𝘾𝙖𝙨 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙣𝙚𝙙𝙮

/// THE MISSION ///

Welcome to the typewriter. This terminal is a dedicated feed for DSO survival intel. Expect a mix of field reports from the Spain incident, classified lore deep-dives, and tactical simulations (X Readers) for other agents in the field.

/// THE AGENT ///

Codename: Cas (Caslyn)

Status: DSO Agent | 23

Current Objective: Surviving a "working vacation" in Spain with a partner who thinks he’s a comedian.

/// ACCESS FILES ///

You can find the DSO Master Archive here

• [FIELD INTEL]: Lore theories and forensic analysis.

• [JOINT OPS]: Logs featuring Agent S. Kennedy (Leon x Caslyn).

• [SIMULATIONS]: X Reader writes and other character scenarios.

/// DO NOT INTERACT /// Keep scrolling if you fall into these categories. I will block you faster than a suplex.

Minors (under 18).

Umbrella sympathizers, Los Iluminados cultists, or bioterrorists.

Bigots, creeps, and drama starters.

WARNING: Sexy time

WARNING: things are getting frisky

Also if you’d want to have your own OC or reader insert type thing just request it in my inbox and I’ll get to it!

Xoxo

Oh my god lovey please 😭😭 my heart can’t handle all of the encouragement

I’m glad you’re enjoying everything!

Caslyn just sat there. Frozen.

The slasher movie kept playing in the background, casting erratic, flashing blue light across the living room, but neither of them was watching the damn TV. The teenager on the screen was screaming her lungs out, but the only thing Caslyn could hear was the blood roaring in her own ears.

Her brain had completely flatlined. The hyperactive smartass was gone, entirely short-circuited. She blinked once. Twice. Her hands were still hovering in the air before they slowly dropped back down, her fingers curling tightly into the soft fabric of Leon’s henley.

She swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. The gears in her head were practically grinding together, desperately scrambling to find the cold, clinical shield he’d just completely shattered.

She cleared her throat, aggressively smoothing out the wrinkles she was making in his shirt, refusing to look him in the eye.

"My heart rate just spiked to a hundred and twenty," Caslyn blurted out. Her voice was slightly breathless, but she was trying so damn hard to force it into a deadpan monotone. "That’s a massive adrenaline dump. Triggered fight or flight. That was a localized ambush, Kennedy. You completely violated tactical spacing."

Leon let out a low, rough laugh. The sound vibrated right through his chest and under her hands. He didn't let her go. His hand was still resting heavy and warm on the back of her neck, his thumb lazily stroking the sensitive skin right below her hairline.

"Is that what we’re calling it?" Leon grunted, a slow, incredibly smug smirk spreading across his face.

Caslyn lifted her chin, her forensic armor full of cracks but she was trying to duct-tape it back together on the fly. "I'm just stating the physiological facts. My pupil dilation is currently maxed out. Endorphins are actively overriding standard cognitive function. It's a textbook chemical distraction. You couldn't win the argument, so you shut it down."

"You’re scrambling, Cas." Leon leaned in just a fraction of an inch, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He was completely grounded, totally unfazed by her bullshit. "You talk too much when you're nervous. You try to hide behind the math when you lose control of the situation."

Caslyn narrowed her eyes, the sarcastic menace finally fighting her way back up to the surface. She glared at his mouth before snapping her eyes back up to his. "I don't lose control. I'm an analyst. I assess variables."

"Assess this."

Leon shifted his grip. His fingers curled tighter into her loose hair, and he pulled her right back into his space. He kissed her again.

It wasn't a quick ambush this time. It was slower, deeper, deliberate, and completely ruinous.

Caslyn made a soft, wrecked sound in the back of her throat. All the statistics, the physiological facts, and the defensive sarcasm just evaporated into thin air. She didn't even try to hold onto them. Her hands slid up his chest, wrapping around his broad shoulders as she kissed him back, completely surrendering the high ground. She melted against him, the chaotic energy instantly converted into a desperate, heavy pull as her fingers dug into his muscles.

When Leon finally broke it, he didn't go far. He kept his forehead rested against hers. Both of them were breathing heavy, the air in the small living room thick and charged. He let his thumb brush across her cheekbone, feeling the heat rising in her skin.

"Well," Leon rasped, his voice dark, husky, and obnoxiously arrogant. "What's the data saying now, rookie?"

Caslyn kept her eyes closed, her grip still tight on his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping her anchored to the couch.

The television in Leon's living room was illuminating the dark apartment with the blue glow of a 1996 slasher movie.

The silence that had been suffocating them for days was completely gone. In fact, Leon was starting to miss it.

Caslyn was an absolute menace. The cold, stoic, analytical agent who had faced down a mutated Spanish cult without blinking had vanished. In her place was a hyperactive, sarcastic smartass who physically could not stop talking. She was sitting cross-legged on the couch next to him. She was bouncing her knee, gesturing wildly with a piece of popcorn, and utterly destroying the movie playing on the screen.

"I'm just saying, Ghostface is a tactical idiot," Caslyn announced loudly, tossing the popcorn at the TV as the killer tripped over a coffee table. "Look at his center of gravity. He's wearing a floor length robe. It's a massive tripping hazard in a pursuit scenario and his knife grip is completely wrong for a lethal takedown."

Leon sat back against the cushions. He had a beer resting on his stomach. He was just watching her. He had spent the last two hours realizing that her robotic, forensic persona in the field was just survival armor. The real Caslyn was loud, opinionated, and aggressively goofy.

"It's a movie, Cas," Leon grunted, taking a slow pull from his bottle. "They're teenagers. They're supposed to be stupid."

Caslyn whipped her head around to look at him. Her hair was down and flying everywhere as she moved. "Stupidity does not excuse terrible blood spatter physics, Leon. Look at the wall behind the couch. That's supposed to be arterial spray from a severed carotid. The viscosity is completely wrong. It looks like corn syrup and red dye forty. If a heart is pumping at a panicked rate of one hundred and forty beats per minute, the spray pattern should be a distinct arc, not a puddle."

Leon just stared at her. "Are you really doing the math on fake blood right now."

"I'm a professional," Caslyn shot back, practically vibrating with energy. She turned back to the TV, pointing an accusing finger at the main character running up the stairs. "And look at her. Why are you going up? You never go up to the second floor when the exits are on the ground level. She has zero situational awareness. If she was my asset, I would have left her to die."

"Remind me never to let you secure a VIP," Leon murmured.

Caslyn ignored him. She shifted on the couch, pulling her knees to her chest but still talking a mile a minute. "And the local police response time is a joke. The average response time for a priority one distress call is under seven minutes. They have been running around this house for fifteen and don't even get me started on the fact that the killer wiped his blade clean on his sleeve. You can't just wipe away DNA with a polyester blend. The microfibers would trap the hemoglobin, leaving perfectly viable genetic material for a lab tech to sequence. It's sloppy work."

Leon let her go. He watched her mouth moving, completely fascinated by the sheer volume of words she was capable of producing. But after ten solid minutes of hearing about the structural flaws of a Halloween mask, he hit his limit.

"The killer is sloppy, the cops are slow, the victims are idiots," Caslyn continued, turning her head to look at Leon again. "If I was on that crime scene, I would have closed the case in forty eight hours. I mean, all you have to do is look at the angle of the puncture wounds to determine the height of the attacker. It's basic geometry, Leon. Basic."

"Cas."

"What." She didn't even pause for breath. "I'm just saying, if they hired actual forensic consultants for these movies, the killer would be in handcuffs before the second act. The lack of realism is honestly insulting to my profession and another thing."

Leon didn't tell her to shut up. He didn't argue the physics of Hollywood blood. He just moved.

He set his beer on the coffee table with a solid clink. He leaned over, closing the distance between them in a fraction of a second. He slid his hand to the back of her neck, his fingers sinking into her loose hair, and pulled her forward.

He kissed her hard, completely cutting off her rant.

It wasn't gentle, and it wasn't a question. It was heavy, deliberate, and designed to short-circuit her brain completely. Caslyn let out a muffled, shocked sound against his mouth. Her hands flew up, hovering uselessly for a second before she finally grabbed the front of his shirt, her fingers curling tight into the fabric. All that hyperactive, bouncing energy completely flatlined. She melted against him, the sarcastic smartass instantly reduced to absolute zero.

Leon held her there for a long moment, making sure the point was fully made, before he slowly pulled back.

He stayed close. His hand was still gripping the back of her neck, his thumb resting over her racing pulse.

Caslyn just sat there. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted. She blinked twice, staring at him. For the first time all night, she was completely, utterly speechless. Not a single forensic fact left in her head.

Leon let out a rough breath, a slow, arrogant smirk spreading across his face.

Leon's apartment was quiet. It wasn't the suffocating, deadly quiet of the Spanish crypts, but a heavy, civilian quiet that made his ears ring.

Caslyn was sitting cross-legged on his worn leather couch. She had her customized sidearm broken down on his coffee table, meticulously wiping down the slide with a rag. She was wearing a plain black t-shirt and jeans. Her long hair was tied up in a messy clip, a few stray strands falling around her face. She looked completely out of place in his bare, chaotic living room, and yet she fit perfectly.

Leon walked in from the kitchen holding two cold beers. He set one down on a coaster right next to her solvent bottle.

"You have been scrubbing that firing pin for ten minutes, Cas," Leon grunted, dropping onto the other end of the couch. "You're going to strip the finish right off."

Caslyn didn't look up. "Carbon buildup causes friction. Friction causes jams. I'm ensuring optimal performance."

"Right," Leon smirked, taking a pull from his bottle. "Because we are in imminent danger of being attacked by my television."

Caslyn paused. She set the cloth down and finally looked at him. The clinical shield was up, but it was incredibly fragile.

"We have spent sixty eight hours in each other's proximity since returning to US soil," Caslyn stated flatly. "Statistically speaking, this frequency of non operational contact implies a shift in relationship parameters."

Leon let out a low, rough laugh. "Are you trying to mathematically deduce if we are on a date right now?"

A faint flush hit Caslyn's neck. She picked up her beer, actively avoiding his eyes. "I'm simply gathering data. The current variables are unclear."

Leon shifted closer. The amusement dropped from his face. He reached out, taking the cold glass bottle right out of her hand and setting it back on the table. He didn't let her retreat back into her forensic shell. He invaded her space just enough to make her breath hitch.

"There are no variables here, Cas," Leon said. His voice was a low rasp, completely deadpan. "I bought the beer. I cooked the food. You're sitting on my couch cleaning a gun instead of being in your own apartment. If you want to call it a date, call it a date. Stop hiding behind the math."

Caslyn stared at him. Her chest was rising and falling a little faster. The air in the living room suddenly felt exactly like the antechamber in the castle, thick and suffocating.

"Fine," she whispered. Her eyes dropped to his mouth for a split second before snapping back up to his. "It's a date, Leon."

Keep going, but at your own speed. Stay hydrated 💜

The bar was a low-rent hole in the wall a few blocks from the DSO headquarters. It smelled like stale beer and cheap floor wax. It was perfect because it wasn't a sterile apartment and it wasn't a Spanish graveyard.

Leon sat in a booth in the back corner. He was wearing a plain black t-shirt, his hair still damp from a shower he’d taken to try and scrub the memory of the sewers off his skin. He was halfway through a bourbon when the bell over the door chimed.

He didn't have to look up to know it was her. He recognized the rhythm of her boots on the hardwood.

Caslyn slid into the booth across from him. She wasn't wearing her tactical rig or the muddy undershirt from the mission. She had on a dark sweater, but Leon noticed his old bomber jacket was draped over her arm. She still hadn't turned it into logistics.

She did a quick, professional sweep of the room, checking the two exits and the three drunks at the bar before her eyes finally settled on him.

"You look like shit, Kennedy," she said. Her voice was steady, but the cold, clinical edge was slightly softer than it had been forty-eight hours ago.

"Always the charmer," Leon grunted. He slid a glass of gin toward her. He’d ordered it as soon as he saw her pull into the lot. "Two days of silence in that DSO flat and I was ready to start talking to the furniture. How are you holding up?"

Caslyn took a slow sip of the gin, her eyes tracking the movement of the bartender. "My cortisol levels are still twenty percent above baseline. It's a standard post-traumatic response. The lack of external stimuli makes the internal data too loud."

"Always with the science," Leon muttered, leaning back. He watched her for a moment. She was sitting perfectly upright, her shoulders tense, her fingers tapping a restless, rhythmic pattern on the table. She was still waiting for something to jump out of the shadows.

Leon reached out. He didn't grab her wrist this time. He just tapped the table right next to her hand to break her concentration.

"Take a breath, Cas. We aren't in the mud anymore."

The name hit the air and stayed there. He’d never called her that. To the DSO, she was Hale. To him, she’d been the rookie or the partner he had to keep from getting killed. But "Cas" felt right. It felt like the person who’d stayed awake in a crypt just to watch him breathe.

Caslyn froze. Her glass was halfway to her mouth. She stared at him, her pupils dilating as the weight of the nickname settled in. She lowered the glass slowly, her thumb tracing the rim.

"Cas," she repeated. Her voice was barely a whisper.

She looked up at him, and for the first time, the forensic shield didn't just crack. It fell. She looked at him as a person, not a lead agent.

"I suppose you're right, Leon."

Hearing his first name come out of her mouth felt like a physical hit to the chest. It wasn't the way Hunnigan said it, or the way the brass at the DSO said it. It was low, personal, and heavy with everything they hadn't said since the jet ski hit the water.

The tension in the booth shifted. It wasn't about the mission or the Plaga anymore. The air felt thick, the same way it had back in the antechamber before the Merchant ruined the moment.

Leon took a long pull of his bourbon, his eyes locked on hers.

"So," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "What does a forensic genius do with three weeks of mandatory leave?"

Caslyn leaned forward, a small, dangerous smirk playing on her lips. "I imagine she spends it making sure her lead agent doesn't get himself into any more trouble. You're a high maintenance asset, Leon."

The extraction chopper was freezing. The high altitude air was cutting right through the cabin, but the hum of the rotors was the first steady sound Leon had heard in days. It was a hell of a lot better than chanting or chainsaws.

Ashley was curled up in the corner of the transport bench, wrapped in a thermal blanket and finally dead to the world. She earned the rest.

Leon was leaning against the rattling metal hull, his eyes half closed. He was exhausted down to his marrow, but his brain wouldn't stop looping through the last forty-eight hours. The Plaga was gone, but the ghost of the itch in his neck was still there.

Caslyn was sitting across from him. She wasn't sleeping. She was staring at the floor, her hands buried in the sleeves of his bomber jacket. Her hair was still a mess of tangles and salt water, cascading over her shoulders. She looked like she’d been through a war, which was accurate.

"You should sleep, Hale," Leon said. His voice was a low rasp, barely audible over the engine. "Hunnigan’s got the sky cleared. We’re safe."

Caslyn didn't look up. "I don't sleep in moving vehicles. Too many variables. Besides, I'm still trying to figure out the logistics of that Merchant. The physics don't track, Kennedy. It's a statistical impossibility for him to have been in the throne room antechamber."

Leon let out a tired, genuine huff of a laugh. "Give it a rest. Some things don't have a logical explanation. Not even for a forensic genius."

Caslyn finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the bruise on his neck where she’d slammed the needle in. "Your vascular inflammation is receding. But you're still redlining on cortisol. You're a mess."

"Look in a mirror, rookie," Leon smirked. He shifted, his boot nudging hers. "Is that why you're still wearing my gear? Tactical insulation?"

Caslyn gripped the lapels of the leather jacket, pulling it tighter. "It's cold. And technically, this is a biohazard. I'm containing the spread of contaminants. You're lucky I don't burn it."

"Sure you are," Leon murmured, his eyes drifting shut again. "Keep it. You look better in it than I do anyway."

Caslyn didn't have a comeback for that. The silence stretched out, heavy and comfortable, as the chopper cut through the sunrise. They weren't just two agents on a job anymore. They were the only two people who knew exactly what happened in that valley.

"Shut up, Leon," she finally whispered.

[SYSTEM ERROR: FIELD LOGS 052 THROUGH 088 CORRUPTED. CAUSE: ELECTROMAGNETIC INTERFERENCE AND CATASTROPHIC FACILITY FAILURE. RESUMING AT LOG 089]

The entire island was tearing itself apart. The automated self destruct warning was blaring over the klaxons, echoing through the dark, waterlogged cavern.

Two minutes to detonation.

Leon threw himself onto the seat of the rusted jet ski idling in the water. Ashley scrambled right behind him, completely terrified. Caslyn took the rear, her boots slipping on the wet fiberglass as she locked her arms tightly around Ashley to keep the girl anchored.

"Hold on," Leon yelled over the roar of the engine. "This is going to get rough."

He cranked the throttle. The jet ski violently shot forward into the pitch black tunnel just as a massive section of the ceiling collapsed into the water behind them.

Caslyn tightened her grip, leaning into the sharp turns as Leon threaded the needle through jagged rock formations at eighty miles an hour. Debris was raining down everywhere.

"You hit that rock wall, Kennedy, and I’m going to kill you myself," Caslyn shouted over the rushing water, water spraying in her face. Her loose hair was whipping wildly in the wind.

"Stop backseat driving, rookie," Leon shot back, violently jerking the handlebars to dodge a falling stalactite. "And try not to ruin my jacket. It’s vintage."

"Your jacket is currently soaked in sewer water and cultist blood," she yelled, ducking her head as they blasted through a narrow archway. "I’m doing you a favor by wearing it."

"Sure you are," Leon smirked, keeping his eyes locked on the sliver of daylight at the end of the tunnel. "Just admit you like the way it smells."

"I’m going to throw you off this watercraft."

"You would miss me too much."

A massive explosion rocked the cavern walls, sending a shockwave through the water that nearly tipped them. Leon gritted his teeth, pinning the throttle entirely wide open. The daylight at the end of the tunnel flared blindingly bright.

"Brace!" Leon roared.

They shot out of the cave mouth and hit the open ocean, catching serious air just as the entire island behind them detonated in a massive, deafening fireball. The shockwave pushed them forward, sending the jet ski slamming back down into the waves.

Leon killed the engine. They drifted out onto the calm, open water. The sun was just starting to rise over the horizon, casting a gold light across the ocean.

It was over. The Plaga was out of their systems. The cult was dead. The VIP was safe.

Leon slumped forward over the handlebars, letting out a heavy, exhausted breath. The adrenaline completely left his body. He looked back over his shoulder.

Ashley was crying, overwhelmed with pure relief. Caslyn was sitting behind her, completely soaked, her hair plastered to her face. She looked exhausted, battered, and entirely beautiful in the sunrise.

Caslyn caught him staring. She didn't put the cold forensic mask back up. She just gave him a slow, tired smirk.

"Not bad driving, Kennedy."

The safe room off the main courtyard was dead silent. Ashley was curled up on a dusty chair, completely exhausted. The Merchant was meticulously polishing a rifle in the corner, ignoring the heavy tension in the room.

Caslyn was pacing. Three steps out, three steps back.

Her cold, analytical shield was cracking right down the middle. She had just shredded Ramon Salazar into pieces, but the adrenaline from the kill was gone, leaving a massive, hollow panic in its place. She didn't know if Leon survived the drop. She had no comms. She was blind.

Her hair tie had snapped somewhere during the firefight in the Throne Room. Her hair was completely loose, spilling over her shoulders and tumbling all the way down to her hips. She was running her hands through it, burying her fingers in her scalp and aggressively tugging at the roots just to keep herself grounded. The physical pain kept the panic from boiling over into pure rage.

She turned on her heel to pace back across the stone floor. She was two seconds away from grabbing her shotgun and blowing a hole through the floorboards to get to the lower levels.

CRASH.

The heavy iron grate at the back of the room violently gave way. A rusted service elevator ground to a halt with a screech of metal on metal.

Leon kicked the grated door open and stepped out into the light.

He looked like absolute shit. He was soaked to the bone in black, foul smelling sewer water. His shirt was torn, he was covered in green Novistador blood, and he was breathing heavily. He racked his Silver Ghost, scanning the room out of pure instinct before he finally lowered his weapon.

His eyes locked onto Caslyn.

He stopped dead. He hadn't seen her with her hair down yet. The heavy leather of his jacket was swallowing her shoulders, and the dark hair cascading down to her hips threw his brain offline for a fraction of a second. He completely forgot about the fact that he was currently dripping sewer sludge onto a 16th century rug.

Caslyn froze. Her hands slowly dropped from her hair. She just stared at him, her chest heaving.

Leon wiped a streak of black grime off his jaw with the back of his hand. He leaned heavily against the rusted iron frame of the elevator and gave her a slow, tired smirk.

"You killed the little freak without me," Leon rasped, his voice rough from breathing in stagnant water. "I'm almost offended."

Caslyn let out a sharp, shaky breath. The panic instantly evaporated, and the cold fury flooded right back in to cover it up. She crossed her arms over her chest, gripping the sleeves of his jacket tightly.

"You smell like a rotting corpse, Kennedy," she shot back. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were still blown wide with relief.

"Yeah, well, the plumbing down there leaves a lot to be desired," Leon grunted. He pushed off the doorframe and walked over, his boots squelching on the stone. He stopped right in front of her. He could see the residual stress humming in her jaw. He knew exactly what was going through her head while he was gone.

He reached out. He didn't grab her arm or her wrist this time. He just brushed a heavy lock of loose hair back over her shoulder, letting his fingers graze the collar of the jacket.

Leon kicked the heavy mahogany doors of the Throne Room open. The place was a massive, gaudy nightmare of gold and red velvet, crawling with armed zealots.

Up on the balcony stood Ramon Salazar. The little freak looked like a rotting eighteenth-century doll, and he immediately started running his mouth. "Ah, the American rat. Still scurrying through my castle, dragging your filth across my—"

Leon didn't even let him finish. He leveled his Silver Ghost right at Salazar's oversized head.

"You talk too much."

He took one step forward to take the shot.

A loud, mechanical clank echoed through the stone. The floor right under Leon's boots simply vanished.

Caslyn reacted instantly. She shoved Ashley hard backward by the shoulders to keep the girl from stepping into the void. She dove forward, her hand shooting out to grab the collar of Leon's shirt, but her fingers closed around empty air.

Leon fell backward into the pitch-black abyss.

The heavy trapdoor slammed shut with a deafening crash, sealing perfectly flush with the marble floor.

Caslyn hit the ground hard. She scrambled forward, her hands slamming against the solid stone where the pit had just been.

Complete silence.

For exactly three seconds, her cold, forensic mask completely shattered. Her heart rate spiked straight into the redline. It wasn't about losing a tactical asset. The guy she had almost kissed five minutes ago was just gone. Swallowed by the dark. She didn't even hear him hit the bottom.

The panic clawed at her throat. She stared at the unyielding stone, her breathing erratic, her hands shaking inside the oversized sleeves of his bomber jacket. She had no comms. No way to know if he was even alive down there.

Then, high up on the balcony, Salazar started laughing. A high-pitched, grating, mocking sound.

"The rat goes back to the sewers!" Salazar cheered, waving his hand dismissively. "Now, take the girl!"

The panic in Caslyn's chest died instantly. It didn't fade, it converted. It turned into pure, unfiltered violence.

Caslyn slowly pushed herself up off the floor. The shaking stopped. The terror evaporated, leaving nothing behind but a cold, lethal fury. She stood up, stepped solidly in front of a terrified Ashley, and drew her sidearm.

The antechamber was mostly quiet, except for the crackle of the purple torches and the Merchant muttering to himself over his inventory. Ashley was sitting on a velvet couch by the far wall, staring blankly at the metal floorboards and gripping the spare magazine Caslyn gave her.

Leon leaned back against a cold stone pillar. The adrenaline from the castle breach was finally leveling out. The Plaga in his neck was dormant, forced down by whatever the hell Luis had pumped into his veins. He closed his eyes for a second, just letting the silence wash over him.

Then he felt the heat of someone stepping directly into his space.

He opened his eyes. Caslyn was standing right in front of him. She didn't say a word. She just reached up with bare fingers and gently tilted his head to the side. Her thumb brushed over the inflamed veins webbing out from the injection site. She was checking Luis's work. She didn't trust the Spaniard, and her forensic brain needed physical proof that the parasite was actually suppressed.

Leon let her look. He stayed perfectly still, his eyes locked on her face. She was close enough that he could feel her breath ghosting over his collarbone.

"It's holding," Caslyn murmured. Her voice was low so Ashley wouldn't hear. "The vascular inflammation is receding. Heart rate is dropping back to baseline."

"Told you," Leon rasped.

Caslyn started to pull her hand away, but Leon didn't let her. He reached up and caught her wrist. His grip wasn't bruising this time. It was firm, anchoring her exactly where she was.

Caslyn's breath hitched, but she didn't pull back. She looked down at him, her eyes guarded but burning.

"You completely dropped your shield back there," Leon said quietly. He didn't joke about it. He didn't throw a sarcastic jab. He just looked straight at her. "When Ada dropped in. You put yourself right between me and a spy who plays games for a living."

Caslyn's jaw tightened. "She's a liability. I was protecting an asset."

"Right," Leon smirked. His thumb traced a slow circle over her pulse point. It was hammering against his skin. "Well, for what it's worth... I prefer a partner who actually guards my back over a ghost in a red dress."

A faint flush crept up Caslyn's neck. She tried to deflect, reaching down with her free hand to grip the zipper of his bomber jacket. "I need full mobility for the throne room. It's too heavy. I should give it back."

"No."

Leon shifted his grip. He let go of her wrist and grabbed the heavy leather lapels of the jacket she was wearing. He didn't let her take it off. Instead, he pulled her a fraction of an inch closer.

The space between them practically vanished. The clinical, stoic forensic agent was completely gone. She was just staring at his mouth, her chest rising and falling heavily against the leather. Leon's gaze dropped to her lips. The tension was suffocating. The air in the antechamber felt like a lit fuse. He tilted his head down, just enough to cross the line.

Clack-clack.

The sharp, deafening sound of a heavy pump action shotgun being racked echoed across the stone room.

"Got a new selection of upgrades, stranger," the Merchant wheezed loudly.

The spell shattered. Caslyn jerked back like she'd touched a live wire. She cleared her throat, aggressively adjusting the collar of the jacket and refusing to make eye contact. Leon let his hands drop, letting out a rough, frustrated breath and dragging a hand through his hair.

He looked over at the Merchant, who was completely oblivious, polishing a riot gun with a dirty rag. Leon silently considered shooting the mutant on principle.

Leon pushed himself off the marble floor. The suppressant was working. The crushing weight in his skull was gone, leaving him sharp and pissed off.

"Find the lab," Leon ordered Luis, grabbing his shotgun off the floor. "Figure out how to get this parasite out of us permanently. We’ll keep the President's daughter moving."

Luis gave a sloppy two finger salute and vanished back down the corridor. Leon didn't care where he went as long as he stayed out of the line of fire.

Caslyn pulled Ashley up by the arm. She didn't coddle the girl. She just checked her pulse and shoved a spare magazine into her hands. "Hold this. If anyone grabs you, hit them in the eye with the metal baseplate."

Ashley swallowed hard and gripped the magazine like a lifeline.

They moved fast. They cleared two dusty corridors and pushed open a set of heavy mahogany doors, stepping into a massive, opulent antechamber just outside the throne room.

Purple flames cast long shadows against the gold leaf walls.

Sitting perfectly relaxed on a priceless 16th century velvet chaise lounge was the Merchant. He had an entire arsenal of heavy weaponry laid out across a marble dining table.

"Welcome," the Merchant wheezed, his eyes glowing red from under his hood. "Got a selection of good things on sale, stranger."

Leon immediately walked up to the table and started unloading empty magazines to trade for shells.

Caslyn stopped dead in the center of the room. She stared at the Merchant, then looked at the massive, heavily fortified castle doors they had just unlocked from the inside. She looked back at the Merchant.

"How did you get in here," she demanded. Her voice was flat, but her forensic brain was actively malfunctioning. "The drawbridge is raised. The perimeter is guarded by heavily armed zealots. You have an RPG-7 sitting on a mahogany table. How did you bypass medieval security with a supply crate?"

The Merchant just chuckled, pulling open his coat to show off a row of pristine flash grenades. "Is that all, stranger?"

Caslyn pressed two fingers to her temples, taking a deep, furious breath. She looked at Leon. "He defies the laws of physics. I’m going to shoot him."

"Don't shoot the only guy selling body armor, Hale," Leon grunted, tossing a handful of pesetas onto the table. He grabbed a box of 9mm rounds and threw them at her. "Restock your mags. The throne room is right through those double doors, and we’re going to need every bullet."