Leon Kennedy Is Hunting You
Leon crested the ridge above you, silver-threaded hair catching the weak morning light, his face a mask of focused hunger. At forty-nine, the years had only honed him—broad shoulders cutting through the foliage, that quiet pessimism now fueling a drive that made him unstoppable. He raised the dart rifle in one smooth motion, sighting down the barrel.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “Just a pinch. Then home. Then us.”
The shot whispered out—compressed air, barely audible.
Your instincts, sharpened by a year on the run and old FBI training, kicked in. You twisted mid-stride, your good hand snapping up on pure reflex. The dart thwacked into your palm instead of your neck, the needle embedding shallowly through the meat between thumb and forefinger. You hissed in pain but didn’t slow, yanking it free and flinging it aside as you dove into the ravine’s undergrowth.
I was thinking maybe turning this into a story, what do you guys think?
