only manage to repeat what he’d said. 

"New Bordeaux," you said.

"Yeah."

"Is it —" you searched for the question you were actually asking. "Is it somewhere you can make something. A life."

He was quiet for a moment. Something in him considering the question seriously, like he understood what you were really asking. "I think so," he said. "Starting from scratch, but." He looked at his hands briefly. "Maybe that's not the worst thing."

The afternoon light moved slightly as the sun went behind something outside. The dust disappeared.

"I'm glad…I met you," you said. "That evening. On the road."

He looked up.

"For what it's worth, when you came after me," you clarified. "I'm glad it was you and not —" you stopped. "I'm glad it was you."

He held your gaze. Something crossed his face, as though it were the truest expression of what he felt in that moment.

“Me too.”

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Morning came as if it were a punishment.

Joe was outside with the car. You had your purse, fuller than it had been three weeks ago, stocked with things acquired in pieces along the way. You stood in the room and looked at it one more time: the two sides of the bed, the coffee cups on the table, the window.

Vito was leaning against the doorframe. He'd walked you down and planned on watching you drive away with Joe. And then, he’d eventually make his way south to a city that neither of you had ever seen.

You looked at him. At the bruise that had finally faded. At the line of his jaw and the dark eyes and the expression that he had mostly stopped managing around you. You thought about the feeling of his hand on yours. As if he were begging you to stay with him with a single touch.

You picked up your purse and said, "It’s a small world, and I’ve got Joe’s number."

"Joe," he chuckled with feeling.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed the distance between you. Taking your face in both hands, he pressed his forehead against yours, and you stood like that for a moment.

"Go home," he said. Quiet. Close.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. "New Bordeaux," you said, one more time. Like it was a door held open.

You kissed him once. Then you picked up your purse and walked out into the morning, where Joe was waiting with the engine running and the tactful expression of a man looking anywhere but at the door.

You got in and he pulled the car out of the parking lot.

You didn't look back.

You didn’t have to. The map southward was more than enough to start with.

⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅∙ ∘☽༓☾∘ •⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅

You had been in the country for only a year, but you had learned that the hunger to survive could never leave you, not even after you found it. You’d walked around the boardwalk for three weeks, into every restaurant with an OPEN sign. Benny’s Ristorante Italiano was the last place on your list, and the manager Giuseppe, a heavyset man with exhausted eyes, seemed to be the only one who was willing to give you a chance.

Reciting a sentence in your broken English that you’d been practicing in the mirror a million times to the man, you’d expected him to turn you away immediately. 

“You ever carry six plates at once?” His question had caught you off guard. 

“No,” you replied, feeling as though lying would start you off on the wrong foot. Quickly, you amended, “But I can learn.”

His mouth ticked up ever so slightly into an almost-smile. “You will learn.”

On that day, you’d finally gotten a job. Another step towards happiness.

The next evening, after your first full shift–with aching feet crammed into second-hand shoes that barely fit you and an apron stained with marinara sauce–Giuseppe had told you to ‘take fifteen.’ You stepped out the back door of the restaurant and found yourself on a little strip of boardwalk that ran along the pier. Lighting a cigarette with hands that smelled like garlic and lemon rind, you looked out at the water.

The sun was setting, leaving behind long orange ribbons of light that bled into the sky. Gulls wheeled low over the pier pilings. Somewhere nearby, a radio was playing from an open window. 

You stood there and felt something in your chest loosen, a feeling close to happiness, but not quite settling the same in your heart. You thought, as you often did around this hour, of another shoreline you might never see again. The light was all the same there, as the sun escaped into the horizon. Remembering was the only way you could visit a place you’d once called home. 

You didn’t hear him come up beside you.

“Got a light?”

You turned, startled. A man, maybe in his forties, with dark hair going silver at temples, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the October chill. He held an unlit cigarette between two fingers. 

“Yes,” you said, and held out your lighter.

He cupped his hands around the flame, drew on the cigarette, and exhaled toward the water. 

“You new?” he inquired, nodding faintly to the restaurant behind. 

“Is it that obvious?” You let out an awkward chuckle, not knowing how to push the conversation forward. Your exhaustion was starting to get the better of you, but you still wanted to remain polite.

Thankfully for you, he commented, “Pretty sky tonight.”

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is.”

There was nothing more to be said. When he finished his cigarette, he thanked you for the light and went back the way he’d come. You stayed a little while longer, relishing the sun’s warmth until darkness had completely settled in. 

You’d thought nothing of the exchange until you met him at the same spot the next evening.

And then the one after that.

By the end of your first week working at the restaurant, you stopped being surprised when you saw him lean against the railing by the boardwalk when you came for your breaks. 

He never asked for a light again; he had his own matches after that day. But he’d acknowledge you with a nod when you approached. You’d stand a companionable distance apart and talk. At first it was regarding small things–the weather, a strange customer, the seagulls. 

Vito had told you a story about one of the gulls. He was notorious for strutting around the pier like he owned the place. Any poor soul who got near the beast would learn their lesson real quick. 

He never really talked about himself, only unrelated subjects like that.

It wasn’t until your fifth day on the job that you learned his name. Giuseppe had stuck his head out the back door and said, “Vito, Leo’s on the line for you.” 

Vito had gone into the diner muttering something under his breath. He walked inside broad-shouldered, his expression unwavering, but he glanced back at you with an apologetic look. 

You’d asked him the next day, “You own this place?”

He pursed his lips before admitting, “Yeah.”

“You didn’t say.” Your eyebrows furrowed a bit. You weren’t as shocked at the revelation as you should’ve been. Vito looked the part with his head always held high and a tendency to wear durable clothes. 

You had a feeling he never intended for you to find out. For even after you knew, your dynamic didn’t change much. If anything, it made you more curious about him, because a man who owned a restaurant like Benny’s chose to spend his evenings on a splintering pier with the new waitress. 

By the second week, you started timing yourself so that you’d cross paths around the same time. 

Sometime that week, you’d stayed up at night, lying on your narrow bed in a cramped apartment above a shoe repair shop, listening to the pipes groan in the wall. You’d started nurturing the thought that he might like you. The idea sat strangely in your chest, as you contemplated your interactions. What other reason would he have to stand by that railing and smoke at the same hour for two weeks? But then–maybe you already fit into his routine and not the other way around. Perhaps it was all a coincidence. 

You turned over on the bed, but the thought wouldn’t leave your mind. 

If anything, in the following days, the idea grew even more burdensome. The fact that it had become even easier to talk to him did you no favors.

You hadn’t realized, until Vito, how long it had been since you’d had a real conversation with anyone in this foreign land. Something beyond clipped exchanges about ordering food, asking for directions, or explaining your accent. With Vito, you found yourself talking about how the ocean smelled different in New Bordeaux than it did back home, and how you still woke up disoriented some mornings, momentarily certain you were somewhere you hadn't lived in years.

The words simply kept flowing when you were in Vito’s presence, allowing you to reveal thoughts you’d otherwise kept hidden in your heart to fester. He listened, intently and almost as though he understood some part of your pain. 

He gave less of himself in return, but not nothing. You learned over the weeks that he’d grown up far from New Bordeaux. That he had a loving mother and a sister. How he’d been born in Italy, and only went back to fight in a war he never wanted any part in. He didn’t talk about what he’d done there, or his time in America. He never spoke about his life directly, only through memory, like the way the backfire of a passing truck could still make his shoulders tense.

“You lose people,” he said once as you both watched the gulls eating breadcrumbs. “War’s got a talent for isolating you. Even when you think you’ve escaped it.” He didn’t elaborate, and you found no need to push.

You thought about him more than you meant to, in the hours you weren’t working. Not with the giddiness of a girl with a crush–you were much beyond that now–but with the mind of a woman curious to understand someone so much like her in every other way. You wondered what he looked like when he was younger. Who his friends were. What he’d act like. Would he have paid you any mind if you’d met a few years before?

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Vito hadn’t meant for it to become a habit. Yet, every evening he found himself walking out to the same stretch of railing at the same hour, as though the reason for it was still in question.

He knew why. There was something in the way you held your cigarette and watched the sunset like it might not rise again tomorrow, that reminded him of a past he was trying to forget. 

Joe used to stand like that, hiding his sorrows with a faint smile. His best friend, who used to tell him to ‘live a little,’ as though tomorrow wasn’t promised. Of course, Joe took that to mean more booze and babes, but Vito was starting to understand his philosophy in another light. 

And Henry.

Henry didn’t last long, but for the time that Vito did know him, the man knew how to live to the fullest. The three of them were like three peas in a pod, until he died. Until the whole mess in Empire Bay began. Until remnants of the war finally caught up to Vito–the reality that men like him would always stay fighting or running. 

As soon as he’d come to New Bordeaux, Vito buried himself in piles of work on behalf of the Commission. It was easier to forget the life he could’ve lived than feel the pain of loss. Yet, you seemed to surface that feeling every time he saw your face. He saw the pain you harbored. And when you spoke of your home like it was a broken paradise lost, all he could do was look within himself.

But you weren’t all bad. You’d come to remind him of the good parts of himself that he’d hidden as well. The taste of the good life he was promised when he came home from the war. 

It was easy to talk to you. Easier than keeping his thoughts stuck in the back of his head. He gave you snippets of his life, because some nights, standing beside you while the light went down over the water, he thought that maybe he didn’t need to carry everything weighing him down alone. 

He wasn’t sure yet what he wanted from those fifteen minutes you’d spend together. He only knew that he’d started arranging his whole evening around them without meaning to. Giuseppe was the first to notice the change in his attitude.

The manager had even commented, “You got a girlfriend already, and you don’t even take her to dinner someplace nice. Just stand out by the water like a couple of degenerates.”

Vito didn’t correct the man, which was like an answer to his confusion. Maybe he did know what he wanted. 

After a month, the sun went down that evening like it had the first day you’d met. With hues of orange bleeding into the sky like fire. You stood by the railing beside him, cigarette burning down between your fingers, and asked him about the man he talked about more than himself–Joe.

He was quiet long enough that you thought he wouldn’t answer.

“He was a friend,” Vito finally said. “A good friend.” He looked out at the water, at the dying orange and gold light by the horizon, and felt a semblance of peace. 

You simply smiled, taking his answer as a sign he trusted you, if only just a little. For the first time since you’d come to New Bordeaux, you’d found a chance of a better future at last.

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A/N: I hope I did this request justice! I've got one more request to finish, so stay tuned for another Vito story (hopefully soon).

As always, I'm open to more requests for Vito!

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You came down the stairs in the morning, expecting to walk around the same empty house you lived in for months. Instead, he was there, looking at you as you came down the steps. You couldn’t meet his gaze. 

You brushed past him and beelined for the door. Perhaps you’d get some peace of mind in the kitchen where you were volunteering. As you walked, you mulled over what Vito had proposed earlier that day. He had seemed sincere when he’d claimed he wouldn’t hurt you. That you were a team. 

Then there was also the Galante problem. You’d missed your routine call to him last night, leaving you with a very small window to decide which side you’d choose. The obvious answer seemed to be Vito, but something about him still bothered you. 

You’d never exactly been double-crossed in your tenure as Galante’s secretary, but there were plenty of times when you felt as though the fine print had been lost on you. With men in the organization you married into, there was always something to miss. 

When you finally arrived at the establishment, you quickly grabbed an apron. Loretta, your boss, took one look at you and pointed at the onions. 

“Chop,” she said.

Grabbing the knife, you began chopping up the red onions at your area. As the knife went up and down, cutting through the layers of skin, you could only imagine whether things would be better off if you moved the knife a few inches closer. Perhaps in another life, things could be better. Perhaps you wouldn’t be tied up in dangerous schemes. Perhaps–

“You look like you just had a swim in the river,” Loretta remarked from the stove. 

“Thank you,” you answered with a hint of annoyance in your tone. You knew she didn’t actually mean it, and you didn’t care enough to grace her with a reaction. 

“The husband still showing up on that bench? God, it’s like you got a leash on him or something.”

You chuckled at her joke before replying, “I think it’s the other way around.”

She raised an eyebrow at you. “You see my man outside?”

You looked past her and out the window. The street was clear, save for a few passersby. Shaking your head, she continued, “I’ve seen plenty of men. As far as I can tell, you’ve earned yourself a real catch.”

You groaned. You weren’t oblivious to the looks Vito would get when you were out of the house with him. He was handsome. That seemed to be just about the only marker for men these days. 

“Sure, a catch,” you retorted. 

“What I mean is that he’s one of those brooding types. All action, little emotion. As much as you think otherwise, it’s pretty obvious he loves you. The question is, do you think it’s enough?”

You stayed silent, hands completely still. 

“Since you’re done with the onions, start the broth,” Loretta ordered, leaving the kitchen as she left the room.

Four hours later, you stepped out of the kitchen to streets bathed with the golden light of a setting sun. You still hadn’t reached a verdict in your choice between Vito and Galante, now left with Loretta’s words to contemplate as well. 

You walked down the same path you always took, stopping by the bridge above the river that runs through all of New Bordeaux. Leaning against the railing as you watched the sunset, you felt a presence linger behind you.

“You made your decision?” The deep voice was a familiar one. 

You sighed. “No.”

He came beside you, face illuminated by the orange light. You turned to look at Vito as he stared at the water below. Though the way the light hit his face accentuated his sharp features, it made you feel softer. He wasn’t some God, nor a fallen angel. Vito Scaletta was as human as anyone. 

“Can I ask you something?” You began, still looking at him. His head didn’t turn as they nodded.  “How did you end up here?”

He paused, thinking. “I was lost, and I thought I’d find peace in fighting…against the world, in an army, on the streets. Instead, I got a slap on the wrist and nightmares I ain’t ever recovering from.”

He finally turned to you. His face was the most relaxed it had ever been, as if the words he’d just spoken had freed him. “Your turn? How’d a broad like you find herself here?”

Your eyes met his. You had a million answers to his simple question. You could tell him that knowledge is a curse, and the mere fact that you had overheard Galante talking to his colleague had reduced your life to nothing more than a possession. That being a woman is what guaranteed your ticket to a living hell since the day you were born. That life was simply unfair, and you had lost that lottery.

“I don’t know,” you finally answered. “But what I do know is that I was mad. I’ve been angry all this time, and I thought it was because of you, but now–”

You couldn’t finish the thought, but Vito seemed to understand exactly what you meant. You’d seen that same anger in him at the wedding. 

He stepped closer to you, your faces only inches apart. A gentle hand caressed your face and brushed back some of your hair. Your breath hitched at the warmth of his palm on your jaw. 

When he was this close to you, all you could do was stare. He didn’t look like a monster. Sure as hell didn’t carry himself like one either. He was beautiful, and he had the most calming voice you’d ever heard. And when he wasn’t squinting or frowning, he looked otherworldly. Like a dream come true. 

You were scared. Your heart beat quicker and quicker with every second. You sucked your breath in, your lips agape. Your stomach felt like it was doing somersaults. For the first time in months, you were finally honest with yourself. You wanted to trust Vito, and now maybe you could. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

When you finally made it home with Vito, you headed straight for the phone. Your call to Galante was long overdue. 

Vito had parted ways with you at the door, heading to the office. He trusted you, even when you hadn’t told him what you had decided. You were a team after all.

The phone rang twice before someone picked it up on the other end. 

“I was beginning to wonder,” Galante said. His voice was hollower than usual. He was suspicious of your late reply. 

You kept your voice steady as you replied, telling him a story you’d rehearsed in your head the whole walk over. Galante just needed to know that Vito was following orders, so you told the man exactly what you’d seen. Omitting a few unnecessary details, such as the fact that Vito now knew he was being spied on, you gave a report just like you always did.

When the conversation finally finished, Galante seemed to believe you were just late to reply. 

Finally putting the phone down after twenty painful minutes, you breathed a sigh of utmost relief. You’d all but collapsed on the floor from the stress that seemed to vanish in that moment.

You were safe. And you had an ally now. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Vito kept his word in the weeks that followed your confrontation. 

He’d started teaching himself how to cook in secret, eventually surprising you with an entire meal on the dinner table when you’d come home from Warm Hearts one day. You’d begun to get to know him better as you struck up conversation whenever you were together. You’d learned who Vito really was through the small things he let slip. You didn’t quite care for all the things he didn’t tell you, for that didn’t matter. 

Slowly, you integrated into each other’s lives. 

What really sealed the deal was the day Vito had come to be early. You had rarely seen him at night, for he’d either always be out or wait for you to fall asleep before resting beside you. It was a habit he struggled to break. 

But tonight, he wanted to change things. He’d changed into some comfortable clothes and stepped into the bedroom with tired shoulders, as you were already in bed, reading some book Loretta had recommended. 

The lamp on your nightstand illuminated the room, albeit barely. You watched as he made his way slowly to his side of the bed and simply sat, contemplating something. His forehead was creased, and his face was all scrunched up. 

Looking up from your book, you took pity on the man. He had been trying to be a better husband these past few weeks. It was about time you met him halfway. 

Setting the novel down on the wooden nightstand beside you, you leaned toward Vito. Your hands found his back and traced his spine all the way up to his neck. You could feel him shiver under your touch, but he never pulled away. 

One hand rubbed at his shoulders while the other wrapped around his torso, pulling him closer to you. Vito gave in to your light tug, almost collapsing on your body. You could feel his shoulders slowly relax as you worked at them. His eyes started to lid, until they finally closed. 

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He was yours, more than you were ever his. His gestures, his efforts, they were stepping stones–you’d work your way to love, but for now, this was enough. Him sleeping beside you, trusting you, and you doing the very same. 

“I love you,” you whispered in his ear. 

Though he was pretending to be asleep, his lips twitched into the faintest of smiles.

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A/N: This was a shorter chapter than I usually write, but hopefully it makes for a satisfying conclusion. The last few weeks have been quite interesting for me, so I hadn't found the time to write until yesterday.

Lmk what y'all think of the story! And as always, I'm open to requests for Vito (though they might take some time to write).

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You focused on your steps when you finally got up again. You'd only sat for a few minutes, mustering your strength after the adrenaline wore off. Your cuts and bruises had started to sting, and the beat of your heart remained unsteady. You counted your steps in an attempt to forget about the man behind you and the cramp in your leg.

The cold night air swept past you as you got to the clearing with the abandoned buildings. Damp from sprinting through the undergrowth and thin, the jacket did little to keep you warm. Your whole body shivered with each step, hands shaking almost uncontrollably as you held them close to your chest.

Your teeth gritted and kept walking despite it all. You refused to show Chris that you were weak.

Perhaps it was stupid to feign strength, especially when it was obvious how much you were struggling to walk back to camp in this condition. But then again, there was a difference between being seen trying and being seen suffering. At least now, you knew he wouldn't test you any more than he already had.

Chris trailed behind you the entire way back down the path to the village. When you finally arrived at your building, you worked at the jammed doorknob and pushed it open with a creak. You weren't about to let him inside just yet, so you quickly stepped across the threshold and shut the door. Since the lock was still broken, you dragged a nearby chair and leaned it against the doorknob.

Standing by the door, you could hear Chris approach. His footsteps fell heavy, even against the backdrop of the sounds of the jungle at night. Then he knocked gently. You could hear a foot tapping against dirt on the other side. He was anxious.

You eyed the door. Then you headed to the bedroom and lay down on the mat. Your body sank into the shallow foam as you curled into yourself. He wasn't worth an ounce more of energy.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You heard the knock at first light. It was sloppy and quite loud, as if someone had been banging on the door for a while.

Truth be told, you were already awake and munching away at some of the food you'd collected earlier when you'd heard him. You thought you'd finish your breakfast before confronting the strange man, but clearly he thought otherwise.

You were sitting at the dining table just beside the door, taking a bite from your rations, when he knocked even louder. Now that you weren't exhausted and had cleaned up your wounds as best you could, you were trying your best to figure out what to do next. Yet, you hadn't been able to think at all as you ate. The sound had started to get on your nerves the more he did it.

"I know you're awake," he said through the door.

Chewing your last bite, you stared off into space. You had to stay calm and composed if your conversation with him was going to be productive. You needed to know more about him–why he was here, what he was doing, how–

"I'm not leaving," he said.

You were huffing in frustration when you finally arose from your seat. Ever so slowly, you opened the door and leaned against its frame. He stopped himself mid-movement when he realized his fist would be meeting you instead of the door.

"We need to talk," he began, turning his back to you.

"Oh, do we?" First, he spends the better half of the morning annoying you and now he won't look at you? Two could play at that game. "About what?" you continued taunting.

You could hear him sigh. "You think this is a game?"

"Might as well be."

"We–"

"–We what? I don't know why you're here, or who you even are. For all I care, you could be a part of Umbrella. Maybe you've gone rogue. So until I get my answers, you're on your own." You interrupted.

Looking past him, you saw a tent with an unlit fire-pit beside it. There was a duffel bag and a cot under the tent. Clearly, he knew what he was doing. He didn't need you as far as you could tell. But the fact that he was still playing along with you meant you had something he wanted. That was your leverage, and you were about to use the hell out of it.

"I already told you, my name is Chris."

"Is a name what defines someone?" You didn't think so. After all, you didn't need to know your name to know you liked fruits and had an undying hatred for Umbrella. To know that you could survive a jungle and toy with a stranger. To know you were alive.

You continued, "Why are you here?"

He turned around to face you again. "Curiosity."

"Bullshit. Curiosity doesn't make you pack enough gear to last a few weeks in the wild."

"Maybe not for you." He had a knack for getting on your nerves. He continued, "What about you? 21 Questions goes both ways, y'know."

"Same. I'm curious."

Chris had inched closer, towering over you despite the doorframe being elevated from the ground. You stared straight into his eyes, ignoring the gun holstered at his side. "What's your stake in Umbrella? Why are they after you?"

"I broke in," you said flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You could see the skepticism in his eyes. He knew you weren't telling him everything, but he found no need to pry. "What did you find in the facility?"

You took a breath. You had to give something to get something. "Maintenance logs. They have an underground level in the facility and four labs, as far as I could tell. I don't know what they're doing there, though."

He turned his head to the side, thinking.

You took his silence as an opportunity. You eyed the gun, trying to see if you could grab it. He turned back to you before you could act. Momentarily taken aback, you chose to cover up your thoughts with another question. "Your turn. What do you know?"

"Nothing." Liar, you thought. But you couldn't voice your concern. Your mortality seemed to become more and more apparent as the days passed, and your leverage was already running out.

Contemplating your discoveries, Chris walked back to his camp. You saw no need to stay outside any longer. You quickly shut your door and paced inside.

The camp Chris had set up looked to be too sturdy to have been done haphazardly. This was a practiced skill he had. He was trained in this sort of thing–surviving strange situations. Maybe he was a soldier. That didn't ease your agitation at all. From what you'd seen at the facility and what little you remembered of Wesker, Umbrella trained men to be soldiers. What if he was undercover? Sent to disarm and lure you into the facility, like you were some beast that needed taming.

You needed to know more about Chris.

A few hours after your conversation with him, you finally heard silence. Sure, the jungle always had some ambient sounds about it, but this sort of silence was different. You couldn't hear footsteps or shuffling outside. No huffs of frustration or exasperated sighs. Glancing through the window by the door, you saw that Chris was no longer at the camp.

You were sure that this was some sort of trap. What kind of guy would just leave his stuff with a stranger he didn't trust? Unless…he thought you were harmless.

That notion boiled your blood.

You slowly stepped outside, carefully opening the door so it wouldn't creak. Then you took cautious steps toward his tent, turning your head around the observable area to see if he was nearby. When the coast looked to be clear, you managed your way into the encampment.

The zip of his tent was already open. The duffel bag looked brand new, and the cot looked barely worn-out. He definitely bought these items recently. You inched toward the duffel bag. Unzipping it you saw neatly folded clothes on one side, and supplies on the other. Water, rations, and more ammunition than you would need for a simple handgun.

Underneath the ammo was something folded and thin. The paper seemed to have seen hell in the condition it was in, and yet it was still intact. You took it out, hands feeling the soft material.

It was a photo of a group of twelve people standing in front of a helicopter, clad in tactical gear and all holding guns. The faces were mostly blurry except for two people in the bottom row. The woman, the only one it seemed, was brunette and had a pretty face. Beside her, you saw someone familiar. Squinting your eyes to make sure you were seeing right, you realized it was Chris.

This was Chris' team. And with the woman beside him, you couldn't help but imagine if she were important to him. Like a partner, or something more. Whoever these people were, they had to mean a lot for Chris to keep a photo of them and no one else.

You turned the image to see something written in pen: S.T.A.R.S. –– Alpha Team.

Chris was part of an operation with a team. He probably had military experience with the way he'd been acting. But that led you to the question of the hour. What was his operation? Against Umbrella, or for it?

You quickly put the photograph back where you found it and zipped up the bag. Walking back to the building you'd come to call home, your mind could only focus on Chris.

What if his team was on the island too? That would render you obsolete, useless, a liability if nothing else. He would kill you if he knew where the rest of his team was.

You had to get into Umbrella and steal their boats quickly. Otherwise, they wouldn't be your only problem.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You were stretching your legs outside the building by taking a walk around the village when you smelled something sweet. You turned your head to face where the delicious smell was coming from.

Ripe fruit, much like the ones you stole from the facility, was tucked in the crook of Chris' arm as he walked back to his camp. He had a funny smirk on his face, like he knew your hunger would betray your distrust of him. As much as you hated to admit it, he was right.

"Found these up the ridge," he began. "There's a whole grove."

He held one piece out. You looked at it, attempting to stop yourself from giving in to the temptation. Your stomach spoke for you. Your hands twitched as you looked back up at him with a scrutinizing gaze.

"Let's talk. Properly this time." He offered.

You greedily snatched the fruit from him. "Fine."

"First things first. What do I call you?" You didn't really know how to answer that. What do you call yourself?

You could give him a fake name, but how many names did you really know? How many names would make sense, and how many names would leave him skeptical?

You'd be labeling yourself with whatever you said. It had to mean something. So you searched your mind for the first thing that made sense. The name you gave him felt unfamiliar to your brain, but was almost practiced on your tongue. Maybe what you thought you remembered was right–not that you had any way of knowing. But what you did offer felt good enough for now.

"My turn. What do you want from this place?" You paused before adding, "Don't bullshit me with some vague answer."

He looked at the ground, and through gritted teeth, he conceded, "Information. I just want to know what Umbrella's up to, and stop it."

He seemed determined, like what he told you was the truth. Or maybe he was just a convincing actor. You preferred believing the latter option, but you hoped he wasn't lying.

He continued, "And what about you, mystery girl? What do you want from this place?"

"To leave." And to get some answers. But that wasn't necessary for him to know.

"How'd you end up here if you didn't want to be?" His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "And why are you so wary of Umbrella?"

"I think you answered your own question there." He gave you a pointed look.

You sighed. "Shipwreck landed me on this stupid island. As for Umbrella, I'll only tell my story if you say yours first."

"Touche." He chuckled. The sound was so strange. Alien almost. You couldn't remember what happiness sounded like as far back as you could remember, even if it was born from something as dry as his version of a joke.

You didn't reciprocate. Instead, you announced, "So we both need to break into that facility to get what we need."

"Exactly why we should be allies."

You weren't opposed to the idea of using him. You were simply scared he'd use you, too. Oh, what the hell. Things couldn't get much worse than this.

You continued conversing with Chris about the facility. Details about the guard's patterns, how far the perimeter stretched, and so on. Chris, on the other hand, gave you his observations from the ridge–the best way to enter and where the less guarded areas were.

The more you talked to him, the less sharp his eyes became. Like he no longer saw you as a threat and more so as something else. Something delicate and fragile. You hated it. You hated him. And yet, you needed him to get out of here.

In about a week, you'd be out of here and away from all this. That was what you kept chanting to yourself as you looked at him. You just needed to bide your time.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Mid-afternoon, the rain had started. Water fell between the leaves and started to flood the ground. The wind had started to pick up, tearing small plants from their roots as they flung into the air. The storm had started slowly with a drizzle. Yet, the rainfall worsened with every hour.

You were sitting at your table, listening to the cacophony of sounds outside. You did not think about the fact that Chris was outside in this mess. Maybe, a fleeting thought did wander in your mind, but you brushed it off.

You listened as the wind whistled and pounded against the windows you had sealed. Light barely shone through the cracks of space under your door and between the wooden barriers at the window. Dusk was passing.

Huffing in frustration, you opened the door.

Chris was under the eave overhang, which had kept him partially dry. His thick jacket was dark with water from the shoulders back. He looked at you when the door opened, with a slight surprise painted on his face.

"You can come in," you said. "Until it stops."

He picked up his duffel bag and came in. You stepped back to give him room to enter. As he walked inside, you observed him taking stock of the room. His eyes wandered from the partially populated shelves in the kitchen to the mats in the bedroom.

He set his bag on the dining table as you closed the door and shoved a chair by the handle. "There's food on the shelves. Don't touch anything else."

He nodded in acknowledgment.

You retreated to the bedroom, lying on your back on the mattress and staring at the ceiling.

By nightfall, the rain and wind had turned into something monstrous. There was a torrential downpour outside, and the wind had reached speeds that felt like they could form a tornado. The house remained standing, probably built for this kind of weather.

The first roll of thunder was what really set you off. You counted the seconds between the lightning and thunder, remembering something from a distant memory. You didn't know what the numbers and they didn't calm you either. It felt stupid to be scared of a sound. And yet, here you were.

You pressed the back of your hand to your sternum and felt your own heartbeat, hoping that feeling its movement would help your unease. Then the thunder came again, much louder. You got up.

When you walked out of the bedroom, you were met with the sight of Chris hunched over the dinner table. He wasn't sleeping or eating. Simply sitting there with a notebook open and writing in it. He looked up when you came.

You went to the shelves in the kitchen, attempting to ignore him. You didn't really have an appetite, but maybe eating a little could help with your agitation.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked as you reached for a can of something.

"Just hungry," you lied.

When you had the can in your hand, lightning came through the covered window as a flat white smear. Two seconds later, a sound cracked the silence, harsher than the thunder you'd started to grow accustomed to. You dropped the can.

It hit the floor and rolled under the shelf. You crouched down to get it with shaky hands. Your breath grew unsteady. You were furious at yourself for having dropped food for no reason.

"Hey," Chris said. His voice wasn't as harsh as it had been earlier.

"I'm fine," you replied. You spoke more to yourself than to him.

Finally retrieving the can, you stood up and set it back on the shelf. Then you looked back to the gap in the window where the white smear came from. You stared at it, and a strange feeling built up in your chest. You were scared you might see the lightning through the crack again.

You knew it was irrational. You knew that.

The lighting came again. Exactly in the gap between the board and the window frame. But beyond the light, you saw something else. A shape, almost like a shadow you had seen before. Though it was only for a few seconds, you could have sworn that something was walking around outside.

There was no light inside the building save for some candles you'd lit. When thunder came again, all the candles seemed to have lost their fire. In the darkness, you turned to make out where Chris was.

"There's something outside," you announced. You kept your voice hushed, just loud enough for the man a few feet away from you to hear.

You heard him put down his pen. "It's a storm."

"No," you took a moment to consider your words. "There's something at the window."

A pause. "You probably saw a branch."

"I know what a branch looks like." Your voice came out surprisingly steady. "Whatever's out there was not a branch."

You could hear him mutter something under his breath to dismiss you. When you didn't move or show any sign of conceding from your stance, he begrudgingly closed his notebook and pushed his chair away from the table. Then he made his way to you. Standing right beside you, he looked through the gap.

The lightning came again. But nothing was there this time, only the tree line, rain, and silhouettes of flying leaves.

"I swear there was something there," you pushed.

He looked at the window for another moment before turning to face you. You could barely make out his eyes in the darkness, but you knew they were staring into you. Assessing you. You knew how crazy you sounded.

"You need to sit down," he commanded. You didn't appreciate his tone, nor the hand at your back, pushing you forward.

"I'm fine, Chris."

"I know." He didn't say it in a sarcastic tone. "Sit down anyway."

You begrudgingly sat down, led by his hand to the table. Your arms were crossed over your chest, your body having grown cold from being near the window.

Chris sat in the chair beside you. He reached behind him, unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair, and draped it around your shoulder. The jacket was still a little damp, but the lining was warm. It was helping a little. You pulled it tighter around you.

He said something. His voice was low, and you couldn't discern the words; they faded into the sounds of the jungle. You didn't really care to hear. You kept your eyes on the gap in the window.

The lightning and thunder no longer felt heavy on you, and as your mind lightened, your eyes seemed to close. You tilted your head and found some soft surface to lean against. You had a feeling your head was on Chris with the way you could hear his heartbeat quicken. Or perhaps that was your imagination as well.

Maybe there was nothing outside.

Though you still didn't trust him, there was no point in pushing him away. Tonight, you didn't care about that. Tonight, you just needed to sleep.

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When you woke up, the chair beside you was empty.

Some light filtered through the window boards. The storm had moved on sometime in the night.

Your neck ached from the angle you'd been sleeping at. But at least you felt warm, with Chris' jacket still around your shoulders. When you finally gained consciousness, you folded the jacket up and left it on the dining table.

You had just walked to the door when it opened. Neither of you said anything, simply looked at each other.

He eventually broke the silence as he made his way to his duffel bag, "Ready?"

Today, you'd planned on heading back to the Umbrella facility. Perhaps in daylight, you'd fare a better chance of breaking in.

"Let's go."

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The boat wasn’t built for open water. Chris had rented it from a man at a fuel dock in California who had accepted his cash without any questions. The boat had a shallow draft, a single outboard engine, and a canvas cover over the stern that kept most of the ocean spray off. Or at least, that’s what the man had told him. Chris had been drenched in the seaspray for most of three days. 

The shipping manifest he carried contained pertinent information to his investigation. There were refrigerated cases of some virus headed to a private marine survey station. The manifest listed the coordinates to their location. 

He’d found the ship, a mid-sized cargo vessel called the Orient Carrier, through three weeks of going rogue after the Raccoon City incident had transpired. He’d initially set his sights on investigating Umbrella at their headquarters in Europe, but when an anonymous tip had led him to a whole host of sketchy activity, Chris thought that this detour would be necessary. 

The horizon revealed something on the starboard side. He cut the engine and drifted for a moment, watching. He picked up his binoculars. 

It was an island, standing exactly where the manifest coordinates pointed. It was remote enough not to attract too much attention, and just large enough to hide something like an Umbrella facility. Chris couldn’t see much other than the general shape of the land mass and the perimeters of its dense forest.

He put down the binoculars and sat with the sight for a moment. He had no plan beyond simply investigating what exactly Umbrella was doing here. They could be expecting him, or have security precautions for curious folk like him. Without a team or any sort of backup, he’d be walking straight into a trap for all he knew. 

He started the engine again and took a wide arc around the island’s coast, staying far enough out that the engine noise wouldn’t alert the ship already anchored there. His eyes couldn’t make out anything past a few feet through the forest. He had to go on foot.

Bringing the boat to a secluded area, he killed the engine and let the current carry him in toward land. He paddled the remaining stretch to a rock section. Pulling the boat between two rock formations, he covered the vehicle with the canvas and began trekking past the beach and into the tree line. 

Boots crushed wet leaves as he walked through the greenery. He used what little light he could get from the canopy to orient himself, moving at a slow but quiet pace. He needed to be careful, to cover his tracks lest he get caught.

Twenty minutes into his hike, he found tracks. Two footsteps–one with a clear print, while the other was smudged. Almost as if the foot was being dragged. The hole that the prints left behind was unusually deep, like something larger than a human had left them. He didn’t spend too long wondering what it could be. It wouldn’t change where he was headed.

He was met with a ridge further ahead. Climbing up it, he was able to have a clear view of the entire Umbrella facility below. It was a compound with the main structure built into the cliff face and a series of outbuildings arranged surrounding it. From what he could discern, Chris identified where the generator running the facility’s power was and what looked like a loading bay where most of the supplies were stored. 

The generator emitted a low hum that echoed through the area. The lights were on in each of the windows. And people were walking about the facility decked in some sort of armor. 

Umbrella was definitely conducting some sort of operations here. 

Chris found a position at the root of a large tree that overlooked the edge of the ridge and settled in, watching the facility till sunset. He watched the guards, kept track of when they moved. Keeping at his observations till sunset, Chris was able to figure out part of their rotation schedules. 

With his functioning analog watch, he realized that at six a.m., there was a two-man sweep of the perimeter, followed by another one twelve hours later. Within the twelve-hour period, a single guard remained stationed at the main entrance, and another one on the loading bay. Through the windows, he’d see maybe one or two shadows cross every few hours.

Either they were understaffed, they weren’t expecting trouble, or they knew exactly how to dispose of any strangers. 

But learning their security movements only scratched the surface. 

He had no idea what they were actually doing there. Creating new viruses perhaps, or upgrading them. Maybe this was a test site. 

He shook his head, not wanting to get too wrapped up in his thoughts, lest the memory of Spencer’s mansion come back. The betrayal, the suffering, he couldn’t succumb to it again. 

From below him, further down the ridge, he’d noticed some sort of village area. He hadn’t paid it much mind earlier, but from the corner of his eye, he swore he saw something move. It wasn’t a security guard or a strange creature; it looked absolutely human. 

Chris went still and listened–not that he actually expected to hear anything. Whatever it was, it had gone quiet. It might have looked human, but he knew better than to judge a book by its cover. Perhaps it was an experiment, or someone to betray him again, like Wesker.

Camped in a hollow on the slope with his back against the tree, Chris opened his notebook. 

The facility was a significant operation, bigger than the shipping manifest had led him to believe. 

He flipped to a fresh page and began writing down his thoughts. Something terrible was happening here if it involved Umbrella. This secrecy and this scale were unparalleled by what he’d encounter at Spencer mansion, and that place had been a shitshow. Imagine what horrors a secret island would unfold.

After he finished scribbling down his notes, Chris sat in the dark and ate half a protein bar. Listening to the sounds of the jungle, he felt the briefest sensation of respite. 

For the first time in months, he finally had some sort of direction. Something to point his frustration and rage toward. Something he could finish without endangering anyone else. This would be both his redemption and revenge–finding whatever was in this Umbrella facility. 

He thought back to the figure he’d seen lurking below. That was his only lead. 

In the morning, he’d visit the village. Perhaps someone was still there who could help him. Best-case scenario: it was a survivor. Worst case: it was probably a tyrant. Either way, he’d be ready. 

He didn’t need to think about death any longer. He fell asleep, letting himself drown in the sounds of life all around him. 

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You’d finally mustered the courage to leave the building after the second night with no encounters with the shadowy thing. You’d figured that it was either a one-off experience or it had probably lost interest in you.

There was also the problem of your dwindling food supply. The shack had enough canned goods for maybe another day or two, but even that timeline was stretching it. By the looks of things, you would be here for a while longer, and that would mean you'd have to find a food supply soon.

Either way, you had to leave the makeshift home sometime.

As you trekked out of the village, you'd used the map as your guide. Perhaps the markings on the paper meant signs of life? Or maybe, game that you could attempt to kill and cook. It was a good a lead as any, so you carefully trekked back into the jungle.

The hairs on the back of your neck were raised as soon as you entered. You feared that the shadowy figure might return, or that something worse might be waiting for you somewhere in the dense forest.

The undergrowth was quite thick. You didn't have a hatchet to cut through the leaves and thin cluster of branches that often blocked your path, so you had to divert from your route quite a few times.

The sun was barely visible through the canopy, peaking through with shards of light pointing at fragments of the ground. You didn't have a compass to guide you, nor could you use the sun to gain a sense of direction. After a few hours of navigating the jungle, having seen no structure or form of life beyond that of insects, you conceded that you were hopelessly lost.

Just as you let yourself sit against a tree, slumping your back against it in defeat, you heard it. A hum. Not that of a bird, but of something man-made. A machine. A machine.

No machine belonged in an unpopulated jungle.

Your body tensed at the realization. It had to be Umbrella's.

If you were right, then the X's marked on the map wouldn't have been hot spots for local animals. No, they had to be where Umbrella was stationed.

This was your chance to be free from them. To remain on the island indefinitely and hide in plain sight. You could steal supplies from boats that came through and live like that. But then again, there was a reason that village was abandoned. Umbrella had to have either killed those residents or forced them to move. It would only be a matter of time before you were caught.

Plus, you couldn't live in fear every waking moment of your life. You needed answers and some semblance of assurance that you could be free.

You rose to your feet, your hardened clothes crinkling as you stood.

You could follow the sound. And maybe–just maybe–you could find a way to safety.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ You'd found something that day: a building guarded by five guards at the front gate. Though it wasn't much, it was a telling discovery nonetheless.

Walking around the perimeter of the front gate, you managed to find a temporarily absent camp just outside. They had a container with all kinds of food inside. There were snacks like chips, fresh fruits you'd never seen before, and whole meals in plastic containers. Though you knew they wouldn't last as long as the canned food you'd found, these were more than enough to keep you satiated for a day or two longer.

Grabbing as many foods as you could, you stuffed them in a makeshift sling made from your jacket. Tying the bag to your back, you made the trek back to the village to indulge in those delights.

That night, you had a feast like no other. Fresh fruit was a pleasure you had never realized before. The taste of something so sweet and juicy lingered on your tongue long after you'd finished eating, staying there till morning when you had your first sip of water.

Your mouth watered at the thought of eating more. So you went back to the building, searching the same camp for some more fruit. To your disappointment, nothing seemed to be restocked. The container was just as empty as you had left it the day before.

Frowning, you realized that the fruit might have been a bit too addictive. It had veered you off your initial course.

You studied the closed gate from your position at the camp.

Umbrella was guarding something. If it took as much security as you'd seen, then it had to be something dangerous. Something they were either testing or couldn't afford to get out. The fact that they brought in supplies via ship, like the one you had sneaked in with, meant that the island was a secondary precaution. Whatever they had here, they couldn't risk letting it get out yet.

You let the facts guide your mind to a solution. Maybe you could kill two birds with one stone. If you released whatever was in the facility, then you could set Umbrella's path of destruction back by several years. And if you could get on one of their boats, you could get your ticket out of here.

But there was still one pressing question to address. How would you do it?

You didn't know who you were, not even your name, and now you had the ambition to take down a global organization with enough resources and firepower to end you. Clearly, you were quite the dreamer.

Nevertheless, you didn't need to be a genius or a martial arts mastermind to know that everything had its weaknesses.

You spent most of your days from then on, watching. Over the course of three days, you figured out the patrol schedule of the guards across the facility, where the cameras didn't point, and the general layout of the grounds. Somewhere around the second day of surveillance, you realized someone had come out to the empty camp to stock food. Food that you obviously stole. You relished every bite of the fresh sustenance, but wondered who the guards were trying to feed. It obviously wasn't you.

You didn't exist to them. You were sure to cover your trail, rubbing over your footsteps and never leaving any trace. Climbing up trees and hiking back and forth between different elevations every day in addition to the sneaking, had taken quite a toll on you. Enough so, that you'd slept like a baby each night.

Even if the shadowy figure saw you again, you doubted you'd have the energy to feel it, much less fight back.

Eventually, you had mapped everything you could from the outside. Now, you had to go into the facility and figure out how things looked from there. You'd been dreading it since the day you'd started observing them.

Going inside came with a multitude of risks, the biggest being that you'd be caught and kept alive. It would be a mercy to kill you, but you knew Wesker would never let that happen. It was a risk you still had to take.

That night, you came in from the northwest side of the facility, below a ridge. Following a dry creek bed, the tree cover that the jungle gave you thinned as you got closer. You stopped at the edge of the cleared zone and went down on your stomach as you looked at the facility from above.

The area was lit. There was a loading bay on the south side with doors partially open and a forklift left inside. Three outbuildings between your position and the main building each had a single exterior light above the door. The main building itself stood right beside a cliff, as if it were partly carved from it.

You decided the best way in would be from the east or the south.

You quickly climbed down from the branch you'd settled on, and snuck to the open areas. Near the first outbuilding, you saw a guard. You'd been counting the seconds since he started standing there.

Five. Four. Three. Two–

And he turned away, heading down the path. When his light dissapeared around the corner, you quickly ran toward the first outbuilding.

Footsteps started to head your way. The sound was familiar, but the timing was off. The next guard shouldn't have shown up for another three minutes.

Your heart was pounding too loud for you to think. Think. Think.

This building had nothing valuable. With no windows, heavy-gauge locks on the doors, and exterior ventilation, it was nothing more than a storage area.

The second outbuilding was a short sprint away. It was closer to the main structure.

Without wasting another second, you ran, taking uneasy breaths as you made your way to the second building, avoiding all the lights pointed toward the ground.

Thankfully, the door to this building was unlocked. Pushing the metal door open, you were met with the sight of a workbench, and on the wall above it, a clipboard with papers. You stepped inside slowly. The sound of your feet walking echoed around the walls of the empty room.

The papers on the clipboard were maintenance logs–facility operations, routine stuff, dates, system checks, and names. The names meant nothing to you , but the dates. The facility seemed to have been running continuous operations for at least four years. The most recent entry was from yesterday–maintenance for sub-level L and research environments A through D.

Your suspicions had been right. They were testing something.

You didn't have much time left before someone else showed up to guard this building.

Quickly putting the clipboard back exactly as you had found it, you ran out the way you came. Just as you exited, a guard came around the corner. His flashlight swept right and left.

You flattened yourself against the wall of the building, in the shadow created by some nearby light. The flashlight barely grazed the top of your boot before turning away.

As the guard walked past, you let out a breath through your nose.

There was still time for you to leave before the guard stationed himself. Quickly, you walked back to the same place you had entered from. You were twenty meters out, moving in a low crouch, when a sound came.

It wasn't a guard shouting. Something else. A sustained tone, like an alarm. You looked down at your feet and found it. You'd stepped on a panel on the ground that lit up with an amber color. A motion sensor.

Throwing caution to the wind, you broke out into a run.

You had just about made it to the tree cover, running straight into the dense undergrowth, when you heard voices behind you. The perimeter guards began swarming in the area you had run from, flashing their lights in every direction. As you ran, one of the lights was able to spot you.

"Use the tranqs!" Some guard had yelled. You'd only heard it faintly, as you disappeared into the darkness, hoping they didn't realize who you were.

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Running through the jungle was entirely different than your careful walks. Leaves slapped you in the face, and plenty of thorns tore through the surface of your skin as you kept going. Your legs barely felt tired as you pushed forward.

Instinctively, you moved uphill toward the ridge. That was your fastest way back to the village, even if it meant you'd get more cuts and bruises than you intended.

The flashlights were spreading out behind you, the light scattering to every inch of jungle you could see. Your breath became shallower, not just from all the energy it took to run but also from the fear that the village didn't guarantee safety. What if the guards made their way there? What could you do then?

Near the top of the ridge, the undergrowth had begun to thin. That only made you push your feet harder. Crossing the flat rock, you kept going.

Something caught your left arm. Something with a grip. A hand.

You were already spinning, driving your elbow back. The person behind you caught your limb and blocked it. Your hand was forced to the side. Your fingers felt for the knife in your pockets as soon as they came to your side. Grabbing the handle, you unsheathed the knife and stabbed at the air. Before you could follow-through on the person's face, another hand held your wrist. You could see a silhouette in the dark, the tip of the knife's blade only an inch away from their nose.

"Stop!" A deep, gruff voice spoke.

You didn't listen, continuing to struggle.

"I'm–argh," you kicked him between his legs. His knees buckled only for a second, but his hold on both your hands never relented.

"I'm trying to help you!" He let out through gritted teeth.

You were skeptical of him. Anyone could say that. Anyone could attempt to appeal to you just to get you off guard. You glanced over him. He didn't wear the same uniform as the guards did. And there was no sign of an Umbrella logo on him.

You stopped your struggle, but he still didn't let go.

Instead, he spun you around. Trapping you in one arm while covering your mouth with another, he put his back to a tree and whispered, "Stay quiet."

You gripped the knife in your hand, ready to bite his palm when you heard rustling. A second later, light flashed around you. A guard had caught up, and you hadn't even realized.

The uniformed man walked up to the threshold of the tree and lingered there for a moment. Motioning his flashlight back and forth around the area, you held your breath.

Your heart beat against your chest. Hard enough to make you keel over if you weren't in the stranger's arms. You both waited for a beat, then another until the light retreated along with the guard.

When the quiet had fallen over both of you, the stranger finally let you go.

You took a few steps back, putting some much-needed distance between the two of you. This man had saved you, but you didn't know why. For all you knew, he could have worse intentions than Umbrella.

The moon had risen to its full height, letting its rays illuminate what little it could of the man in front of you.

He was broad across the shoulders, muscular too. His face was square with a defined jawline. Beyond his general shape, you could barely make out any other details.

"Who the fuck are you?" You started, raising the knife and pointing it at him.

"A friend," he responded succinctly.

You were annoyed with how cryptic that response was. Your voice rose in pitch, just a little higher, as you scoffed, "Cut the bullshit. You expect me to believe you were my fairy godmother? Standing in the middle of a jungle just waiting for me to run through here so you could save me?"

"I wasn't watching you. I was watching them. Clearly, we've got a mutual enemy."

"And who exactly are you? You have yet to answer that."

Sighing in frustration, the stranger brought his thumb and pointer to his face to pinch his forehead. He didn't want to relent, but even he knew he had to give up something to get somewhere in this conversation. "Chris. I'm Chris. You?"

You were mildly surprised he gave you his name. You were even more surprised that you had to give him yours, not that you should have been. What could you give him? You didn't even know who you were.

The name problem could wait, so you decided to deflect instead. "I'm asking the questions, buddy. Are you here alone? How'd you get here? Why are you here?"

The man–Chris–let out a chuckle. "We're buddies now?"

"What? No." You huffed in frustration. God, why did you say that? "Just answer the goddamn questions, will ya?"

"I'm here alone, and I'm not gonna hurt you. That's all you need to know…" he paused, waiting for you to give your name so he could speak it.

You didn't bother, instead turning away from him to walk back to the village.

He didn't take kindly to you ignoring him. Grabbing your shoulder, he held you back with little effort.

"Where do you think you're going?" he questioned.

You stayed quiet as his grip tightened. You didn't need another enemy, and as far as first impressions go, Chris didn't seem to have bad intentions. Then again, anyone can lie.

Taking a shot, you gave in, "Back to my camp."

It wasn't exactly a lie. The building in the village you were staying at was far from home, but it didn't exactly look like a camp either. If he were a foe, that could throw him off if he ever did encounter the village.

"I take it you've been here a while then?" You nodded, still facing away from him.

Chris stepped forward, taking his hand off your shoulder and standing in front of you. "I'll tag along. Looks like you'll need all the help you can get after that fiasco."

You stared at him, dead in his shadowed eyes. You'd managed to survive almost a week on this strange island on your own. You didn't need anyone, especially someone you didn't even trust.

You pushed him out of your path. Though it wasn't enough force to move him, he side-stepped after you nudged him.

"No," you announced.

He rounded back in front of you, blocking your path again, "Look. I know you're camping at the abandoned village, and I know you're running from Umbrella. You aren't hiding anything. And I get it, you don't trust me. You don't have to. We're both on the same side, OK?"

You wanted to spit on his face. He stood there, letting you lie, letting you look like a fool, just for him to know everything. You definitely couldn't trust him, not when this Chris character managed to make you so angry that steam was almost coming out of your nostrils. You'd never felt this mix of embarrassment and rage as far as you could remember.

It was truly remarkable how hateable he could be, having known him for mere minutes.

"Fuck you. I don't need you to keep me safe, and I don't care about your little vendetta against Umbrella–or whatever it is you have against them. OK?" you mocked.

You moved past the man, paying him no heed as you continued forward. You could feel him still there, standing in the same position you had left him even after you'd managed to trek through a few meters of forest. At least he didn't follow.

Your hands crossed around your chest, attempting to keep warm. The thin jacket you wore had its limitations.

With the adrenaline having worn off, pain started erupting all around your body as well. Small cuts stung as a breeze swept through the undergrowth. A few bruises had begun to show around your hands, more so from crashing into trees than Chris' grip. They'd started to throb too.

Three meters further, and your legs decided they were finished. You sat down against the nearest tree, not gracefully, and looked up at the canopy. You heard boots crunching leaves. The steps stopped right behind you.

You didn't tell him to go away. That was your version of a truce–at least for tonight.

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A/N: Let me know if you want to be added to a taglist in the comments

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You could see green again. The porthole was the size of a dinner plate and filmed with salt, but through the blurry glass, you could see land. It wasn’t the same grey smear of a coastline you’d been observing for the past few days, nor was it the tinted greenish-blue of waves pounding against the vessel.

In the mass of color, you were able to discern strange, tropical vegetation–trees, bushes, and even some flowers. Pressing your cheeks against the glass, you felt the metal rim cool against your cheekbones. You didn’t mind the sensation, too wrapped up in observing the white beach just before the treelines. You stayed there for a while, eyes wide in awe.

You’d fallen asleep, slumped against the window, and awoken hours later when the ship was anchored. The silence of engines no longer whirring and the lack of vibration against your body had allowed your eyes to shoot open. You’d gotten so used to the activities of a working ship over the last few weeks. The hold smelled like oil and something faintly sweet. Pallets of crates were stacked around you, bolted to the floor with cargo straps. You’d built yourself a space between two of the larger ones, making just enough room for you to lie flat. Lining the area with a tarp you found under a workbench, you had made a makeshift place to sleep. Comfort wasn’t quite a priority.  

What you lacked in comfort, you made up for in sleep. You’d learned that in the first week. Whatever else you didn’t know about yourself, you’d understood that sleep was something you cherished deeply. 

You pulled back from the porthole and sat up.

The ship had crew sleeping in lower cabins. You counted six of them when you’d first boarded the vessel. There were no passengers, but plenty of cargo in shipping containers. Though the lack of people made it easy to stay hidden, you had struggled to sneak enough food and water without anyone noticing. 

On the second day, when you’d practically been dying of thirst and restless because of it, you decided to sneak down to their living quarters. There, in the dead of night, you found your only opportunity to gather as much as you could to keep going for another week. You’d managed to make supplies last for a week before having to complete your stakeout again. They had never noticed. And even if they did, the crew had done nothing about it.

The deck was empty at the hour you had awoken. You’d snuck out of your makeshift living area to move along the starboard rail at a crouch so no one could see you. The water between the ship and the beach was maybe two hundred meters. The anchor chain dropped straight down from the bow, meaning that there were deep waters ahead. 

You looked at the island again in the darkness from your position near the railing. The beach curved away in both directions, and the trees started close to the waterline. 

You didn’t let yourself think too much about what you’d been hoping for–a city, or at least a dock. That had been integral to your plan. Follow the ship wherever it was going and walk off into a port to blend in with the rest of the city. Find a place to be, without anyone knowing you were ever there. 

Cities were complicated–or at least, that’s how you remembered them. They had people who asked questions you couldn’t answer. The only thing you knew for certainty was the fact that you had a face. You’d stared at shiny, reflective metal long enough to roughly make out your features. 

You didn’t know your name, though. Not anything before the burning, the running, and the rain-soaked dock. 

You’d stolen a jacket from the crew a few days into your ride. Taking it off now, you rolled it and stuffed it into a dry bag you’d found in the supply room. Tying the bag shut, you climbed over the rail.

The water was colder than you’d expected. Your body had only barely begun to adjust to the liquid ice before you’d begun to swim. It was a miracle you even knew how. The exercise had taken less time than you’d anticipated.  The distance should have tired you, but it hadn’t. You figured you must have swam a lot in a previous life. You reached the shallows within two minutes and stood up in waist-deep water, walking the rest of the way onto the beach.

When your boots met solid, packed sand, you realized this was the first time you’d stood on solid ground in weeks. 

The sensation moved through you from the soles of your feet. An enormous relief on your shoulders. You stood tall on the sand and let yourself breathe steadily. Then you put your jacket back on and set your sights toward the treeline ahead.

You could hear birds in the trees ahead, chirping. The sound was so harmonious that the birds found a rhythm to chirp to. The song they seemed to sing made your lips widen into a smile without you even realizing. You’d never heard anything so beautiful before.

Taking the bag off your shoulders and rummaging through its contents, you assessed what you had: some food, a full water bottle, and a utility knife. In addition to that, you had the clothes on your back, a warm jacket, and rubber-soled shoes that had dried stiff. 

You needed to find a place to stay, a place where you could gain your bearings for the night and figure out what you had to do from here. 

You looked at the jungle ahead. 

You took a breath in, then released it. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The jungle was louder than the birds you’d heard from a distance. Birds and insects moving about, larger animals rustling among branches and bushes, and the wind whistling between tree stems. The sounds were all layered on top of each other in a way that was initially disorienting. Yet, after ten minutes of navigating the dreadful space as early rays of light began to flood through the canopy, you’d started to be able to discern each sound.

The light came in slowly. By the time you’d been walking for forty minutes, you could see clearly enough to no longer have to feel your way forward. The undergrowth was dense close to the beach, but eased the further into the island you went.

You’d heard the sound of rushing water some time during your trek. You’d followed the sound uphill for a bit until you found where a stream pooled under a tree. The water was clear. 

You cupped your hands and submerged them in the water. Water dripped from between your fingers as you brought your hands up to your lips, but the taste of the crisp, drinkable liquid was too satiating to stop. Your hands went into the water again and again until you felt full with it.  

The light was full by then, bringing about a proper morning. Though the sun rays came through the canopy in broken pieces of light, you relished the patches of warmth they brought. It was a stark difference from the ever-cold cargo ship you’d been on. 

You sat with the water moving past your feet, thinking. The island seemed to be inhabited only by birds and small things. It had no dock, and yet the ship decided to anchor itself here. What kind of business would a cargo crew have with an island that had no people on it? Or perhaps, you just hadn’t found them yet.

The thought of other people let a chill run down your spine. The only person you remembered by name was the first man you’d met when you awoke. The man who had looked at you in the chaos of his final moments with an unrivaled determination. He wanted you–Wesker.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

The carcass was at the base of an incline about four miles from where you’d come ashore. Whatever it had been, it was large. Its shape was recognizable despite the damage. A deer, or something deer adjacent. But the damage itself was strange. Small bite marks littered about the animal’s hide, and half of its head had been ripped off. You couldn’t name a single animal that would kill its prey in such a fashion.

You straightened up and looked at the jungle around you.

There was nothing. Just the sound of bird noises, insects, and the distant stream. 

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t figure out why. Perhaps the mystery of it all, or the fact that there was something out there that could kill so brutally. 

You kept moving, faster now. Watching the shadows with every step. 

You’d been so focused on the margins of your vision that you almost walked into a building. A building!

There were four structures visible from where you stood. Low with wide eaves and open windows. A path ran down the middle with the buildings facing it. It looked like a small village. 

You stayed standing, checking to see if there were any signs of life. Not a soul walked in and out of the buildings. You took a hesitant step forward, closer to the dirt path. There were no footsteps. 

Walking to the first building, you peered through the window. Something hung from a nail inside the doorframe. A piece of cloth.  You turned to face the second building. It had shutters on the windows, one of them unlatched, swinging slowly in what was barely a breeze. A creek every few seconds or so.

The village was empty. 

You kicked at the wooden door of the first structure until its lock broke. The door swung open with a bang. Walking inside, you noticed cookware on a shelf above a stove that used gas. There was a small tank connected by a hose. All of the appliances were covered in a fine layer of dust, disturbed only by some mold. Beside that were two chairs. A cup on the table with a dark residue on the bottom that had dried to a ring. Whoever left this house hadn’t planned on coming back. 

On the far wall, there were photographs. Some were selfies of what looked like a family. People on a beach. A man with a fish, he held up proudly. A woman looking away from the camera with a smile. Children laughing together.  

Your eyebrows furrowed, and your heart sank as you looked at the photos. You wondered if someone had photos like that of you or if you treasured any of others. You wondered what it was like to have a family you could remember. 

Turning away from the photographs, you moved into the other rooms to check for anything useful. One of the bedrooms had a sleeping mat rolled up in the corner. In another part of the house, you crouched over a small toolkit you found. It had screwdrivers, pliers, and a box of mixed hardware. Then there was the crate. 

It was stamped on four sides with an octagonal logo. Its shape felt so familiar, weighing you down as you barely recognized the red and white triangles in it. Your spine straightened, and you began to work your jaw. Your hand hovered over the utility knife in your pants pocket. 

The taste of the name on your tongue felt bitter as you spoke, “Umbrella.”

Seeing as the village was all but abandoned, leaving behind an unopened crate carrying mysterious goods inside, you figured it was best to keep some beasts lying. Umbrella was here, and that meant nothing good would be on this island. You had to find a way to leave. 

Going back to the ship was a no-go, so that left you with only one option. Trek further into the area and hope you’ll find something. 

You searched all the remaining six buildings before finally letting yourself stop. You stood at the seventh building at the eastern edge of the village, where the path ended, and the jungle started again. You looked through the broken window beside you. 

There was something dried and dark on the floor near the back wall. The substance, whatever it was, didn’t look to be completely dry. Perhaps it had been there a week, but not any longer than that. 

You didn’t pay it much mind, turning away from the window to stare back into the expanse of green. You’d found a map for the island. It revealed several mysteries. The island was larger than it had seemed from the water. The village was marked on the map, which helped you gauge which direction you’d come from. Your eyes wandered to the eastern side of the island on the map, riddled with a cluster of markings too blurred to read. 

You folded the map and put it in a dry bag. 

These buildings were a good place as any to camp out for a while. The crate and the carcass you’d seen earlier did nothing to ease your tension, but at least in the confines of a mud-brick building–as shabby as it might have been–you’d be somewhat safe. 

You headed toward the first building you’d stepped into. Wedging its door shut, you went to unroll the sleeping mat. Setting your bag aside and taking off your jacket to use as a makeshift blanket, you lay down on the stiff foam. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was still a hell of a lot better than the makeshift bed you made on the ship.

You’d been running on reserves for the last few weeks. Sleeping with one eye open in case you were ever found. It wasn’t easy to get your body out of the fight or flight state. You lay still for a moment, listening to the wind whistle through broken glass. 

You couldn’t calm your mind. It had turned into a whirlwind of doubts and questions. Where were you? How would you leave? What was out here? What business did Umbrella have?

Your body spoke for you as it began to shut down.  Your eyes began to close despite yourself. You needed sleep; otherwise, you wouldn’t have a functioning brain left to question with.

You needed this. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You woke up to the tweeting of birds. The sun peered through the window with rising rays of light. It was morning again, and you’d slept for at least a day. Furrowing your eyebrows in frustration, having planned only to sleep for a few hours, you got up.

The mirror at the dresser in the bedroom was cracked at one corner. It was a fracture line running from the top right down toward the center. You’d walked past it when you’d first come in the previous day. This morning, however, you couldn’t understand why you had to stop. 

Your face. Hair that needed grooming, pushed back from your face in a haphazard way. A bruise along your jaw that had bloomed into a deep color. Sullen eyes. You stared at a familiar stranger.

You didn’t know who you were. 

You tried to make a habit of recognizing yourself in the first week you’d escaped. Whenever you caught a fleeting glimpse of your reflection, you attempted to force a feeling of recognition, as if chanting in your mind this is me. The familiarity never came. Your face was nothing more than decorated flesh. 

Quickly turning away from the mirror, you assessed your situation. You had no idea what was out in the jungle, but now you had shelter. Seeing as you still needed much more rest before you’d be in any shape to explore the markings on the map, you decided to take the day cleaning up the shack you’d now be calling home.

You swept the floor with a broom you’d found. You also found a second sleeping mat rolled under the bed frame and put it beside the one you’d slept in. 

As you worked, you thought about the Umbrella crate. About Wesker’s face as he lay on the ground with a gaping, bloody hole in his chest. He had survived, you were sure of it. You’d heard his name spoken among the crew on the ship. 

If he truly did survive, then he’d be after you for reasons you didn’t know. All you knew was that the last time you’d seen him alive, he'd looked at you like he owned you–Wesker.  

Shaking your head, you tried to remember something. Anything about who you were, what happened to you, and why Wesker was so interested. Your eyes closed tightly. Your breath became uneven. You brought your palms to your face, smacking your cheeks. 

These questions didn’t matter. Not until you were sure you were safe. 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It was around two in the morning when you heard it. With a new moon outside, the darkness was at its deepest, and the chattering of insects had only grown louder. You’d been sound asleep just moments ago. Then the next moment, you had shot up from the sleeping mat, your eyes wide open. 

Footsteps were coming from just outside the broken window. It sounded bipedal and moving at an uneven pace. One foot seemed to drag as the other limped forward. 

Your heart pounded in your chest. What was it? Did someone find you? Did the ship’s crew follow you here?

You carefully adjusted yourself to stand on your feet, trying not to let your clothes make too much noise as you shuffled. Plastering yourself against the wall, you looked through the window. The moving shadow had stopped just outside the second building. You heard the sound of a door unlatching. 

A pause.

Then, the sound of a dragging foot. 

The glass you looked through was filled with grime, barely letting you make out anything. However, the one thing you did realize was that the shadow was getting bigger. It was moving toward your building. 

It stopped outside your door. The silence was unbearable. 

Your breath quickened despite your attempts to remain calm. Your hands began to shake. Heat rose from your feet to the rest of your body. You couldn’t move. 

The door handle began to turn. The shadow tried once, but the handle wouldn’t budge. You’d propped up a chair by the door earlier in the day, just in case. It seemed to be holding up well.

Then you heard a strange sound. It wasn’t a noise like animals made; instead, it was like a word. A word in a foreign language.

The pressure on the door handle was gone, and the shadow seemed to continue its dragging walk. You listened as it went past your building and continued down the dirt path that led into the village. Hearing the footsteps fade, you stood against the wall for two more minutes.

Then you unclenched your hand, stretched your fingers, and crouched down against the wall. Your heart was beating too fast to slow down. You couldn’t rest for the remaining hours till dawn. 

The following morning, all you did was move. 

You swept the dusty floors again. You’d found some canned food in the cabinets to ration, and ate from there. You found a faucet in the bathroom that still had running water, so you cleaned your body and washed the grime from your oversized clothes. 

You refused to leave the house that day, too fearful of what was out there, too scared to see if the shadow had waited. 

Nothing came down the path that evening. 

What did come, though, was a flood of artificial light in the dead of night. You could see the beacon coming from the east. Through the dense jungle canopy, you could make out a beam of white light emitted from the top of a rectangular building. 

It took your eyes some time to adjust, but the more you looked at the sight, the more you realized it was some sort of facility. If it had light, that meant it had power. Running facilities had people in them as well, people who would need transportation. Though you were almost certain the facility had to be Umbrella’s, you realized that maybe you could find a way off the island there, too. 

You watched the light pulse steadily in the gap between the trees. This was your answer, or at least your way to an answer. 

Not tonight. Tonight, you’d sleep, dreaming of the days to come. Dreaming of a way to get a boat. Dreaming of freedom. 

The facility lights stayed on all night. You could see them on the inside of your eyelids when you slept facing the window. 

Tomorrow, you’d trek out there. You’d assess the facility, find any openings. You’d find your way out. 

Your mind finally let you sleep.

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A/N: What's a Resident Evil story without some horror? I wanted to try something new when writing this, and RE1 Chris had so much potential :D

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Vito hadn't stood in a church since before the war. He thought he'd burst into flames just walking up the steps, especially after that day.

Standing at the altar now, his hands were loose at his sides. He'd been zoning out, hoping that de-realization could save him from his fate. The priest beside him stared at the doors at the back of the church, waiting for the ceremony to commence quickly. In the pews, the Commission men sat with their heads in the clouds.

Vito had been fine with the consequences of the shit show he'd caused–forced to move, becoming a puppet for the Commission, and losing all autonomy. But to force an innocent woman to suffer with him? He couldn't bear that guilt.

Before he had left Empire Bay for New Bordeaux, Leo had given him an ultimatum. If he wanted to stay alive, he needed to get himself an insurance policy to keep him in line. That was all he'd known you as, a symbol of his disobedience.

The organ began playing, and the doors opened.

He hadn't known what to expect. Leo hadn't even given him a photograph. All he knew was your name and your purpose–as if that was all that made a person.

You walked down the aisle on Leo's arm, and Vito couldn't bring himself to look at you. His eyes darted between your dress, Leo, and the flower petals on the carpet. Looking at you would be putting a face to the name. He'd be accepting his fate, and Vito was never one to accept anything that easily.

He hadn't accepted his time in the war, having been released early. Same with prison. Maybe he could get out of this, too.

When you faced him at the altar, his eyes were fixed on your face. The first thing he'd noticed about you was the way you looked at him. The same indifference. But your eyes were laced with an emotion much more violent.

He'd have lost himself in them had he not reminded himself that you were simply the Commission's possession. This relationship wasn't born out of love, and you sure as hell didn't look too keen on becoming friends with him.

You were a trap. One he'd rather not fall into.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

What was he thinking?

He'd told you to get out. To leave. He was an idiot.

Vito had known from the beginning why you were there. Why had he expected any different? Maybe he'd grown to like you despite refusing to acknowledge it. If you wanted to hurt him, you could have done so a long time ago, with more than just a phone call.

He didn't think you'd actually leave. He couldn't fathom the possibility of you ever leaving. He'd grown too used to your presence in the house. The way the bathroom smelled faintly of your perfume every morning when he'd be getting ready to leave. Or how you'd hum in the kitchen in the middle of the night, the sound echoing down the hall to his office like a lullaby.

You hadn't been gone for more than ten minutes when he'd begun pacing. Rethinking every word he'd said to you. Sure, he was an asshole, but you had to know his words meant nothing. Right?

His mind wandered to the one place he hoped it wouldn't. What would Joe even say if he were here: You fucked up big time? Man up? Go after her?

He'd definitely say the third. He'd laugh in Vito's face and tell him no broad was worth this kind of hassle. Then he'd berate Vito for not leaving to find her.

But where would he even begin? New Bordeaux was a big city, and you'd barely seen half of it. You could be lost, kidnapped, or maybe even worse.

Finally coming out of his head, Vito began to wear his jacket as he walked to the front door. He was going to find you, apologize, and beg you to come back. He needed you to come back, even if you didn't need him. Just as he entered the hall, the front door clicked open.

You walked right past him, ignoring every explanation he'd tried to give you. Of course, you were mad; it was justified, of course, but he couldn't let you go to sleep thinking he'd left you to die. Sure, he'd done unspeakable things, but this would be too cruel, even for him.

He followed you into the bedroom. With the lights turned off, he watched from the opening of the ajar bedroom door as you pulled the covers over your body and let exhaustion take hold of you. If you didn't hate him before, you sure as shit did now. And it was his fault.

He took careful steps inside, making sure he wouldn't wake you. Then he sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to dip into the mattress too much. You always looked so peaceful when you slept.

His hand went to your hair, combing through it with your fingers. You were freezing.

Slowly, he walked to the dresser, took out another blanket, and laid it on top of you. He was never good at apologies, but maybe this could be a start.

He'd fallen asleep in his office that night, waking up to the sun in his face. He'd slept in long enough to wake up after you did. Usually, he'd be up before dawn, neatly cleaning up his side of the bed so that you wouldn't feel too uncomfortable knowing he was beside you.

Vito could hear you shuffling about the kitchen. Then he heard the familiar sound of keys jingling. The door opened, and then silence befell the house.

He wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. He stood looking out the window of his office and watched you head into town. Putting on his jacket, he decided he'd follow you. Make sure you were safe this time.

Vito kept a half-block distance from you. This wasn't his first time surveilling someone, and yet the palms of his hands had grown too sweaty to be his. You hadn't looked back, instead keeping your head down and hands in your pockets as you walked to an underdeveloped side of town.

This wasn't his territory. Nowhere near it, in fact. Whatever it was you were up to, it couldn't have been for the Commission.

He watched you walk for at least half an hour before you stopped in front of a building with a hand-painted sign. Warm Hearts Neighborhood Kitchen.

He could tell you were uncertain now. Your footsteps faltered, and your lips remained parted. He began walking closer, hoping to confront you. Just as he came within a few feet of you, you walked inside with upright shoulders. He stopped mid-step.

This wasn't the kind of man he wanted to be, controlling and possessive. You weren't an object. You were a person. A person like his mother and sister. A person like Joe. Whatever business you had at a soup kitchen, it was better than what he'd been up to. You had a right to your secrets.

But he still needed you to be safe.

Vito waited across the street, going through at least three cigarettes before you'd finally come out of the building. Your exit was announced with the sound of laughter as mesmerizing as gold. He'd never heard anything like it, especially not from your mouth. His eyes found your face, eyes lit up in delight as you talked to another woman. You carried yourself with less reservation, like you weren't walking on glass. He liked what he saw, and he realized he liked seeing you happy.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Vito didn't trust Sal Marcano's man as far as he could throw them, but he had to compromise. The Commission's presence in New Bordeaux was already quite lacking, and he couldn't expend these men to take on unnecessary tasks, lest the Commission come knocking on his door. So he found the most trustworthy Marcano guy he could, someone who responded to money better than loyalties–Dino.

Dino was to watch you anytime you left the house and report back to Vito. At the end of each day, Vito would stay up as late as he needed to poring over every detail in those reports. He didn't know exactly why he had such an interest in your life. Maybe because if anything happened to you, then it would reflect badly on him and the Commission.

But he never cared much for his organization, and his reputation was already in shambles thanks to his shenanigans with Joe. No, he wanted his eye on you for reasons he'd never say out loud. Reasons that maybe only Joe could discern. Yet, Joe wasn't here, and Vito wasn't about to raise the dead. So the truth continued to remain unspoken.

You both hadn't spoken for another two months. He monitored you patiently, from a distance, while you didn't seem to bat an eye toward him. Why would you? There wasn't much of an incentive for you in this marriage, and Vito hadn't exactly been inviting.

He'd been furious for a long time.

It had started long before his involvement in the Commission. He'd lived in poverty for most of his life, watched his father waste away trying to keep himself afloat, and came back to a different reality after the war. The only thing that had kept him steady was his best friend, Joe.

He couldn't imagine a life without the old fool. Even now, buried six feet under, Joe kept haunting his every move.

He wasn't angry at you. He was angry because of the bodies he had to bury and the sacrifices he had to make. He had nothing, but you didn't have much either. In a way, you and Vito were two sides of the same coin. Maybe it was about time he let his anger fade into something more productive.

Vito wasn't angry; he was lost. He knew how to find his way, but some paths are scarier than others.

After a year and a half since the arrangement between you two had been established, he had changed. Grown softer. He could acknowledge what your safety meant, at least, to himself. You were more than a trap; you were his. He cared for you to some capacity. Maybe if he told you the truth, you could forgive him. Maybe you wouldn't hate him anymore.

Tonight, he'd decided to tail you himself. You had a routine that you followed like clockwork. He made sure to leave the house a few minutes after you, keep his distance as you walked the commute to the kitchen, and sat at a bench across the street watching the joint till you finished.

As he waited, he mustered the courage to do something he never thought he would.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

You didn't scream. You fought.

Vito was already on his feet, running across the street as he watched your arms punch the masked man. To any ordinary person, you seemed like an easy target, but he saw the anger that you needed to let out. What better way to vent than through some exercise?

What followed was a violent, yet brief, altercation.

Vito had beaten the man to a pulp, barely registering the knife that dug into his side as he finished the job and turned to you. Nothing mattered in that moment except for your safety. He needed to make sure you were alright.

When he turned to face your shocked expression, his eyes scanned over you. You had one bruise on your wrist. His hand immediately grabbed it, rubbing his thumb on the uninjured skin. He was aware of the throbbing pain that began to worsen, but he couldn't care much for it. Not with you like this.

You looked at him in a strange way. It wasn't fear or anger. It was soft. Worry. You looked like you were worried about him. Your eyes weren't on his face; rather, they were trained on his abdomen. Vito followed your gaze till he saw the red on his white shirt. He was bleeding.

He looked back up at you, your hand still in his gentle hold, as he questioned, "How bad does it hurt?"

You blinked. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

You had to act quickly; Vito would die soon. Without thinking, you ripped the end of your skirt, lifted Vito's bloody shirt, and tied it around his waist to keep pressure on the wound. Taking the arm on his uninjured side, you helped him limp forward.

He was heavier than he looked.

"I can walk," he said for the second time on your journey home.

"Vito." The way you said his name. Commanding him. It made him feel things he shouldn't.

He quietened down the rest of the walk. You could hear him huffing as he breathed, his weight growing heavier and heavier. All you could focus on was him. Whether the bandage would hold, whether the pain was too much for him to bear, whether he did actually care about you.

He'd asked you about your condition, as if you were the one bleeding. You didn't know what to make of that, so you shut the memory out of your mind. First things first, you had to get him home.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

By some miracle, you'd managed to drag Vito through the streets of New Bordeaux, up the stairs of your house, and into your shared kitchen. The shirt was completely soaked through. You unbuttoned it with deliberate care, not wanting the fabric to tug on his wound as you took it off.

The injury was quite ugly. However, it wasn't deep enough to be too big of a problem. You stitched the skin up and bandaged the exposed area well enough to forego a doctor's visit for now.

"How do you know how to do this?" Vito asked as you worked on his wound.

You stayed quiet for a moment before relenting, "Not my first rodeo."

"You saying I'm not the first guy you've had to save from bleeding out? I'm a little disappointed," Vito joked.

You weren't quite in the mood, "Galante got hurt too y'know. This ain't any different."

Vito couldn't make another sound. Not even as you poured antiseptic on the flesh. The pain felt numb compared to the way you resembled him to Leo. He wasn't like that; he swore he wouldn't be like that. Vito Scaletta was many things–a war hero, a felon, a murderer. But he was never the kind of guy to hurt a woman for his own benefit. He was his mother's son after all.

"You're afraid…of me." He began as you wrapped the bandage, "What'd Leo tell ya?"

You paused your action. "Empire Bay is a war zone, no thanks to you. Makes you wonder what kinda guy starts that."

"So, he didn't tell you anything, huh?"

"He didn't have to." You resumed bandaging him, pulling the material tighter against his waist to elicit some sort of reaction. He didn't even flinch.

"Look," his voice softened, and his register lowered, "I'm not–What happened in Empire was more than just a mistake. I get that, and trust me, I paid that price. But I need you to know–"

"I don't need to know." Knowing is what had gotten you in this mess, and you were damn sure you wouldn't get into anything worse now.

Finishing up with Vito, you quickly exited the bathroom with his bloody shirt. You would do laundry tomorrow and try your best to wash out the stain. Then, you'd forget all about this night, like you were supposed to.

Vito sat in the bathroom, confused by your abrupt departure. He didn't know what he said wrong, but he did do it. Vito needed to fix this before you left for good.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The next morning, you were ambushed in the kitchen. Vito had blocked the entrance as soon as you entered, unrelenting in his stance as you urged him to move away from the doorway. When he didn't listen for the fourth time, you simply looked at him with sullen eyes.

"What do you want?" You began, your voice flat.

"I'm not Leo or anyone at the Commission, alright. I want you to trust me, and for that, you'll have to know things about me. Like, I'll have to know things about you."

He paused, gauging your reaction. You'd all but tuned him out, like last night had never happened.

Gently, he held his hand under your chin and lifted it to face him. "I fucked up in Empire. I don't plan on fucking up here. Hell, we've got a great thing going. I just…I don't want to hurt you."

You scoffed as he finished. "Hurt me? You've done a hell of a lot more than that." You slapped his hand away from you. "I'm in the middle of God knows where, paying off deeds, God knows what, as penance for your mistakes. And you think that after a year of silence, that saying this bullshit–these words that have absolutely no meaning–you can what? What do you hope to accomplish?"

Your eyes were alight with anger burning through them. Vito realized he'd already begun to lose you. God, he was stupid. All he could do was stand there and take it in–your frustration and his foolishness.

You hated the way he didn't flinch at your yelling. How he looked so unaffected by it all.

"You're right," he said. "There's no way to justify it, the way I acted. And you–you helped me despite me treating you that way. Maybe it was an obligation, or maybe, just maybe, a part of you feels the same. Like this could be something better than it is. The Commission ain't here. Neither is Leo. You're free to just be."

He stopped; that was the wrong word. He corrected, "That's not–I'm saying that I won't hurt you. I promise I won't. We're a team. Leo isn't your friend and neither is anyone else here. But me–I need you to trust me."

You swallowed.

With a raised brow, you scoffed, "Took you a year to say this?"

"I'm not good with words."

"Clearly." The corners of your mouth had moved involuntarily. You liked seeing him like this, as you controlled him. In a way, he made you feel better. Like you had some semblance of autonomy. Like you had some power over him.

You weren't ready to forgive him yet, but that didn't mean you weren't open to giving him a second chance. After all, as much as you hate the Commission, they did the same for you.

⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅∙ ∘☽༓☾∘ •⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅

A/N: Who doesn't love a man who yearns? I wanted to try my hand at writing dual perspectives, especially as starkly different as the one between Vito and the reader. I hope ya'll like it!

I'm also writing a part three to this so stay tuned!

⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅∙ ∘☽༓☾∘ •⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅

◃ previous ◃ ▐▐ ▹ next ▹

The church smelled like cigar smoke and old money. The scent was too familiar for a place you’d never set foot in before. 

You stood at the back of Saint Magdalene’s, fingers laced together in front of the ivory dress someone had chosen for you–a woman on Leo Galante’s payroll who had shown up at your apartment three days ago. She’d barged into your quaint abode with a full shopping bag and instructions. Wear this, look presentable, and don’t make a scene. 

You couldn’t help but nod along to her words. It wasn’t like you could say no. 

The organ began. You started walking down the aisle with a hand around Galante’s arm. 

The church was barely occupied. A handful of Commission men in expensive suits sat in the pews like crows on a wire, watching you like you were prey. You recognized a few faces from Leo’s office, but they were all strangers alike. Nobody you’d actually want to attend your wedding.

At the altar, a priest waited. His face was blank, as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you, but didn’t possess the courage to act on his doubts. Beside the priest stood him. Vito Scaletta. 

You’d been given a photograph of him weeks ago. The slightly out-of-focus, black-and-white image did little to prepare you for the reality. The breadth of his shoulders in a dark suit that fit like it was a god-given gift. A jaw set sharp enough to cut glass. Dark hair combed back like he was an actor in one of your favorite movies. 

He was handsome in the way that dangerous things were lustful. At least you were forced to marry a pretty face. It would lessen the blow from the rest of the horror story you knew would become your life, being involved with someone as infamous as him. 

He was also very clearly furious. 

Not in a loud way. It wasn’t obvious in his features, or in any way that someone could observe with a lazy glance. You’d spent years in rooms with men who kept their violence quiet. You saw how Vito held himself–rigid through the spine, hands deliberately loose at his sides, like he was actively reminding himself not to clench them, a flatness behind his dark eyes as they tracked your approach.

He watched you walk toward him like you were a piece of meat. Practically nothing. He was resigned to it, resentful of it. 

You couldn’t blame him. You felt the same.

Reaching the altar, you were the closest you’d ever be with him. You hated every second you had to stare at him through your veil.

Up close, he was much worse. The photo hadn’t prepared you for a husband. It was a distant belonging, like a fantasy you could bury under piles of paperwork. Standing inches in front of you wasn’t just a man, it was the promise of a terrible future. The promise that no matter what you did, how much money you had, or what you loved, you would always be a possession. 

His possession. 

He stared at you with hollow, narrowed eyes. Then he looked back at the priest. 

He didn’t offer his hand. Didn’t lean in to say something polite or performative. He didn’t try to reassure you or himself. He simply stood there, in his suit, waiting with you for it all to end. 

Fine, you thought. Two can play at that game.

The ceremony took less than half an hour. You’d been counting the seconds in your head. The priest’s voice washed over you in practiced cadences. You responded when you had to, signed where you were told, and let Vito Scaletta slide a plain diamond ring onto your finger. His touch was gone before it had even come.

There was no kiss. The priest had looked between both of you and decided that suggesting one would be ill-advised for both parties. 

When the ceremony had finally ended, and you were married to Vito under the eyes of the Commission, Galante clapped with a wide grin on his face. If God were real, then he’d taken form in the old man. And if you were right about that, then the prodigal son fallen from heaven was now your husband. You were a bride for hell. 

It took everything in you to stop your throat from closing up and your eyes from welling. Crying would just ruin your makeup and anger everyone. Or perhaps no one would bat an eye. 

You no longer mattered. You never really did.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Galante led Vito outside the venue, with you following close behind. Your hands scrunched up the sides of your dress to stop you from tripping over your heels. It didn’t help much, seeing as you stumbled the whole way. 

When you stepped outside, you noticed a black car. It looked fancy, more expensive than anything that you could afford in three lifetimes. 

Galante opened the passenger seat door for you and mumbled congratulations before shutting the it after you sat. As Vito started the car, you watched New Bordeaux move past the window.

You had never been here before, and Galante had never explained why you had to be here. That remained among the hundreds of other mysteries he refused to answer. You never knew much about what he did, even as his secretary. If only you could have remained oblivious for the rest of your tenure. 

“The house is in River Row.” A voice spoke from beside you. Vito.

You liked the sound of it, low and even. It had a soft Empire Bay accent to it, like he’d been practicing how to hide it. 

“Okay,” you responded. 

He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t need him to. Too many questions were what got you here in the first place. You were terrified of what a few more could do to you now. 

The silence settled back between the two of you. Turning your head to the window, you watched the buildings pass by in the afternoon glow. A river sat a little murky and heavy beyond the levee; the neighborhoods shifted as you moved south from downtown to something more industrial. The heat, even in October, sat differently than the northern cold. 

Truth be told, you’d never left Empire Bay. As much as you hated having to uproot your entire life, this place didn’t seem too bad. 

At a red light, Vito’s eyes moved to you briefly. You could feel his gaze burn at the back of your head. He was assessing you. You didn’t grace him with a reciprocating stare. Instead, you slumped against the window and let your eyes rest for the remainder of the ride, hoping to dream it all away. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The house sat at the edge of River Row. Two stories of weathered wood in fresh coats of white paint. A wide porch wrapped around the front with a railing that led to the second story. It wasn’t what you had expected–not that you had any expectations at all. 

Vito cut the engine and sat for a moment with both hands on the wheel. Then he got out without a word. 

You managed your way inside a few minutes later. Your knuckles went light as they gripped your dress. You were frustrated having to work around the dress all day, angered having to marry a stranger, and furious to be in these circumstances in the first place. 

You’d walked up the porch stairs to the second floor. The door opened into a hall where the first room was an office space with a heavy desk and a single lamp. There were already papers scattered around the surface, like someone had been working there for a while. 

Ahead, there was a small kitchen, barely large enough for two people. At the end of the hall, behind a door that stuck to its frame was a single bedroom with a king sized bed. The bedroom was the biggest room in the space with two windows overlooking the river, thin curtains hung by them, two dressers, and a nightstand that accompanied the bed. 

You sat yourself down at the foot of the bed, looking at the river through the window. The water reflected a plethora of colors, reflecting the extravagant oranges and pinks that faded with the afternoon. 

The Commission men who arranged this marriage were not naive, and neither were you. You understood what marriage meant as a concept, understood what it implied. It wasn’t just a show of undying love, it was a chain. You were now Vito’s weak link and the Commission’s insurance. Whatever your husband had done before, he couldn’t again, not without endangering you or his image. 

The question remained. How does one treat the bane of their existence, with indifference of cruelty? 

You changed out of the dress in the bathroom, hands working the buttons at the back with the concentrated effort of someone who needed to keep their mind occupied to keep from breaking. All of your clothes had already been stored in the house days before you’d arrived to New Bordeaux, courtesy of Galante. 

You put on a plain cotton nightgown, brushed your teeth and looked at your face in the bathroom mirror for a while. By the time you exited the bathroom, darkness had already fallen onto the city. It was already pretty late into the evening. 

You sat on the bed for an hour. Then an hour and a half more.

The anticipation was killing you. You listened to the office door open and close, footsteps walking up and down the hall, a few drawers sliding shut. At some point, you even caught the faint smell of a cigarette. 

Every time the floorboards creaked, your spine straightened hands fell to your laps and your breath would go shallow. You knew what was expected of you on the first night, especially from men like Vito. What they took when they wanted it. What they thought was owed to them.

The footsteps came down the hall and stopped outside the bedroom door. You sat absolutely still, eyes staring at the window wand hands folded. There was nothing you could do now. 

The door opened.

You could sense Vito standing at the frame, looking at you with a burning glare. 

“Get some sleep,” he said, pulling the door almost shut behind him. 

His footsteps retreated back down the hall, back to the office. 

You sat there for another ten minutes, as if sure that he would come back again. You didn’t trust his departure. 

Your heart was still beating rapidly as you decided to go under the covers. Eyeing the ajar door, you slowly settled into one side of the bed and lay on your back, staring at the ceiling. 

He didn’t even come in. You guessed an unconventional marriage called for unconventional situations. You weren’t exactly grateful that nothing happened that night, but you weren’t bitter either. 

Safe. That was the right word. You were safe, for now. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

In the morning, his side of the bed was untouched. You sat up and looked at the smooth, unoccupied pillow beside you. He hadn’t come to bed at all. Through the thin walls, you could hear him already awake. The sound of running water stopping abruptly and the click of the office door. 

You got up and made coffee in the kitchen. A few minutes later, he appeared, already dressed in dark trousers and a collared shirt. He poured himself a cup without looking at you and drank it standing at the window overlooking the river. 

Your lips remained parted, uncertainty plaguing you. Should you break the silence or keep it? As far as you knew, Vito wanted nothing to do with you. You were just two strangers with a label and a shared home. Nothing more.

Vito didn’t spare you a glance as he left. His mug was already washed and put on the counter before you’d snapped from your thoughts. Along again, you realized what kind of marriage this would be. One of indifference.

This was the dynamic between the two of you during the early weeks together. Together being too generous of a descriptor to be true. 

His presence was always there, straightening your spine and sending chills across your body. He moved through the rooms like a ghost, occasionally meeting each other after days of isolation when you intersected in a hallway. You would exchange very few words, often of you telling him about problems around the house: the water pressure’s low on the second floor and someone’s asking about the gas bill.

The only time he’d engage you would be to call out into the echoing hall that he’d be heading out, never quite elaborating where he was going or when he’d be back. You rarely knew when he returned as he’d slip through the front door without a sound. 

Sometimes you’d go to sleep with the office empty and wake to the smell of cigarette smoke that seeped under the bedroom door. Only then would you know he’d been in there in the dark while you slept, doing whatever it was he did in the hours that belonged to him.

You never saw him go to bed. The pillow beside yours had remained untouched since the day you’d moved in. 

He confused you for the longest time. This wasn’t how men acted, especially men of his status. They’d make their presence known, make their wives their worshipers and rule households with an iron fist. Vito was nothing like that. 

You’d resigned to lay in bed in the late hours of the day, listening to the beat of your heart in your chest as you waited. His facade had to break one of these days–you were sure of it.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The phone in the hall had rung three times while you were in the shower. Vito wasn’t home to pick it up and you weren’t sure you were supposed to. You had no one to call you.

When you finally picked up the receiver, a familiar voice rang your ears. It was like hearing nails on a chalkboard when he spoke. 

“How are you settling in?” Galante asked, his voice pointed. 

You’d forgotten all about your purpose here during your few weeks of peace. You weren’t here for fun or to be an unmovable chess piece. You were a pawn whose time had finally come. 

“Fine,” you quickly answered, not wanting to prolong the dreadful conversation.

“And Vito?”

There is was. This was never a social call.

Your eyes scanned the bare hallway until they landed on the front door. “He’s adjusting.” you answered.

“Anything else?”

“I don’t have much else to give you. He keeps to himself.”

A pause on the line. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to look a little closer.”

The line clicked abruptly. Your fingers shook as they held the receiver, letting the device slip and hit the floor. The dial tone hummed as your heart beat quicker. What more could you give him?

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

That night, you didn’t sleep. You lay in the dark and listened to the house. Galante’s voice haunted you as you sat on the bed. 

What more could you do? Vito always kept to himself. You could never keep track of what he was doing or even where. There was no use in asking upfront–made men like Vito weren’t keen on sharing. 

It was either you or Vito, and you’d come too far to back down now. Galante needed to know more and that meant you’d have to find out where Vito went at night.

At half past one in the morning, the house went quiet. The office door had went still and there were no more footsteps in the house. You waited another twenty minutes after the silence had fallen to get up. 

You moved through the dark hallway on the balls of your feet, trying to make your presence almost invisible. The office door was slightly ajar. Taking a deep breath, you pressed it open another inch and looked inside.

It was empty.

The desk lamp was on, casting a yellow light over papers scattered about. You didn’t have it in you to read through them. Those papers could be there for a number of reasons, and if you read them then you’d have to hide that too. Too many secrets were bound to crumble, and you couldn’t risk that.

You went toward the window that overlooked the grounds of the area. It was an industrial area with a restaurant nearby along with a dock. A single lamp post stood at the far edge of the property, barely reaching.  

Your eyes followed the light to see the silhouette of two figures. Your hand found the window frame as you brought your face closer to the glass.

One of the men was Vito. You could see his profile illuminated under the faint light. He was holding something at his side. You’d only caught a brief glance of the object before he raised it. 

The other figure was seated, his hands seemingly tied to the the chair he was on. His back was hunched over and his eyes were wide open.

Your fingers curled into your palm as you watched. 

Then the sound came. It was more succinct than you’d expect, nothing like the movies. You closed your eyes, trying to scrub the memory from your mind. You didn’t want to name what you saw, that would only make it real. 

When you opened them again, there was only one figure under the lamp post’s light. 

Vito stood there with his gun still raised. He’d turned in your direction, toward the house. You immediately stepped back from the window, hoping his eyes couldn’t find you.  

You called Galante the next morning from the same phone while Vito was out. You told him what you’d seen. Your face draining as you relived what you’d seen with the details you told him. 

He’d listened to you without interruption and simply responded, “Good work. Keep watching.”

Setting down the phone, your fingers found your ring, still sitting at the base of your opposite hand. You wanted to throw it away. Shatter the diamond into a million pieces and throw the band down the gutter. You weren’t living anymore, that much was clear. 

A life for a life. 

You didn’t sleep for three days after what you’d witnessed. You drifted in and out of forceful naps, dreaming of the two figures and the sound each night. You’d always wake up in a cold sweat. 

You’d come to wonder what would happen when someone became inconvenient to Vito. 

You were inconvenient. You had been from the beginning. A stranger in his house, on the bed he didn’t use, and in his life. A Commission arrangement he had no choice but to keep. You were exactly the kind of thing that man like him might decide, eventually, to rid himself of.

You realized that you'd been this expendable before in another life, where you were Leo Galante’s secretary. 

But you were able to come out alive from that ordeal, and the same would be true of this one. 

Vito acted in a manner you couldn’t quite understand. Dwelling on your observations and projecting the worst possible outcome would help no one. Besides, you could never know for sure whether he was like the men you knew. Vito hadn’t touched you or taken advantage of you. 

All you could cling to was the hope that he was different, or that you could grow stronger.

By the fifth day, your fear had soured into something easier to carry–anger. Not at Vito or Galante but at life. At the idea of being subject to the cruelty of constant questioning. The anger let you sleep and that was all you needed it to do. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The months moved slowly from then. Galante would call ever now and then, you’d watch Vito when you knew he wouldn’t see and you reported. Sometimes you slept like a baby and other times it would take you a few days to adjust to your ever-changing reality. 

Vito’s footsteps had become more familiar than his face. You could tell when he came home, whether he intended on staying the night. You could tell by how often he’d drink coffee or take a smoke, how many times the office door would open and close, whether he’d be in a mood or not. You learned his habits better than you learned him. 

You’d suspected he’d learned a bit about you as well. Enough to know when you’d be in the kitchen so he wouldn’t be or to know when to leave the house when you appeared distressed. You both walked around glass with each other, and somehow that life became the norm. 

When the fourth month of your marriage had come, you’d received your usual call from Galante on a Wednesday. It was shorter than usual, almost clipped. His voice was different too, like he was paranoid about something. Though, the words never really changed. 

That night, you watched Vito’s office like you’d always did and observed what you needed to. You’d then slipped into bed like you’d been there all night. 

After of light sleep, you heard the bedroom door creak. A faint light flooded through the crack and pointed in your eyes. You dared not open them.

Footsteps followed, heading inside the room. The stopped at the other side of the bed. You heard the sound of fabric moving as a jacket dropped over the dresser and a shirt was unbuttoned. 

You lay exceptionally still. 

The mattress dipped. Vito settled on the far edge of the bed. There was a considerable distance between the two of you as you could feel his back to you. You could smell cigarettes and the river air from him. 

You hadn’t prepared for this. For Vito to be here, for him to be on the bed, for him to sleep. He’d settled into the bed as if he’d done it a hundred times before. Had he?

Perhaps he’d gotten up before you to make sure you wouldn’t notice. Maybe he slept later not to alarm you. But why?

None of this made sense, and frankly, none of it had to. What he did was none of your business. 

You waited ten minutes, until you could hear his breathing even out. When you were sure he’d fallen asleep, you inched toward your end of the bed. Slowly wiggling yourself forward in a way he wouldn’t notice, your feet eventually met the floor. Carefully, you tip-toed out of the room, avoiding any creaky floorboards. 

When you finally made it to the hallway, your hand reached for the telephone. He was expecting your call tonight, and you’d rather not find out what would happen if you didn’t follow orders. As you lifted the receiver, a hand covered yours. 

He was right behind you and his hand held yours down. He didn’t grip your fingers, which somehow felt worse than if he had. You could feel him looking down at you with an expression you’d never seen before. It wasn’t exactly anger, rather something much colder.

“Who are you calling?” his voice was low, dangerous. 

Your brain short-circuited. You had to choose: face Vito’s wrath or Galante. They were both equally terrifying options. 

You turned to look him in the eye. Betting you could get out of this dilemma with a lie you tested, “No one.”

His jaw tightened, “Try again.”

Your eyes darted to the phone, then to the hand over yours. Your lips quivered with uncertainty. You were a dead woman walking. But if you told the truth to Vito, then maybe, in your wildest fantasies, he could protect you from Galante. 

He’d proven himself to be different from the start. Maybe you could trust him, just this once.

“Galante,” you answered. 

Vito’s hand didn’t move. His face grew worse. He was processing something much more terrifying than anger. It was something harder, like the way you’d face vengeance incarnate. Heat rose in his cheeks as he reddened. 

You continued, spilling everything you could, “He–I’m here to watch you. To tell him what you’re up to.” Your breathing grew erratic, and you had to pause before begging, “I didn’t want to do this, any of this. I didn’t have a choice V–”

He didn’t let you finish his name before interrupting, "Neither did I.” 

He spoke through gritted teeth. It was scarier than if he had yelled at you. 

“Get out,” he ordered. 

“What?” you were taken aback.

“Go.”

Where would you go? This was all you had. This place you’d learned to call a home. 

Did he expect you to stay out all night? In a city you barely knew, one riddled with his enemies?

You questioned him like you had a choice. But you never really did.

Turning around, you marched down the hall and through the front door, shutting it quietly. 

He wasn’t different.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

The night was warm for January. You’d walked down the stairs of the second floor, past your property and well into the River Row district when you’d noticed. Tears kept rolling down your cheeks as your hands clutched your arms. 

You hadn’t the energy to grab a jacket before you’d left, so now stuck in a nightgown and some shows, you had grown quiet cold and tired. An hour into your walk you’d gone past familiar houses to a neighborhood you couldn’t recognize. Your feet were tired beyond measure, practically cramping now. 

You stopped by a neighborhood filled with shotgun houses with their lights off and a church on the corner that had its door propped open. You sat on the bench outside, closing your eyes. For a while all you could do was focus on the feeling of light wind against your skin.

Then you cried. Everything you’d been holding in since you’d gotten married had finally spilled. The rage, anxiety, hatred and fear. You couldn’t do this anymore. Live this kind of life. You couldn’t–

“That’s an awful lot of tears to start the day.”

You looked up. 

An older man stood at the church steps, right in front of you. He was looking at you with a kindness that couldn’t be mistaken for pity. 

“Sorry,” you managed after calming yourself. 

“Don’t be. The bench is free.” He came down the steps and sat at the other end of it. His hands rested on his knees as he looked at you. “I’m Father James. You’re not from around here.”

“That obvious?” You eyes were still closed.

“What’s got you out at this hour?”

You chuckled despite yourself, letting out a ragged, hollow sound. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

You blinked your eyes opened and met the sight of the church door. Sighing you began, “I’m stuck. I don’t know how to have anything of my own. I don’t even know what I’d want if someone asked.”

Father James went quiet, considering your words. Then he laughed. A genuine laugh. “I’ve heard a lot of problems for a lot of different folk. You ain’t no different. I can guarantee almost no one knows what gets them up in the morning. Sure they got their guesses, but no really knows.”

He paused. “Y’know there’s a kitchen two blocks down. It’s called Warm Hearts–serves the neighborhood every day. Good women running it. They’re always short-handed.” He glanced at you sidelong. “You might stick out a little.”

“I noticed.”

“Any help’s good help.” He stood. “You aren’t going to find your answers tonight, but maybe this would be a good start.”

He retreated up the church steps and back inside. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

It was past three when you came back up the road toward the house. The lights were still on. Through the front window of the second floor, you could see movement. Someone was pacing back and forth. It went on for several moments as you watched from the road. 

When you clicked open the front door, he appeared in the hall. His eyebrows were furrowed, and a frown was plastered across his face. He’d shown you more emotion tonight than in four months. 

“I wasn’t–” he started.

“I’m going to bed,” you said. 

You didn’t give him the chance to finish his sentence as you went to the bedroom. You could hear him following, though.

⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅∙ ∘☽༓☾∘ •⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅

◃ previous ◃ ▐▐ ▹ next ▹

Vito Scaletta had learned to stop noticing things long ago. Observations led to questions he’d never be able to answer in his line of work, so he’d found it best to keep his head down until he needed to hold it up. The odors of an unchecked city, the cold of an especially cruel winter, and the guilt stemming from duty were all things he had no business involving himself in. Feeling was a luxury reserved for made men.

He was sitting at Joe’s kitchen table when you walked in. 

Joe had called him over for lunch, which, by Joe’s standards, meant he needed help cleaning up his apartment with the prospect of scrounging up enough unexpired leftovers in a cluttered fridge to call a meal. 

Joe had a tendency to be Vito’s absolute opposite. He was loud, chatty, and always had a broad on his arm. Yet, despite their stark difference, the two got along like brothers. 

Continuing to flip through his newspaper, Vito heard a key turn on the door leading into Joe’s apartment. Joe was in the bathroom and seemed unbothered by the sound. Vito assumed it was probably one of the women who’d spent the night at the apartment. They probably returned to retrieve some item of clothing.  

Heels clicked on the hardwood floor as they made their way inside. Vito heard a heavy paper bag being set down on the kitchen counter. 

He looked up.

You were standing in the kitchen with your coat still on and your hair still disheveled from the wind blowing outside, looking at Vito. 

“You must by Vito,” you remarked, recalling the vague descriptions of his best friend that Joe would tell you over the phone.  

He didn’t answer you immediately, instead looking you over with curiosity.  

“Yeah,” he finally said. “That’s me.”

You introduced yourself and continued to look at the man from a distance. When neither of you moved to shake hands, Vito raised a brow. You took it as a sign of skepticism, clarifying, “I'm Joe’s sister. He talks a lot about you.”

“Talks a lot about everybody,” Vito responded. You let out a chuckle, cut short as Vito finished, “Not much about you, though.”

You couldn’t tell if it was a dig at you or just a simple observation that he’d made, but you decided to answer, “Guess I’m just that special.” 

Joe emerged from the bathroom at that moment like a force of nature, arms wide and voice ricocheting off the walls. “You’re early!”

He wrapped you in a hug that was tight enough to almost crack your ribs. Over Joe’s shoulder, your eyes met Vito’s again.

He looked away first. 

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

You stayed at the apartment for three days and saw Vito visit from dusk till dawn each day. You would have thought the two were unemployed with the amount of time they’d spent at the apartment. However, you’d hear the entrance door click in the dead of night, and you’d know Joe was out doing things he couldn’t tell you about. It wasn’t your place to question him, nor was it your place to stop him. Joe was your big brother, and as much as you wanted to protect him, his obligation to keep you safe was much bigger.

In the daytime, you’d grown quite accustomed to the sight of Vito lounging around the living room couch with his feet propped up on a coffee table and his hands holding onto a cigarette like he owned the place. 

More than anything in the world, you desired the satisfaction of knowing what exactly your brother was up to. Though you knew not to question Joe, no one said anything about Vito. 

On the evening of the second day of your stay, Joe had fallen asleep in his chair and left the two of you to talk quietly amongst yourselves. 

You asked, “What do you actually do?”

“Same thing as Joe,” he answered, busying himself with his hands. 

“Joe’s been telling me he’s in sales.”

“Yeah, we make lots of ‘em every day.” 

You looked at him for a long moment over the rim of your coffee cup. “This isn’t an interrogation. I’m just asking.”

“And I’m answering.” 

You huffed in frustration. This conversation was going nowhere. 

“Do you like it–sales?” you questioned.

That wasn’t a question Vito had been asked before. Sure, he’d get questions about whether he was good at it, whether he was careful enough, whether he deserved to be there, and whether he had enough sense to follow orders. But he’d never been asked for his input. His feelings. Of course, they were never any of his business to begin with. 

“Sometimes,” he answered. “Sometimes it’s just what it is.”

You nodded, accepting the response. His words satisfied your curiosity more than any real truth would have. Safety didn’t matter when it came to happiness. And if Vito was happy, then Joe would be tenfold. That was all you needed to know.

You quickly changed gears after that, asking Vito about his time in the army. Vito found himself talking about things he’d never thought he’d ever bring up, especially to a stranger like you. He described death and decay as well as the joy of freedom and the delight of little victories. You listened all the same at the edge of your seat.

Vito had left the apartment quieter than you’d ever seen him, but he was also happier in the same way. He had a smile he’d been trying to hide all evening plastered across his face as he left. You were strange to him in the scariest way.

He always kept his head down, but you made him want to look up at the sun. A part of him wanted to blind himself in an attempt to understand what exactly it was about you that made him feel like the world wasn’t black and white.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Four months late, Vito was at Joe’s apartment when the phone rang. 

Joe was in the bedroom looking for his favorite shirt among the pile of dirty laundry that had been accumulating for a week now. He hollered for Vito to answer the ringing machine in his stead. 

Picking up the receiver, Vito said, “Yeah?”

There was a pause. Then a familiar voice spoke, “You aren’t Joe.”

His chest turned, hearing your voice. There was something so intriguing about it that made him want to hear more.

“It’s Vito,” he said. “Joe's getting dressed. He’s got a dinner date.” 

“Vito. Right. Hi.” Your voice grew more chipper this time. 

For lack of better words, Vito reciprocated, “Hey.” 

That forced a chuckle out of you, and Vito found himself smiling without realizing it. When neither of you knew what to say next, Vito blurted out, “How are you?”

“Good. Just busy with work.” You droned on about specifics regarding your job. It all sounded mundane to you, but the more you spoke, the more you could hear Vito’s amusement at your suffering. 

Vito ended the conversation by leaving you his number. You’d quickly scribbled the digits on your palm with a pen, contemplating whether you’d ever actually call him. 

Turns out Vito was an even better conversationalist when he had the time. 

You’d called Vito back a few days later, testing the waters. Under the guise that you couldn’t get a hold of Joe, you attempted to learn more about your brother’s best friend. One off-handed phone call turned into a near-weekly ritual of you both filling each other in on all kinds of things that didn’t matter. About Empire Bay in the winter. About a restaurant you’d been meaning to try out. About all kinds of small things that had built pieces of you. 

A few months of these little conversations had culminated in this moment. Vito had been so absorbed in your conversation that he almost didn’t register it–a voice in the background on your end. It sounded like it belonged to another man standing pretty close to you. 

His grip tightened on the receiver when he let his skepticism take control of him. 

“Anyone with you?” He asked, curiosity getting the best of him. He had no right to ask, no right to an answer, no right to you. But a part of him needed it.

“Just a friend,” you answered, easy and unbothered. “He’s driving me to the station tomorrow, so I made him come for dinner.”

You reduced your volume to a whisper, as if sharing a secret that only needed to be between the two of you. “He makes for terrible company, but he has a car.”

A friend. You had said it with an indifference someone would possess when meeting a stranger. But Vito didn’t hear that. He heard a man’s voice in your apartment. A man who’d been able to go somewhere he never had. A man who’d probably known you in a way Vito never could.

“Right,” his voice came out flat.

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah. Fine. You want me to get Joe?”

A beat of unbearable silence for both of you ensued until you finally broke it. “No, it’s alright. Talk later?”

Vito didn’t have it in him to answer. Heat rose to his cheeks, and his knuckles had gone white from gripping the phone. He set down the receiver without another word. Putting on a coat, he trekked out of his apartment, hoping the winter air of Empire Bay could cool him down.

He shouldn't be upset. There was no reason for him to be. 

Lighting a cigarette at the steps that led into his apartment building, all Vito could think about was you. He shouldn’t be upset, but he was. He would stay upset, because his feelings were finally coming to the surface.

Emotions were things he’d rather not confront, for with happiness came sadness, with love came guilt. He wasn’t strong enough for that.

Finishing the cigarette, he settled on a realization. As long as you were in the picture, he would never be fine.

·𐡸· ·༺ ··𐫱·· ༻· ·𐡷·

Vito knew you were coming–Joe had mentioned it three times in two weeks. He had not thought about your return constantly. He had not run your conversation through his head for the umpteenth time. And he had definitely not looked like what you would think when you saw him again–whether you would smile or frown, laugh or sigh. 

When you walked into Joe’s apartment on a Thursday afternoon, Vito was sitting on the couch, looking at the door like he’d been anticipating your arrival for hours now. 

He wasn’t one to show off his excitement, but his emotions got the better of him when he chirped, “Hey! Good trip?” 

You looked at him as you answered, “Fine. Train was late.”

“They’re always late,” he joked, hoping it would kick off a conversation like it always had. 

“That’s what I said.”

Joe was already talking over both of you, pulling your bags inside, making dinner arrangements, and listing off all the things he planned to do together with you in town. Vito let himself fade into the background of Joe’s enthusiasm, but his eyes stayed trained on you the entire time. 

He was aware of when you laughed, when you went quiet to let Joe continue his tangents, and when you looked at Vito from across the table with an expression that was too emotionless. Things weren’t okay with you.

Was it because of how you’d left your last conversation hanging in uncertainty? Or was it because of him, your friend? Perhaps even boyfriend. 

A sense of resentment brewed within Vito. It was unreasonable to hate a man he’d never met, but if it had created such a rift between the two of you, then maybe the anger wasn’t so unwarranted. 

On the third night of your stay, Vito had slept over as well. 

Well, he hadn’t actually slept. He couldn’t.

It wasn’t a new problem for him, as Empire Bay wasn’t the safest city on Earth for a guy like him. Voices always chattered in the alley below. There was always a foghorn from the harbor. And the fear of someone coming at him for revenge always lingered like a shadow. 

He’d been sleeping in his trousers and undershirt on the couch, too tired to change into anything else. When he couldn’t close his eyes anymore, Vito headed to the balcony for a cigarette. 

You were already standing there at the handrail, wearing a robe and slippers. You observed the Empire Bay skyline in all its glory–range lights illuminate dark waters and shadowed streets. The city was both a place of hope and dread, melding together into the mundane. 

You turned your head when you heard Vito step onto the balcony. Looking back into the expanse of the city you sparked, “Joe doesn’t know I smoke.”

“He knows,” Vito responded. 

You rolled your eyes. Like hell he’d know.

Vito leaned on the railing beside you, leaving a careful space between you both, and lit his own cigarette. For a few minutes, it felt as though you were the only people in the entire city, watching from above like your ruled it. 

“It’s beautiful at night.” You broke the silence.

Vito chuckled in his head. He didn’t know anyone who’d call Empire Bay beautiful. 

“You grew up here.” He added. 

“I left when I was twelve. It’s not the same thing.” 

Maybe that’s why Vito felt the way he did with you. You gave him another perspective. A fresh look at the world. One untainted by deeds that only the underprivileged are forced to bear. 

“How about you? What do you see?” You gestured to the buildings ahead.

“Home.” He looked at you as he spoke. 

When you felt a pair of eyes on you, you turned to Vito. Your eyes met his gaze and you couldn’t look away. He was thinking about something dangerous, and you realized exactly what it was. 

You started, “Home doesn’t exist y’know.”

“Maybe not in a place. Maybe in people. A per–”

“Love isn’t real, Vito.”

He blinked.

“I don’t mean that to be–” you turned back to the railing. “I’ve seen what love does to people. Love brought me at the expense of Joe’s mother. Love brought a bastard to the world and destroyed a family. There’s a reason all Joe does is fuck around. He doesn’t believe in it either.” 

You let out a sigh. “Love is just another word for lust in disguise.” 

“Then maybe this isn’t love. I can’t put it into words, but what I feel isn’t passive. There’s something about you–”

“There’s always something. My body, my lips, my voice.”

“Your stupid humor and your fleeting presence. You're always gone before I can say goodbye, and you’re too kind to leave things on a bad note. You’re everything I’m not, and I need that to feel whole. So, maybe this is some kind of fulfillment.”

You stayed silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Then you laughed. “You are a desperate, desperate man, Vito.”

“Only for you.”

You reached over and took the practically gone cigarette from his fingers and dropped it over the railing along with yours. 

“You’ve got two minutes, handsome. Show me what you got.” 

He took your words as an invitation to shuffle closer to your body. You let him close the distance. He turned your head to face him with gentle fingers on your chin. You leaned into his touch, falling into a kiss you’d never thought you’d have. 

For the first time, you’d fallen silent, and Vito seemed consumed by every emotion imaginable. 

Maybe love was real.

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A/N: As always, let me know what y'all think of this story! I'm also working on more Vito content, so stay tuned :D

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The uninvited memory crossed your mind as it often did when your body began to run out of fumes. 

You were in your therapist’s office, sitting across from her. Leaning against your chair, all you could do was stare at the woman. 

“What do you want”, she had asked. The question wasn’t pointed at anything. It was rather open ended. What did you want from this session, from yourself, from life.

“I want answers,” you’d replied. 

You weren’t sure if that was the truth, or just a string of words to mislead your therapist from digging any deeper into your psyche. Your session had ended without resolution, as most of them did.

Now, with Leon’s arm draped around your neck and Grace walking slightly ahead, you walked down a catwalk. A few feet in front of you stood the same platform you’d fallen from, with the blonde stranger–Zeno, pacing about. 

This, you thought. The calmness of accepting the inevitable. The weight of Leon on you. The hope that a tomorrow still exists with you both in it. This was what you wanted.

You looked at Leon’s profile. His breathing was steady and his focus all the same. 

When you finally stepped onto the circular platform, Leon collapsed from exhaustion. You kneeled beside him, making sure that he was still alive. 

Grace, on the other hand, began negotiating your lives with Zeno. If she did what he asked, then they’d make it out of here in one piece. When the blonde man agreed, you reached an arm out to Grace, stopping her.

“Whatever you choose,” you said quietly, “do what you think is right. Not what you’re supposed to do.” You paused feeling the weight of the dog tags in your pocket and Leon’s body under your touch. “I spent a long time motivated by obligation, and look where that got us. But this–it’s bigger than all of us. Spencer knew that when he made Elpis.” 

You held her eyes, as you finished, “Do what you think is right.”

Graced held your gaze for a moment before turning to walk to the terminal. Leon was still coughing as you absentmindedly rubbed circles on his back, watching the girl. 

The machine powered up.

You’d expected an aggressive roar or some grand gesture to mark the release of the deadliest virus to date, but there was only a faint hum. The machine at the center glowed a brighter orange before hissing open one of its compartments. 

An array of six vials emerged from the structure.

Grace reached for one. Her voice had a higher pitch to it as she said, “Spencer regretted what he did! He n–”

Zeno had crossed the platform and pushed Grace out of the way to grab a vial of his own. He walked toward you and Leon as he held up the container of amber liquid. 

You attempted to shield Leon with your body, holding an arm in front of him. However, Leon was too prideful to let you. He’d managed to lift himself from a lying position to sitting on his knees, and gently nudged your arm down. 

Towering over you now, Zeno injected the vial into his neck. “Mr. Kennedy, I give you the honor of experiencing my power firsthand.”

Behind him Grace voiced, “I–I’m not sure Elpis is what you think it is. There’s nothing special about me. I–I was never any key. Spencer wanted to make amends. He…”

As she spoke, you observed the black scars from the T-virus disappear from his face. He grew more and more aggravated as he realized something. Turning back to Grace, you were scared he was going to hurt her. 

Before you could move, you felt Leon lunge past you and assault Zeno. Zeno was able to throw him off, but it seemed a laborious task for him. He didn’t use his inhuman speed nor his otherworldly strength. He couldn’t. His powers were gone. 

Grace continued, “Elpis is Spencer’s atonement. It’s an antiviral.”

You heard a laugh echo from the catwalk. Turning your head, you saw a grey skinned giant walking toward the platform. He threw a familiar mask in the abyss below. It was Victor. He hadn’t died yet.

Before he could strike, or Zeno could get up, you rushed to Grace and Leon. Grabbing the vial from the girl, you stuck the syringe into Leon’s arm, praying Grace was right. As Victor began to monologue, you could only watch Leon, wanting to make sure he was okay.

When you looked up again, Zeno’s head had been cut clean off and Victor’s left arm was replaced by a tentacle. The makeshift arm stretched forward, cut into Grace’s waist and slashed the surface of your abdomen. You keeled over in pain. 

Leon seemed much stronger now as he sat up. This time, he held your weight against his as your hand held onto your fresh injury. 

The pain was so intense, everything seemed to blur together. Your hand managed to find his, and without thinking, you interlaced your fingers. The subtle warmth rising in his digits was all the invitation you needed to collapse. 

·༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺·

Sound returned before light.

Leon’s voice was low and urgent as he said Grace’s name. You could hear her hiss before answering that she couldn’t do what he’d asked. 

Then his voice came again, closer, saying your name. You wanted to answer, but your throat was tight and refused to let any sound emit from it. When you didn’t speak for a minute, you felt rough hands find your neck and your pulse. 

Then his arms came around you and dragged you up against his chest. The darkness felt less cold as you felt his chin on the top of your head. The warmth he shared made your ordeal just a little more bearable. 

His fingers moved slowly, up and down against your hand. You felt Grace settle against your other side, her hand on your leg. 

Was this it? You asked yourself. Was this enough? 

No. You weren’t ready for your life to end, not until you made your amends. Not until you fixed your mistakes.

You’d let Doug go, keeping your thoughts buried in your mind. But Leon was worth more than that. He was worth the truth that you had refused to acknowledge. He was what you needed. 

He had to know he’d saved someone. He saved you. 

“I guess this is it then,” Grace whispered into the darkness. 

You mustered all your strength to the fingers in your right hand, and softly squeezed Leon’s hand. All you could do now was hope he understood.

A moment of silence transpired.

Then, brightness flooded every sense. You stirred against Leon’s hold with an involuntary response of your hand shielding your eye from the source of the blinding light. Through semi-blurred vision, you saw someone descending on a rope. 

He wore tactical gear and multiple lenses on a specialized mask. His shirt had a patch on its side that you swore read: BSAA. 

When the figure approached, you felt Leon’s arm tighten. 

“Leon S. Kennedy?” the stranger asked. 

“Depends who’s asking,” Leon answered. 

The figure crouched in front of you. His voice softened as he elaborated, “Mr. Kennedy. I have a message from Captain Redfield.”

·༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺·

In the open air, among the orchestrated chaos of a rescue operation with patrol vehicles, and BSAA personnel moving about, you were placed at the back of an ambulance with a thermal blanket and an IV.

Your shoulder and abdomen had been patched up, and you were given some medicine to numb the pain for a while. When the doctor had left you alone, your first instinct was to search for Leon with your eyes. He was talking to Grace a few meters away from you. By the time he turned away from her, she was almost smiling.

Then, Leon turned to walk toward you. His face had a color in it that hadn’t been there for hours, maybe even years. His shoulders weren’t hunched anymore either. He wore a cheeky smile, pulling off his gloves as he walked. 

“What’s got you so happy?” you asked him as he approached. 

“Just thinking,” he answered. His tone was just how you’d remembered it. Back when Leon was just Leon.

Leon settled on the seat beside you, and you took the action as an invitation to lean your head on him. His arm came around you as you settled in the new position.

“About?” you questioned, eyes closing.

“Dinner’s on me tonight.”

You considered what he said for a moment. The restaurant with the white tablecloths and candles. The corner table you’d imagined a hundred times before.

You turned your head, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and felt him go very still for a second. It didn’t take him long to speak up. 

“Or,” he began, teasing, “we skip dinner.” 

“Like hell we’re skipping dinner.”

He heartily laughed at your words. You could get used to this.

·༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺·

One Week Later - October 17, 2026

The shop was the kind of store Leon would never have chosen for himself, but he had walked into it without complaint as you led him in.

The man wore dark jeans and a jacket that hadn’t been through hell. His hands were bare. And he had a subtle smile plastered on his face. He looked like himself. Like your Leon. 

The thought of him actually being yours allowed butterflies to spread through your chest. 

“As I recall,” you said, running your hand along a rack of clothes, “I was going to get my money’s worth if I survived.”

“As I recall,” he answered, standing behind you with the resigned humor of a man holding several bags, “you said you owed me for the shirt.”

“I did say that,” you pulled out a shirt, examined it, and then put it back. “How about a new proposition. I get to continue my shopping spree and maybe, I’ll let you pick something for yourself.” 

Leon let out a sound that was a mix of a laugh and a sigh. “Quite the saint, huh?”

You smiled.

You turned your head, observing a mannequin with a leather jacket on it. It reminded you of Doug. Maybe it was a sign. If he were here right now, he’d know you changed. For the better. You were trying to be worth the trouble. You were sure he’d know. He’d even encourage the new you.

“Hey,” Leon’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You turned to him. His hand found yours before you could say anything, wrapping around your pointer finger. You hadn’t even realized you’d been tapping it against your thigh. But he’d noticed.

Leon moved ahead of you, looking at some clothes on his own. You stood in the same spot, simply admiring him. This is what you wanted all along. 

The peace of consistency. Someone to change for. You wanted Leon.

“I love you,” you called out.

Leon was less than a foot away from you when he quickly answered, “Love ya too, sweetheart.”

Who knew you could find love this late in life. A love that bloomed in waiting rooms and terrible dinners. A love that thrived in the ruins of a dead city. It had to be love, for it had persevered through the mundane and the terrible. 

Leon checked his watch as you approached him. “We’re going to be late if we don’t leave soon.”

You had another reservation for two at the restaurant. And for the first time, in a very long time, later felt like somewhere you were actually going.

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A/N: AHHH! The series is finally over! I'd love to know your thoughts on my characterization of Leon of on the endings. If you read both endings, which one was your favorite?

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taglist: @sanemishina @callielr @memegord @vladslovetale @ilovechanyeol16 @sharkalina666 @echo9821 @nekobiii @sammypotato @ninaminaromina

◃ previous ◃ ▐▐ ▹ next ▹ (SAD ENDING)

Present Day - October 9, 2026

Grace’s footsteps gave way to her presence. The sound of feet hitting the tiled ground kept you alert. With your weapon raised as Leon rested on you, you expectantly waited for an assailant to come rushing from the corner. Instead, Grace skidded to a stop as she entered the hall, staring at the gun.

Registering that it was you, Grace proceeded forward. Her voice faltered as she questioned, “How is he? Is he ok?” 

Slowly, Leon stirred, answering, “Hey you. I was just resting my eyes.”

You let out a faint smile as you helped him stand. As you draped Leon’s arm around your neck, you could feel him stare at you. It felt soft, as if he were admiring you. He held his gaze for just a moment longer before Grace finally opened the door.

The parting orange walls revealed a catwalk that led back to the platform you’d fallen from. At the center, the blonde stranger–Zeno–paced back and forth.

You clumsily made your way forward with more than half of Leon’s bodyweight leaning on you. Halfway down the walkway, you had to stop. In the midst of you readjusting Leon’s arm, Grace turned to you and said, “I have an idea.”

Between pants, Leon answered, “I trust you. I trust you.”

You didn’t say anything. You held his weight and kept walking. 

When you finally reached the platform, Zeno stood smoking a cigarette. He had the composure of a man who knew he’d already won. Throwing the drag on the ground and rubbing it with the heel of his foot, the man made slow steps toward the three of you.

Leon’s legs gave way to his body as Zeno got closer. His arm had caught your neck in the fall and you went down with him. You were able to land on your knee. Crouching down beside the fallen man on the floor, your right hand held onto his side hoping to make sure he was still okay. The other hand hovered over your holstered weapon.

Grace stepped in front of both of you, announcing, “I know the password. But I’ll enter it only if you let them live.”

Zeno nodded in agreement. 

Still at Leon’s side as he began to cough up blood, you watched as Grace proceeded to the terminal at the center of the platform. You couldn’t watch as she typed in her answer, so instead, you turned to face Leon. His eyes were open, searching for something. His mouth was moving.

You leaned down and simply reassured, “It’s okay. Save your voice.”

His jaw tightened in reluctance, but he complied nonetheless. 

You turned back to Grace, watching her shaking fingers on the keyboard. Three years of unravelling the conspiracy that took Doug’s life had led you here. This was where it had to end, where Doug had to find his peace. Where you had to find yours. 

In the next second, the machine powered down with a low hum. The buzz of electricity that coursed throughout the room fell silent, and the orange lights began to dim. 

“What did you do?” Zeno questioned through bared teeth. 

The platform began to creak as he spoke. The floor shook violently. Leon was gone from your touch. He wasn’t on the ground anymore.

“I did what I had to.” Grace answered,

Leon was upright, lunging toward Zeno with the momentum of a man who decided he wasn’t ready to die just yet. His hand came to your shoulder and pushed it. Not expecting such a force, you were thrown back a few steps toward the catwalk. 

You looked at him quizically, but before you could say anything, Leon commanded, “Go! Get her safe.”

His axe landed on the side of Zeno’s neck, spouting blood everywhere. Grace took that as an opportunity to run toward you. 

The platform snapped from the catwalk, creating a lateral divide. You had managed to climb onto the walkway, and held a hand out for Grace. 

“I’m right behind you!” Leon yelled as he held up the girl by her waist. 

You grabbed her arms and pulled her toward you. Grace landed on top of you and rolled to the hand rail on the catwalk. Gathering your bearings, you held out your hand again. This time, for Leon.

He was still down below, looking up at you with no inclination to move. He just stood there. The platform creaked again, distancing you further from the platform.

“Leon?” You didn’t understand why he wasn’t taking your hand. Or perhaps, you didn’t want to understand. 

You yelled, “Leon! Please, please,” your words barely managed to escape through sobs. “You don’t have to do this, please Leon, just take my hand!”

Heat rose in your chest and your hand suddenly felt very heavy. Your face tightened from the streaks of salty water that washed your cheeks. He couldn’t leave.

Leon turned his back to you, setting his sights on Zeno. You knew what he was planning to do, and you wanted to hate him for it. This was suicide, even for the seemingly inhuman Leon Kennedy. He was going to die trying to save you both.

Your palm went to your face, rubbing at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry but the tears wouldn’t stop.

Zeno’s fist hit Leon’s stomach. The force of the impact made him collapse down on one knee. In that moment, he’d coughed up enough blood to fill a wine bottle. But he got up, nevertheless. 

He came at Zeno from behind, and Zeno quickly dodged the attack. In a blur, he appeared behind Leon. The blonde wrapped his fingers around Leon’s wrist and you heard a crack. The sound of solid bone splitting in two. 

Grace’s fingernails dug into your waist, but the pain didn’t matter. Her painful cries seemed to fall into the background. Your hands were still shaking.

Zeno had managed to put Leon on his knees again. Leon wheezed as he turned his head up. His eyes found yours. 

Across the width of the enormous room and through the depth of fourteen months of friendship, Leon looked to you as if his eyes could say everything he wanted to say. As if they could understand everything you held inside. 

“At least,” he began. His voice was soft but loud enough to be heard amongst the ruckus of the walls falling apart. “I could save you.”

Your lips moved to say something, but nothing came out.

He wasn’t supposed to say that. Not like this. 

Grace’s voice broke over yelling his name. You were beside her, hoping your heart wouldn’t beat its way out of your chest. Hoping that the sound of it shattering wasn’t too loud. Hoping this was a nightmare you could wake up from.

All that remained of reality now was Leon standing on a sinking platform with his mouth red and his eyes on yours, giving you the faintest smile. The kind of smile that had started all those months ago in a therapist office. The kind that would greet you as you found it at a diner at three in the morning.

You should have gone to that restaurant. You should have been on honest from the start. You should have told him the truth about what you felt.

Zeno raised the gun. Leon didn’t look at it. He kept his eyes on yours. 

He wasn’t afraid. He looked, if anything, like a man who had arrived somewhere he understood. 

You smiled back.

The gun went off. 

You immediately shut your eyes and forced Grace into a hug so she wouldn’t have to see the aftermath. Grace kept yelling no, no, no into your chest as she gripped you. You could feel hot tears wet your new shirt. The one Leon had bought.

This was your fault.

That was a fact. He wouldn’t have been here if not for you. You got too involved, and that led him down a path no one should have gone through.

Doug. Now Leon. 

It had to be your fault. 

Grace’s weight had completely fallen onto you. When she’d gone still, tired from her crying, you urged for her to get up. Leon had died for you both to live. You were going to make sure you made it out of here alive.

·༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺·

The BSAA had sent reinforcements via helicopter. You had no clue how they knew you were here but you didn’t question it. 

All you could think about was what Leon had said. At least I could save you.

You wanted to tell him he was wrong. He’d saved you a long time ago.

You wanted to answer him, tell him how he’d saved you. How he could’ve kept you safe. 

The helicopter shining a light on both you and Grace had finally landed. From it emerged a man decked in tactical gear.

“Is Agent Kennedy here?”

Agent Kennedy was a name you hadn’t quite registered yet. The man who possessed that name was still a stranger to you. But the man who you’d fought with tonight, who you’d befriended within the last year, he was Leon to you. Your Leon. 

You remembered how he had looked in the amber light. The way his face shone as if you were looking at it during sunset. His eyes were so present, and his smile so real. At least you knew he died happy. 

“He’s on vacation,” you answered.

·༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺··༻𐫱༺·

One Year Later - October 9, 2027

The rain had been going since morning. It had remained steady all morning only to get worse once you’d ventured outside your apartment. Every road seemed to be flooded, except for the one that lead into the graveyard. 

You’d come bearing gifts with your jacket pockets full. They mainly contained the dog tags you’d collected from the tent in Raccoon City. You’d spent the better part of the last year making calls and locating their families. The whole ordeal worked our better in your head than it did in reality. 

It didn’t give you any sense of closure either, rather, more like a debt paid in the only form you could think of. This was more for you than it was for them anyway.

In the graveyard, you had stopped by a familiar grave. 

You crouched down beside Doug’s stone, placing down his dog tags in front of the object. You pulled the polaroid from the inside of your pocket. The image of just the two of you laughing in the bar. Your eyes stayed on his face.

You set the polaroid down beside the dog tags, watching as raindrops fell on the photo. 

Then you stood up and moved down a few rows of graves to a much newer one. 

Leon’s stone was more polished. Chris had arranged for the funeral and the grave after you got back from Raccoon. He’d berated you about the incident, and you told him all that you knew. There was no point in hiding anything at that point. Elpis was destroyed after all. How could things get worse?

You crouched by the grave and began brushing away the leaves that had fallen on the stone. When it was clean, you sat back on your heels and stared at it. 

Then, you pulled out the photograph. The one Grace had taken on her phone three months after Leon’s death when you and her met up for some coffee. You didn’t have any photos with Leon, but you hoped this would be a close second. After all, he died for this.

You pushed the photograph into the soft earth at the base of the stone, pressing it until the mud closed over the edge. You hoped that you could bury it with him. That should his bodiless casket ever see the photo, he’d know his death wasn’t in vain. 

You sat, soaking under the rain. Your hood did little to protect you from the downpour. 

The city went about its business beyond the graveyard’s walls. Somewhere a car honked its horn. Somewhere a siren went off. The ordinary, indifferent machinery of a world that had not paused for any of this. A world that hadn’t even realized that it had lost a life worth eight billion.

And along with it, yours. Two things had died that day. Leon and the chance for you to every feel whole again.

An umbrella appeared above your head. You looked up.

Grace stood above you with both hands on the umbrella handle, titling it to shelter you both from the rain. She was looking at the stone with an expression bordering grief. She’d coped better than you through all of this, and while she didn’t show it as much, she still missed Leon.

She’d been in the city for three months now. The investigation into Elpis and the Raccoon City surviors’ murders had officially been closed. Grace had testified, reported and debriefed everything she knew. Then she’d called you asking if you wanted to chat before returning to your chaotic lives. 

You stood up.

Maybe you’d never find what you’d felt with Leon again, but at least you could try. You weren’t going to make the same mistake a third time. 

“Let’s go,” you said. You put on a genuine smile–one that had taken you months to form. “We’ve got a reservation, don’t we?”

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A/N: AHHH! The series is finally over! I'd love to know your thoughts on my characterization of Leon of on the endings. If you read both endings, which one was your favorite?

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