DEE!

i decided to make a fresh blog to post all my ao3 stuff on, as this acc is a side blog which means i always get notifs from my main blog and any communities i join will go on my main blog and ugh

hey ppl! tuesday yay! we got another drama filled chapter coming up (tho this snippet seems so tame but i promise shit happens lol)

full chapter here!

if you enjoy my works, pls leave a comment/kudos on ao3! even if it's just an emoji comment, i still love it! i love engaging with you guys!

I let out a whoosh of breath as I closed the door to my apartment, bracing myself against the strong sturdy wood as the whiplash of the long night—coupled with that whole mess with Leon earlier today—hit me like a ton of bricks. I craved the sweet release of sleep like you wouldn't believe.

Leon. The mere mention of his name in the back of my mind caused him to appear yet again, his little sneers and jabs at me floating around my head. I scoffed to the empty apartment, feeling the anger rising in me again from his accusations. I could hardly believe him—how I could have ever thought he was sweet and endearing once upon a time is beyond me.

But I didn't intend to make that same mistake again.

As for Patrick, I wasn't not sure what I planned to do. He was a nice guy, if a little nervous all the time. I’d probably give him a chance, though. If only so it would piss Leon off to see me with him.

A soft meow drew me out of my thoughts, alongside the gentle padding of paws along my hardwood floor and the soft click of kitten claws. Trixie meandered her way over to me, bumping up against my leg with her head in her funny way of greeting me—but also telling me she wanted something. I chuckled fondly at my smart-yet-mischievous little kitten, bending down and scooping her up into my arms. She curled around my forearm, lightly grazing my knuckles with her teeth.

“Alright, alright. I’ll feed you.”

I walked with Trixie over to her food bowl in the kitchen. There were still some biscuits in there, but it needed a top up of meat. Depositing Trixie back onto the ground before grabbing a packet of wet food from the box, she followed beneath my feet—literally getting beneath them—as I walked back over to the bowl and plopped fresh cat meat in the empty bowls.

Trixie purred in thanks, stepping up to the bowl and happily nibbling.

“Good girl, Trix.” Petting her silken fur gently, I hummed softly at the fuzzy sensation that came as I ran my fingers along that soft coat of hers. I then moved onto the bedroom, stripping out my clothes along the way as I headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Throwing my purse onto my bed as I went, the little leather over-the-shoulder bag bounced on my mattress with a jingle from my keys inside.

I switched on the radio in the bathroom, keeping it on the currently tuned station of current pop music, before switching on the shower and jumping in once the water was hot enough. I spent roughly fifteen minutes in the shower—five to soak in the steam, five to lather up and shave, five to wash my hair. When I got out of the shower I felt all tingly and warm, humming softly to myself as I wrapped a towel around my body and padded back into my bedroom, my wet feet slapping against the tiled floor.

After drying myself off and changing into something more comfortable—an oversized Guns N Roses shirt that hung off of one shoulder and a pair of black cotton panties, I felt like I was in a warm, dazed cocoon. I really should have been focusing on packing for the upcoming mission—at any point, I would be called and told I was bound to China—but right now, my main priority was catching up on sleep.

I belly flopped onto my bed, snuggling up into my cosy cotton comforter that smelled like fresh linen, a soothing smell that lulled me right into bliss. Stretching out like a cat in the sun, I arched my back and curled my toes as I hummed and writhed in total comfort—before a flash of heat raced down my spine as the memory of that brown-haired asshole of a former partner sat itself front and center in the front of my mind again.

I remembered the two of us being in this very room together just last year, with myself on all fours for him as we both defiled this room with an event that definitely shouldn't have happened, but was bound to happen regardless. A familiar tingle shot between my legs, my thighs rubbing together at the sudden but wanted memory of his mouth and his tongue.

It would be ever so easy for me right now to just push my hand between my thighs and—

I gasped, the sound soft and breathy as I did my best to push away that sudden unprompted arousal. I shouldn't be like this. I’d had a lot of others since then—I had fucked the memory of Leon out of this room and out of my body, yet he was still there. Like a persistent mold that I couldn't get rid of, no matter how much bleach or spray I used. No matter what I used to numb the memory of that night.

Gritting my teeth, I willed him away. Seeing him again today—getting into that spat with him—had dulled my resolve tenfold. I hated it. I loved it. I hated him. I loved him.

I pushed away my sexual frustration and urged myself to get some sleep instead, only managing around half an hour before my phone rang in my bag. Groaning, I grabbed the small silver flip phone and blinked in frustration at the tiny screen. Hunnigan. I quickly wiped the drool from my cheek before thumbing the answer button, holding the phone to my ear.

“Hunnigan.”

“Hartwell—were you sleeping?”

“Mm.” I grunted, pushing myself up into a sitting position and running a hand through my dishevelled hair. “Turns out that little meeting with the President last night ended with an outbreak at the White House. I spent most of the night in his bunker, then a lot of time in an office chair slumped over a laptop. I’m fucking beat.”

“Yes, I heard about the outbreak.” There was a murmur of annoyance in Hunnigan’s tone, and a furious clacking of keyboard keys. I wondered which of her agents had pissed her off. At least it wasn't me this time. “Have they found the cause of it yet?”

“No. But Shenmei did find out who hacked the White House. The Institute—”

“Institute of Biological Sciences in Shanghai, I know. That was what I was calling to tell you. The President and Defense Secretary Wilson have given the go-ahead for you and your team to head for Shanghai. We’ll be sending a car to you within the next fifteen minutes to come and pick you up and take you to the airfield where you and the others will fly over to the naval base in Guam and infiltrate via submarine.”

“Guam?” I furrowed my eyebrows. Why not just fly directly to China? “That's, like, a twenty-hour trip.”

“It is.” Twenty hours in a tiny chopper with Leon? Great. “I suggest packing a bag—we aren't sure on the time frame for this mission, so pack enough for at least a week.”

“Okay, will do.” I sighed, rolling my eyes before shaking my head with a dry chuckle. “I’m not at all looking forward to—”

“Leon?” Hunnigan asked with a smirk in her tone.

“How did you know that?”

“Did you forget that I’m also his handler too? Navigating between the two of you is like a kid with divorced parents. Awkward as anything.” Hunnigan giggled. I grimaced—were we really that bad? “Oh, and I also made sure to give your number to those rookies from the gym.”

I had completely forgotten about that—Leon needed to get the fuck out of my head. “Thanks. I doubt I’ll make it back for Friday, but I’ll try. I’m gonna need a palate cleanser after dealing with him.”

“I’ll be ready to update your dating availability as and when, then.” Hunnigan crooned, and I felt a flush of colour in my cheeks. What I wouldn't do without Ingrid Hunnigan. “Have a good mission, and be safe. If you need anything, I’m just at the other end of the phone.”

Hunnigan hung up. No sooner than she had, I got another call—this time from Ashley. I could only imagine what she was going to say, and as I clicked that little green button and lifted the phone to my ear, the first thing I heard was a panicked screech.

“Ashley—”

“Are you okay?! My dad—my dad said there had been some kind of incident at the White House. There were, like, zombies and stuff.” She said in a giant flood of words without expelling a single breath.

“We’re fine, Ashley.” Take a breath. As if she had heard my little telepathic instruction, I heard her sigh on the other end of the phone. “Your father is fine, I’m fine, Leon is fine.”

“Leon’s there?” She asked, her voice cracking with slowly dwindling anxiety.

“Yes. He and I are paired for another mission. We’ll be going to China for a bit—researching a bioscience facility in Shanghai.”

“Oh. Okay.” She paused. She then took another breath. I could picture her worrying her bottom lip and frowned at the thought. “Well.. how long are you going to be out there?”

heyyy everyone! it's a new week! currently feeling pretty sleepy still because i went to the playstation concert last night in London (!!!!) and we got home super late lol but it was fun! i got me a TLOU shirt that came w a free pin that is currently on my gym tote next to my RE one hehe.

anyways, enjoy the chapter! jealous!leon things hehe. also... that plot point about the horse will def crop up again in a much later chapter. :3

full chapter here!

I feel like I might burn a hole through this woman's head with how hard I’m staring at her. And maybe I want to.

I don't even know what I’m fucking doing here. I’m not a fan of the gym—I prefer working out through hard manual labor rather than protein shakes and dieting. I did that shit back when I was in the rodeo and crafted a good enough body that is still easily sustained through hard living, so I don't need some prissy commercial gym in the center of town to make me feel any better.

But then she had to come sauntering out of the house in black leggings and a grey padded sports bra after two whole months of not talking to me, and suddenly I had the urge to check out that gym.

Yeah, I know this is unhealthy for a man of my age. Any sane person would call me a walking red flag and threaten to call the cops on me for being a borderline creep, stalking her like this. The sane part of me calls me that, that tiny little part of my brain currently being smothered by raging testosterone as I just watched her get asked out by Chris fucking Redfield.

I’m not mad at Chris. I don't mind Chris. He’s a good kid, he comes from good stock. I know that. But, I’m also running on fumes, dealing with a ticking jaw that clenches whenever Chris brushes up against her and the lance of irritation whenever those eyes of hers sparkle at something he says.

I had been a fucking idiot that day. I had brought Ada back to the ranch with me after our little moment in that lay-by, not realising that Dee hadn’t gone to Claire’s motel like she had said she would. And I let Ada walk down those fucking stairs and introduce herself to Dee, and I didn't fucking correct her.

I had been a fucking floundering idiot, and paid the price by her shutting me out whenever I tried to talk to her. I could never bring it up at dinner in front of her family for obvious reasons, and whenever we had a slight sliver of alone time, she took every opportunity to run out of there before I could open my mouth.

She had forced me to watch her pretend that she’s fine, forcing me into a cage and throwing away the key.

“Leon?”

Fuck. Chris is waving at me now, grinning like a fucking golden retriever as he beckons me over. Dee shuffles next to him, staring down at the ground like she’s waiting for it to open up and swallow her whole.

You and me both, sweetheart.

My feet move awkwardly. I don't want to be a part of this conversation and watch them make goo-goo eyes at each other. I had just caught the tail-end of their conversation, and I’m not in the mood to clap Chris on the back and wish him good luck.

But I’m in front of them now, and I have to say something. “Hey, Chris.” I nod with a tight-lipped smile towards a man I suddenly consider my rival, as fucking idiotic and obsessive as that sounds. Then, I glance at Dee, who still can't stand to look at me.

The urge to reach out and grab her chin and force her to meet my gaze, to see that I’m here, that I’m here to fucking stay whether she likes it or not, is a strong one. We have to co-exist—she has to stop shutting me out.

Fuck. I need out of this conversation.

“Dee.”

“Leon.” Her voice is clipped, as if saying my name hurts her. Saying her name hurt me.

“What are you doing here, man?” Chris takes charge of the conversation again, clapping me on the back in that annoyingly familiar way. My back burns from the combination of his slap and the ache of working out at age forty-six and pushing myself for a woman's attention like a fucking loser.

“Working out?”

“Well, yeah, I know that.” Chris sees my deadpan expression as something funny, laughing it off with that boisterous laugh of his that, in the moment, makes me want to shove my foot up his ass.

Since when did I become a fucking grizzly? Jeez.

“Why didn’t you come and join us? We could have worked out together, man!”

I didn't join you because the girl you just asked out would have killed me on the fucking spot, and I would have fucking let her.

“You looked like you were having fun.” I shrug casually, playing this nonchalantly. My eyes flit to Dee as she sucks in a breath and finally looks up from the floor, but she still doesn't look at me. She looks at Chris, those brown pools flit over every inch of him like she’s searching for something.

“I didn't wanna intrude.”

“You wouldn't have.” Chris earnestly promises, pressing a hand over his heart. “It would have been an honour to work out with you, dude. But, fine. If you insist that you didn't wanna intrude—”

“I didn’t—”

“Then I’m not gonna fight you on it.” Chris has that easy smile that seemed so disarming, but it isn't working on me right now. Right now I’m wound tight like a coil, waiting for that one thing that would push me over the fucking edge.

I want to turn back the clock. I want to apologise to her for being an idiot, tell her that I did want her, but there were so many fucking complications—and I made them all the more fucking complicated by just… being stupid and unworthy of her.

I clear my throat, taking this moment where I have her in my orbit to say something, anything. “How’s Rocky doing?”

“Rocky?” Chris tilts his head curiously.

Dee swallows with a low sigh. “Rocky,” her voice is still hoarse, rough like gravel. “He’s my new jumping horse. I’m thinking of getting back into the circuit again. Entering some comps.”

“Really?” Chris brightens even more at that, like he isn't smiling with a wattage that rivals the sun. Envy twists in my gut at the sight, but I also feel a tiny bloom of pride in my chest as I think about Dee doing showjumping.

When she had jumped on Daxon that day, sailing through the air like a bird, I had been enamoured. She had so much fun out there, and she looked amazing doing it—attractive and alluring, as well as graceful and elegant. So, naturally, when I had heard through the grapevine that some rancher in a town halfway across the state was selling up to move closer to the city to be with his granddaughter, and was looking for people to take his horses and make them proper winners, I took one look at Rocky and drove the fuck up there to bring him home with me.

For her.

But she thinks that Brian got him for her, and so that is how it’ll stay—especially now, of all times.

“You’re gonna do great out there.” Chris says genuinely, and the words sting—because I want to be the one to say them.

I want to be the one to make her smile bashfully like that, to make her make that little snort noise that she makes for him as she rolls her eyes. “Thanks, Chris. I don't know when I’m gonna enter yet. I’m still thinking it over, testing out his abilities. He runs smooth during practice, but I don't know how he’ll be during the real thing—”

“He’ll be fine so long as you’re the one riding him.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I hate how growly I sound. She flinches a little bit, stiffening momentarily before relaxing and squaring her shoulders in that familiar way that told me she’s about to shut me out again, that that was the last thing I will get to say to her for the next week or so.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Now her words sting, tipped with poison headed straight for my heart. And I’m welcoming that burn because at least she’s talking to me.

“Anyways,” Chris smoothly transitions, either not noticing the tension between us or not caring. “Dee, we’re on for The Hay Barn tonight? I could pick you up around.. eight? Pre-drinks at Carlos’ before hitting the floor?”

There goes my fucking jaw ticking again. The mention of Carlos’ reminds me of the time she was on the bar and I caught her. The mention of The Hay Barn has me remembering the feeling of her legs wrapped around my waist and my tongue in her mouth and on her skin.

“Yeah, sure.” Dee hums, and I know I’m definitely done here. Those cage bars slam down on me again, and she’s taunting me from the other side, rubbing it in my face—too bad, you lose, try again never.

i love writing jealousy i love writing jealousy I LOVE WRITING JEALOUSY. also claire redfield aaaaa! i def lean onto the cleon vibes a bit here, but dw the main ship is still gonna sail. it's just being repaired, lol. the mini ships r currently sailing.

full chapter here!

pls be sure to leave a kudos/comment if ur enjoying my fics so far! i love reading all the love. also pre-warning that the next chapter of this fic is gonna be a long one, but a good one.

Daylight poured through the large window at the end of the hallway, the golden light of the mid morning sun casting a warm glow on the hazmat-suited individuals that were currently zipping up bodies into black body bags. I grimaced at the sight of it, my thoughts plagued with the harrowing realisation that the people in these bags—the zombified aides and staff members that had the misfortune of being here during an outbreak—were never going home to their families again.

I had no idea what time it was—it had been a very long night, and I was exhausted. But there was still work to be done—and Jason made sure to remind me of that. “So—what are we thinking, big shot?” Jason asked, his heavy footsteps matching pace with my own.

We were heading to the Situation Room to regroup, get our bearings and get started on the mission we had been asked to do—which was to dig through the data logs of the last forty-eight hours and find out who had hacked into the White House and stole that file.

“What are we thinking?”

“About what caused all this mess.” Jason nodded his head toward another body bag being zipped up—Press Secretary Spacer. “You think it’s maybe T?”

“Maybe.” I cast my mind back to the outbreak I had faced in Pittsburgh. Had someone snuck a bomb into the White House? Was there some sort of gas canister hidden in the vents somewhere? “There was an outbreak in Pittsburgh I had dealt with before I came here. That was using T.”

We walked through the main lobby, which bustled with activity as always. Tired interns and aides walked around with styrofoam coffee cups, talking amongst themselves grumpily—none the wiser that there were dead bodies in the halls. If only I was one of these aides, I thought to myself as my shoes clicked against the pristine tile. I would have killed to have been one of these aides, whose only issue is making sure I got to work on time.

“So the t-virus is back, then.” Jason said, his voice drawing me out of my thoughts.

“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Or it could be something else entirely.”

“We’ll find it out—”

“Leon?”

I stopped in my tracks at the familiar voice, turning to see Claire Redfield. Claire Redfield. I hadn't seen her in years, not since Raccoon City. After Raccoon City’s fall, she’d gone off in search of her brother. But I’d kept in contact with her—I knew of her recent work with TerraSave, an NGO helping victims of bioterrorism.

Whilst I fought the zombies, she helped the people affected by the disasters they caused.

I felt a smile break out of me, huffing out a gentle chuckle as I felt my cheeks warm. She still looked exactly the same as when I had last seen her—same fiery red hair that glowed even redder in the sunlight, same mischievous glint in her light green eyes. She was a little bit thinner than when I had last met her, though. And taller. Her red leather jacket looked pristine atop her crisp white blouse, dark skinny jeans and high heeled boots, with a manila folder tucked beneath her arm snugly.

“Hey, Claire.” My voice was suddenly breathy, like there was a frog caught in my throat. Jesus Christ.

“Hey yourself.” Claire grinned, flashing pearly white teeth at me. Her gaze then fell to Jason beside me, and her eyes widened a little. “Hey—you’re the Hero of Penamstan.”

Jason grunted, folding his broad arms across his chest in annoyance. He clearly wasn't in the mood for conversation. Of course I understood the urgency—but there was no need to be so rude, I thought as a frown tugged at my lips.

“I’m no hero.” Jason uttered under his breath. “Kennedy—come on, no chit-chat. We gotta—”

“Five minutes.” I requested, like I was a little kid begging his dad for a little extra time outside before dinner.

Back in Raccoon City, Claire and I had become close—we were just two kids, basically, trying to survive in a hellscape together. I’d been a twenty-one-year-old cop, and she had been a nineteen-year-old university student. We had been suddenly thrust into this life with no way out, and we had a kid with us too. Even if I ended up doing most of the kid stuff in the end, until the government intervened.

I cared about Claire a lot, and the cop that still lived within me wanted to bask within her presence, to sink back into the little crush that I’d had on her back then. To be honest, a part of me still retained that crush on her—but I also had admiration for how far she’d come, not letting Raccoon City get her down like it had gotten me down so many times in the past.

Jason sighed deeply, before he rolled his eyes and relented. “Five minutes.” He bitterly grumbled. “Have your chat, then. We’ll be in the room.”

With that, Jason stalked away toward the room. He was followed by Patrick, Shenmei and Dee. She lingered for a few seconds, looking back at Claire and I with a tiny, imperceptible frown. But no sooner had it graced her features did it slip away as she disappeared around the corner.

I turned my attention back to Claire, blowing out a breath and running a hand through my hair with a sheepish, slightly hopeful smile. “So, what brings you here?”

“I’m supposed to be meeting Press Secretary Spacer to talk about the summit being attended by the Penamstanis on the thirteenth, but nobody seems to be telling me anything about where he is.” Claire frowned. I frowned too, for a different reason. Press Secretary Spacer was dead. Zombified in the West Wing.

“That sucks. Hopefully you find him soon.” I mumbled, trying to find an out in the conversation.

“Yeah.” Claire sighed, then immediately perked up again. “Oh, that reminds me. I need to show you something.”

She retrieved the folder from underneath her arm and flipped it open, turning the folder around to let me see what she had. My heart dropped into my stomach at the drawing she was showing me. “What the hell is this?” I muttered, my eyes tracing over the crisp linework and shading that made up the very harrowing scene of carnage and zombies.

Claire leaned in closer next to me. She smelled like cherries—I presumed from her shampoo as her copper ponytail fluttered before me, or perhaps from a perfume. I swallowed thickly, momentarily distracted by her scent. But not enough to fully stop the haunting visions and hallucinations holding my mind hostage that had been struck by this drawing in my hands. Yet no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't tear my eyes from it.

“A kid in Penamstan drew this.” Claire explained, her voice soft yet full of concern and slight trepidation. “According to someone I spoke to out there, he saw the violence unfolding. He was mute, Leon—utterly terrified. It broke my heart.” I heard Claire swallow. Her light green eyes shimmered with tears. I felt for her—Claire had such a big heart, and that was one of the reasons I had fallen for her in the first place.

“Seeing this just reminded me of Raccoon City, don't you think?”

“Yeah..”

“Not much has been revealed about Penamstan, or what happened during the civil war there six years ago.” Claire continued. “I’m thinking that there had to have been another outbreak out there.”

“Maybe.” I paused, hesitating for a moment before adding, “there was an outbreak here last night, and I’ve recently come back from a similar outbreak in Pittsburgh. It was bad, Claire.”

“Shit.” Claire hissed beneath her breath, her eyebrows furrowing. “Do you know what caused it?”

I really shouldn't be telling her this. Claire was a civilian, a member of the public who wasn't permitted to know the inner workings of our agency. I knew I needed to keep quiet. Yet, at the same time, Claire wasn't just an ordinary civilian to me. She was there during Raccoon City. She knew all about what caused the bumps in the night.

And it wasn't like she was a reporter about to sell off trade secrets. “Well, in Pittsburgh, it had been the t-virus.” I said with a tired sigh and a hollow shrug. “We’re not sure if it's the same thing happening here.”

“Zombies in the White House… I mean, that explains all the hazmats I saw.” Claire mumbled in disbelief, offering a dry chuckle. Then, her tone became worried again. “Is the President—”

so... i wanted to show off my rdr2 oc (because i love my silly little horsie game sm) !! her lore is under the cut (tw: rape, abuse, csa, just general dead dove things.)

and yes: she will eventually have a fic written on her. i'm working on it in between my re fics (but it won't be out until at least a year lmao, i still have my cod fics to post.)

happy friday everyone! hope you guys had a good week and are pumped for the weekend! got a VERY DRAMA FILLED UPDATE here (i want chris as a gym buddy tbh.) hope you enjoy it!

full chapter here!

I haven’t spoken to Leon in two months.

I refuse to even acknowledge his presence unless absolutely necessary—which is pretty fucking often, given the fact he’s at every single family dinner, always sitting right in front of me and looking like someone had stolen the last of the chocolate bars he really wanted.

I have nothing to say to him, and yet, I have everything to say to him.

I want to scream at him, to ask him how the fuck he could just do that—build me up so fucking high, and then tear me down with little to no remorse.

I want to hit him, to beat him bloody until my knuckles bleed and that pretty fucking face of his is smashed to bits and is unrecognisable.

I want to hate him. And yet, I can’t.

And I want to hate her too. I kept seeing her again, both in my mind and in real life. Most nights of the week since that day, I’ve either seen Ada leave the ranch at the crack of dawn, sneaking to her car whilst Leon watches on from his balcony, or I would hear Leon’s truck rumble away in the dead of night, off to see her.

God. I’m a fucking idiot. I’ve played the part of the perfect fucking fool.

I’ve fallen for a married man. Well fucking done, Dee. Seriously, you’ve really outdone yourself.

That anger pours through me again as I desperately tug the handlebar of the diverging seated row machine towards me, gritting my teeth against the sixty-pound weight as the loud discordant electric guitar and raspy scream of Chester Bennington floods my ears thanks to my screamo playlist.

I had gotten antsy back at the ranch, constantly on the lookout for Leon so that I could avoid him, constantly avoiding my family so that I could stop being so fucking jumpy.

So, after nearly all this time hiding myself away from the world, I got into some workout gear and jumped into my car to hit the gym, since getting a good sweat on will clear my head better than any-fucking-thing else right now.

That was another new change in my life too—getting a car. I definitely needed one, since I don't want to be stuck relying on someone else—Leon—to ferry me around town.

My red vintage Rover 216 Cabriolet is currently soaking up the late November sunshine whilst I soak up nothing but sweat and adrenaline as I switch arms to finish out my set. I’ve been working out for the past fifteen minutes, working on the upper body day of my split.

I feel pretty fucking good. I’m out of breath, yeah, and I’m probably about to burst a blood vessel from how hard I’m gritting my teeth, but I feel really good. I definitely needed this. This is a better distraction than anything else lately.

“Okay.” I breathe, dropping the handle back into place as my arms buzz with energy. I lean forward, ducking down to take the pin and drop it down to a weight heavier than what I had just done. “Warm up over. Time to get into it for real.”

Under the bright gym lights, a shadow is cast onto my machine as I see someone lingering in my periphery. I glimpse up at sweat and bulging muscles as I lift one headphone off of my ear to speak to the waiting gym bro. “Hey,” I shout over my music. “I just—”

“I thought that was you.”

Chris beams back at me. His blue eyes glimmer beneath the bright fluorescent lights, his own over-ear headphones around his neck as his duffel bag is slung over one shoulder. He has on a tight compression shirt that highlights taut abs and firm biceps, and gray sweatpants that hang low on his stocky hips.

Goddamn. I swallow thickly, tearing my eyes away from admiring him—do men not know how dangerous gray sweatpants are—before returning his smile with one of my own that doesn't quite reach my eyes like his does.

I remove my headphones, the sounds of machines clanging and gym bros grunting loudly filling my ears. “Chris, hey.” There’s a hint of surprise in my tone, and disbelief that he’s actually here. “I—I would have thought that you’d be out of state right now. Aren’t you and Claire on the same kind of rodeo schedule or something?”

“Something like that.” Chris shrugs loosely, leaning his elbows against my machine. My eyes glimpse at thick veins running across his forearms, little tufts of hair sprouting across his suntanned skin. “Claire’s up in Arizona right now, but she’ll be driving back here in a few days since the rodeo here is coming up and we’re entered into it. I just wanted to check in early, catch up with a few friends. I had a couple of days off and thought, why not come home?”

“I see.” I shrug alongside him. “Well, it’s good to see you.”

“You too.” Chris nods with a tight-lipped smile. His eyes skim over me, and I feel warmth wash over me and butterflies flutter in my stomach from that gaze, always so friendly and welcoming. Disarming.

A friendly face amongst all of this heartache.

“Though, do you mind if I give you a pointer?”

“A pointer?”

Chris chuckles softly, brushing a hand against his cropped brown hair. “Your form. It’s like you’re trying to rip your damn arm from the socket. How much are you lifting?”

“Oh.”

Most people in this gym keep to themselves and hardly speak to me, let alone correct my form. I feel a twinge of embarrassment, chewing softly on my bottom lip as I glance away from him briefly, looking at my hands which rest against my black leggings.

“Uh—seventy pounds,” I admit bashfully, giving Chris a cautious glance. His muscles are so much more defined and bigger than my own, and I get the odd sensation that I’m about to be mocked for it.

But Chris just nods casually, that smile of his still there. “That’s fine. So, about your form, let me just..” His hand comes up, then he hesitates. He glances at me warily, his hand hanging in the air like it was frozen in time. “You don’t mind if I, uh..”

My brain catches up quickly to what he’s asking, and I shake my head. “Oh, no. Go on ahead.”

“Right.”

I soon feel the warmth of his hand splayed against my lower back, and I shiver at the contact. The butterflies in my stomach continue to flutter as if a much younger version of me is looking down at this interaction with joy and elation after waiting to be noticed for so many years.

The clatter of weights nearby diverts my attention to the corner of the room, my eyes flitting towards the source of the sound with a slight eyebrow furrow of confusion and frustration—can’t people just set their weights down carefully?

And then I see him.

Wearing a black muscle tee that is soaked in sweat, and a pair of gray sweatpants—they should be made illegal on men—is Leon, placing down a pair of forty-five-pound dumbbells back into their slot on the rack.

His eyes are on mine, a fierce blue that bounces off of the mirror and hits me straight in the chest as he takes a single step sideways, grabs the next heaviest weight and hefts them up. My eyes quickly drop to those muscles bulging from his arms, triceps and biceps and every-ceps flexing in the kind of display that has me internally whimpering.

This man is fucking married.

“...If you lean too far back, you’ll fuck up your back,” Chris explains, and my focus snaps away from Leon and back to the man giving me tips on my form—the man whose hand is currently on my lower back and pushing my chest up against the plush pad. “So keep your chest right up against the pad. Lean back a bit, but not too far.”

“Mhm.” I nod, my voice cracking slightly as I force myself to lock into the warmth and familiarity of Chris, not the confusion and angst of Leon. “Got it. I usually tend to grab onto this thing to keep me secure.”

I grab the pad-adjuster-pin-thingy with my right hand. Chris nods with a hum. “Yeah, that's fine. And I’m guessing you operate one arm at a time, yeah?”

“Yep.” I say, popping the ‘p’ sound. In my peripheral vision I can see Leon doing shoulder presses. I swallow thickly, watching as those tight fists go up and he grunts, then lowers with his hiss.

Up with a grunt, down with a hiss.

Well you are ❤

ahhhh tysm ren 💓

things are now picking up fast! you guys better get hold on because i am READY for the drama to be drama-ing. forcing these two together like barbie dolls fr.

full chapter here! 💓

Jason came charging into the office like a bat out of hell, making Warren nearly jump out of his skin as the giant man tore his way across the room in three giant strides to the desk. He picked up the phone as if it had insulted him in some way, jamming fat fingers at the buttons before he spoke into the receiver with a tense, clipped voice.

Patrick was leaning up against the wall. He looked haggard—sickly and pale, covered in blood and sweat. As if he had seen a ghost or something. His arms were wrapped around himself protectively, his hands rubbing up and down as if to comfort himself as he whispered quietly to himself, “they aren't real, they aren't real..”

At least, it sounded as if he was whispering that. He was muttering so quietly that I could barely hear him. Plus, my focus was on somebody else that had just entered the room.

He looked so different from the last time I had seen him. His once dirty blond hair was now chocolate brown, but I could still see a bit of blond peppered in. As if he’d dyed his hair, but not properly. He seemed a lot more built beneath that suit of his, biceps straining against the pressed fabric. Through his crisp white dress shirt that clung to him with his sweat, I could see the familiar outline of his abdomen—that six-pack I had run my fingers along a little over a year ago. My blood boiled at the memory, my heart stopping in its regular rhythm as a lump forced itself into my throat unbidden.

There was a small amount of stubble peppering his jawline, which was made even more prominent by the dim lighting in this room. I hardly even recognised Leon anymore. But I knew those eyes—that ice-blue, that arctic gaze that made me ironically made me feel warm. I certainly recognised the look he was giving me now, full of surprise and trepidation.

I thought of saying something, but I couldn't form the words—in either my brain, which had gone fuzzy and given up on me from the shock of seeing this man again after so long, or my tongue, which had gone numb in my mouth, swelled up like a balloon.

Thankfully, he didn't see fit for reunions. He made a beeline for the corner, removing a painting from the wall to reveal a secret weapons cache. Jason, now off of the phone to what I assumed to be SWAT, went over to help distribute the weapons to the other Secret Service members in the room who had rushed in here when the lights had cut out.

“SWAT should be on their way soon.” Jason murmured to Leon. He then turned to Warren and said with a tone brimming with authority, “sir—we need to get you to the bunker right away. These halls aren't safe right now.”

“What's going on out there?” Warren asked, but the look of resignation on his face told me he already had the faintest idea.

“Zombies.” Patrick whispered fearfully from his spot on the wall. His eyes were wide and glassy, and his voice cracked on the words. He looked like he might pass out at any second. This man was supposedly FBI, and he was shitting fucking bricks. “There’s zombies out there, Mr. President.”

“Zombies?” Defense Secretary Wilson—who had recently joined Warren's staff after Warren got re-elected in November—sputtered in shock. Behind his glasses, his eyes widened. He looked at Jason, then at Leon, silently demanding some kind of explanation.

Leon sighed and shifted his weight between his feet. “Yes. That’s pretty much it—we don't know for sure how they got in, but they’re in. We don't know how many there are, but this is why we need to get you to the bunker, sir.” Leon explained, his brows furrowed and his jaw set tight. He seemed so sure of what he was talking about—but then again, he'd gone through a zombie outbreak before.

I’d read the file on Raccoon City, and how he had been one of the few survivors, alongside a ten year old girl whose parents had been the masterminds behind the virus that had infected the city, and some woman named Claire Redfield. But there had been no other information on her within that file—the government had only picked up Leon and the girl.

I felt for Leon—for the man he probably was before he got into this line of work. I could imagine him wanting to make a difference, a fresh-faced recruit ready to turn the world around with dreams of becoming a top-tier captain, maybe even the chief one day. But then, on his first day, he got thrown into the deep end.

That poor guy that he once had been had probably never imagined a life like this.

“Let’s get moving, everyone.”

Jason's voice snapped me out of my thoughts. I cleared my throat, pulling out my piece from the holster on my waist and checking the bullets before following everyone out of the office. We moved in formation—Jason and Leon taking the front, armed with assault rifles and mowing down whatever zombie they saw. The President and Wilson are in the middle, flanked by Secret Service agents and wearing bulletproof vests. Patrick, Shenmei and I brought up the rear, not having to fire a single bullet but still being ready just in case.

Rather, Shenmei and I were ready. Patrick was still muttering to himself, flinching at every single corpse that we passed.

“Mr. President,” Jason said as we rounded the corner, descending the stairs toward the basement. “Is there anybody else here that is a part of your family? Where’s Miss Graham?”

“Ashley?” Warren asked, wide eyed and stammering slightly. He'd lost his daughter just over a year ago—the thought of losing her again must be terrifying. “She’s not here—she’s currently at home, living in an apartment near her school. She’s not in danger, is she?”

“So long as she isn't here, she’s not.”

We arrived at the bunker within ten minutes. Warren put in the code, and the door slid open on a whoosh of pressurised air. He and Wilson ducked inside alongside the Secret Service agents, whilst the rest of us lined up against the wall awaiting some kind of order from Jason—he had been assigned as the leader on this mission, and none of us saw fit to disagree.

So long as the enemy was neutralised at the end of the day, it didn't matter who our team leader was. As we stood against the wall at attention, I felt the brush of Leon’s suit jacket against my bare arm. I hiccuped on a soft breath, feeling the rapid tingle that spread down my arm like a virus.

Jason cleared his throat, addressing the rest of us. “Okay. Leon, Shenmei—you two are with me. We’ll meet up with SWAT and clear the remaining floors. Patrick, Hartwell—you two will remain here in the bunker with the President. Do not open that door for anybody except for us, understood?”

“Yeah.” I answered with a nod. Leon’s body heat seeped into me like a numbing toxin—his hand was just a few inches from my own. I could so easily reach out and link my pinkie with his—but I shouldn't. I wouldn't. It wouldn't be right, despite the undeniable urge to touch him right now.

I had spent so long building myself back up again after that night—after that painful rejection. I was not going back there again.

“Alright.” Jason nodded. “Let’s get going then.”

We split. Patrick headed for the bunker and I moved to follow. Before I could shut the door I heard a voice—his voice, breathy and insistent. “Be safe.” It sent a rush of heat down my spine and caused my muscles to tighten in familiarity.

I looked back at him. He was looking at me in a way that had my heart fluttering in my chest for a split second before it splintered and shattered. Like a moth peacefully flying along before being drawn in by a bug zapper.

I knew that look.

It was the same look he had given me the first time he left—back in Spain, when he was going to get the fuel for the boat so that we could cross the lake to find the key to the church. I could still feel the sweltering Spanish heat that trickled sweat down my back. I could still taste the tangy saliva on my tongue—could still smell the stench of murky lake water, and felt the rapid thrum of my heart and the way my chest had constricted with every breath. I could hear the distant clamour of villagers searching for us, out of our blood.

Except now we weren't dealing with crazed, bloodthirsty villagers controlled by some kind of parasite. We were dealing with zombies.

But the sentiment still stood, the words he had said back then like a flash of nostalgia across my memories.

I don't plan on dying today.

“You too.” I said back, my voice just as breathy. These were the first words I had said to him in over a year. I hadn't wanted to say anything at all—I had planned to try and get through this entire mission without uttering a single word to Leon besides the most basic of pleasantries.

anyways

a VERY LOVELY person on reddit drew me some fanart and aaaaa !! seeing these two together makes my heart all happy !!

hey everyone! hope u all had an amazing easter, if u celebrate it! only a few more weeks of april left aaaaa.

these next few chapters are gonna be fun! lots of drama incoming, and i can't wait 😮‍💨😮‍💨

full chapter here! || cw: smut in this chapter! (masturbation lol, only featured at the beginning.)

What was wrong with me?

Memories of last night flash through me like a fever, lit up in a golden haze and framed like the kind of movie that I’d feel uncomfortable watching around my family. Sensations run deep in my nerves and veins—the feeling of his hands searing into my skin as they had pulled and tugged at my clothes, the warmth of his lips against my skin and that rasp of stubble that tickled me so deep.

The press of his bulge. I had felt as much as I could feel of him, as much as he gave me, and it still wasn't enough.

I need to feel the real thing now, something that would be so much better than stuffing my dildo into my pillowcase and grinding on it for some kind of relief—

“Fuck,” I breathe out as quietly as I can as my body goes tight and my orgasm rips through me. It was not my proudest moment, getting myself off to nothing but memories, but here I am.

After the club, I hadn’t felt like going back to Claire’s motel. I was feeling hurt, and confused, and also a little more than needy—that kiss had been good, and I would have given him so much more if he had just let me.

Claire and Ashley were confused at first, but they understood when I asked if Chris could drop me back to the ranch. They didn't ask, but now that I’m looking at their messages from last night—I had put my phone on Do Not Disturb—I can tell straight away that they knew why I was so eager to get away from it all.

Claire: Do you need me to kill him?

Ashley: Hey, Dee. I hope you’re doing okay and that the hangover doesn't kill you off—insert laugh-crying emoji—if you need anything, I’m here for you! Claire too, we just wanna know you’re okay! Get back to us!

Claire: Because I’m not afraid to kill him.

Claire: I even know where to hide the body.

I smile fondly for my supportive friends, letting them know I’m alright and that I'll fill them in properly soon—I just need to figure out what is going on myself. I cringe slightly at the time—five in the morning, which isn’t like me at all.

But, then again.. I hadn’t really been sleeping. I couldn’t sleep, not with the memory of that in my head, bouncing around my brain like a pinball. I hadn’t felt anything like it. If I wasn't already wanting the guy, I definitely wanted him now.

All I had kept thinking about was that bulge. I had felt it through the denim of his jeans, rubbing right up against me in the most delicious way. My hands had burned, aching to touch it. I had imagined putting it in my mouth, letting him hit the back of my throat as he guided me like the perfect doll for his pleasure.

I would have been his doll, if he had let me.

Eventually laying there got to be too much. I felt like I needed to speak with him, to blurt it all out into the open whether he accepted me or not—I like you, and I know you like me, and you’re probably afraid of rocking the boat, but I don’t care. But when I had called him, chewing my fingernails down to the bit as I listened to that dial tone, he hadn’t answered.

Hey there, you've reached Leon. Kinda busy right now, so leave me a message after the beep and I’ll get back to you.

I hadn’t left a message. I had just put my phone back on the nightstand and sunk deeper back into the void I had put myself in. And then, after a few minutes of that, I leaned over into my bedside drawer, grabbed my dildo and got to work.

All he had given me to work with was that bulge, so I would work with it here. I had grabbed one of my pillows, settling it between my knees before stuffing the dildo into the pillowcase to try and recreate that perfect bulge.

And then I rode it. I relied on my little creation, and the sound bytes my mind had managed to save in those few precious minutes of making out with him—growls, groans, heavy breathing, and any other kind of manly sound that sounded like something he would make during sex—to bring myself to that peak that I had never gotten to.

And then I had done it again because it still didn't feel like enough. And then a third time, because I thought that the third time’s the charm—it fucking wasn’t.

But, now I feel that not even this will work. My body is sated—my thighs shake like I had been trapped in an earthquake and my nipples feel like someone had torn them off with their teeth, not to mention how that spot between my legs felt. My poor fucking folds have been put through the wringer, my clit that begs for the touch of something other than my hand—that begs for his hand.

I come down from that brain-melting climax, shaking my head as I move away from the pillow, taking the dildo out and putting it back in the drawer—I haven't officially used it, so I felt no need to clean it. However, I do take the pillowcase off of my pillow and throw it—along with my utterly ruined cotton panties—towards my door to take to the laundry basket.

Changing into some clean underwear, I pull on some jeans and a v-neck t-shirt before leaving my room. If grinding myself on a makeshift erection wasn’t going to help clear my mind, I knew exactly what would—going for a ride.

As I walk through the house, dropping my dirty clothes in the laundry room and putting them in my hamper on the way, I hear the sounds of life coming from the kitchen. Grandpa’s phlegmy cough as he pulled his usual mug from the cabinet, the grinding of coffee beans in the machine, the clink of a spoon against ceramic.

I shuffle my way over to the fridge and grab the carton of orange juice, shaking it well before grabbing a glass from the draining board. Grandpa gives me a sideways glance, nodding his head in acknowledgement.

“Morning, pumpkin.”

“Hey, Grandpa.”

The kitchen is tense. Grandpa tries to put on his usual smile, but I can see the hurt in his eyes. It gnaws at my gut, making me want to scream and cry and apologise to him for the way I had acted last night.

“So.. about last night.” I begin.

When I had come in from the club, Grandpa had been awake—he had waited up for me, even though I had told everyone that I had plans to stay at Claire’s motel room. Grandpa had taken one look at my face and thought the worst, but I wasn’t about to talk about it, so I had brushed him off and shut myself away like a sullen teenager.

Grandpa clears his throat, doing his best to hold my gaze. But those warm brown eyes seem to stare off more into the middle distance than really focus on me. I know why—he’s probably still feeling the sting of my rejection, since Grandpa and I never really fight—and I never shut the door in his face, or anyone’s for that matter.

“Are you feeling alright, pumpkin? Did.. did something happen to you when you were out?” His hands slowly clench into fists as I can see his mind imagining the worst. “Did someone try and hurt you?”

“No.”

I’m lying, of course. Someone had hurt me, and the worst part is I fucking let him. And I loved every single second of it and would gladly let him do it again.

“I just..”

I sigh deeply. I had never got to have these kinds of talks with Grandpa—never suffered this kind of heartbreak before that he could help me out with. The last time I had cried to him, I had skinned my knee when falling off of the old tyre swing in the yard. He’d patched me up, kissed my knee to make me feel better then asked if I wanted the swing taken down.

I doubt that he’d react the same way if I tell him what had happened last night.

“You know you can tell me anything—right, pumpkin?” Grandpa mumbles, reaching over to rest a leathery weathered hand against my own trembling one. A lump lodges itself into my throat as I turn away from him to hide the stinging behind my eyes.

The words are right there on the tip of my tongue. I made out with Leon, yes, Leon the guy who works for you, and it felt so fucking good. But I can't say them.

I hang my head low, gripping the edge of the counter for leverage. “I just.. I’m confused, Grandpa. There’s.. there’s this guy—”

blasts daddy's home by usher at the loudest volume because FIRST LEON POV CHAPTER LETS GOOOOOO

it's actually a pretty short chapter tho lol like 2.9k words. not my shortest but a rather short one. still enjoyable, hopefully. the long chapters will come back soon tho.

full chapter here! if u enjoyed what ur reading so far, pls leave a comment or a kudos. even if it's just a random string of emojis or whatever, i'll still take it. and, also—happy easter! :3

From up here in the helicopter, the city of Washington DC had never looked so small and serene before. It had never looked so quiet. It was just a dark blanket, filled with tiny little dots of light. It was peaceful—and it was I who kept that peace.

Or, rather—I tried to.

Nobody would know what really happened until I drafted up my official report on the matter.

I was coming in from Pittsburgh. I’d been called to investigate a bombing at the Carnegie Museum of Art a few days ago, which had killed a security guard. At first I had thought it was just a regular terror attack—not that ‘regular terror attacks’ were a good thing, but it was better than dealing with bioweapons. Dealing with zombies. The bombs used in the museum bombing as well as a previous bombing before I had gotten there had residuals of the t-virus in them.

The t-virus. The same virus created by Umbrella all those years ago, which had infected Raccoon City. The same virus—the same corporation—that had caused so much death and destruction the world over.

Pittsburgh had suffered an outbreak. First at the medical examiner’s office, then at the park. The bombings were caused by a group of radicals who called themselves the Population Control Movement. They had plans to infect the city—then the entire world—because they believed that the world's population was growing too fast to keep up with the food supply.

I could agree with their sentiment. But I didn't like their way of dealing with it.

I had gotten there in time to stop the outbreaks, but I had lost a lot of good people on that mission. People who didn't deserve that end—people like Detective Pascazzi, and Director Schwartz. Good people. Brave people.

But I didn't have the time to mourn them. I had a new mission, so here I was—heading toward the White House via chopper on the invitation by the President.

I was tired. I hadn’t slept in nearly an entire day or so. And any sleep I had gotten was interrupted by panic-inducing nightmares. I had nightmares of Raccoon City, of South America, of Spain. So many missions, so many losses. So much death and destruction that I was never fast enough, or strong enough, to stop.

I had spent most of my nights in that Pittsburgh motel staring at the wall waiting for the sun to rise so that I could get back to work. Or, I threw myself into work, even though operating with a muddled head never really worked out well for anybody, least of all myself.

The pilot was busy speaking through his headset, and I had no idea what any of the lingo he was using meant. I wasn't a pilot—I preferred boots on the ground versus being in the air. However, I did understand it when the pilot turned to me with a smirk. “Never gotten clearance to land that fast before.” He said, a soft chuckle on his lips. I felt my lips curl into a slight frown. “You must be pretty special.”

Special? What was so special about me?

Sure. I’d saved the President's daughter’s life. I’d successfully completed dozens of critical missions, and I knew what to do when the going got tough. I was brave. I was fearless—so people said. I was special in the basic sense of the word—I had notoriety. But what good was that when I had nothing to show for myself?

I wasn't special. I was a twenty-nine year old man who couldn't sleep without screaming the night away. I was miserable. I was tired. I was lonely.

And there was no amount of attempts to fill the void with other women—young rookies who had heard my name and wanted a piece of me, an experience—that could ever replace the loss of her. The woman who was too golden for my own good. The woman who was too bright for a blight like me. A woman who didn't need me around.

I could have had her, if I had just—no. I refused to think of her any longer. I refused to dwell on what I had loved and lost.

I’d spent too long doing that. Every damn day. But not a day longer.

I shook out my nerves, blowing out a breath as we descended down onto the helipad outside of the White House. Over the rush of the chopper’s blades and engine, the pilot wished me good luck—but I didn't hear him, as I was already out and heading inside.

I had no idea what this new job was about—what it would entail. I had most likely missed the meeting—not that there had been a set time, but it had taken me an hour or so to get from Pittsburgh to Washington, so I could imagine that whatever meeting was held would need to be caught up on. I was sure it wouldn't take me long to find out what I needed to do.

My only hope was that I didn't have to kill anything—or anyone—else tonight.

When I got inside via the main entrance, the first thing I noticed was that all of the lights were off. The place was eerily quiet. It set me immediately on edge, my adrenaline starting to spike in my veins as my eyes scanned the area. Silence like this—darkness like this—would usually be fine if it were late at night. But it wasn't even ten.

There wasn't a single soul in this place. Not an aide working late. Not a janitor burning the midnight oil. Something was off.

I reached for the holster at my back, sliding out my trusted handgun. The same one I’d carried with me since my days—my day—as a cop. Matilda. I pressed the mag release button and felt the magazine pop out into my hand smoothly and swiftly. I had a full stock of bullets, so I quickly reloaded and pulled back the slide. The click was satisfying. Switching the safety off, I blew out a slow breath before heading off toward the elevator.

My ears immediately latched onto the groaning that echoed along the empty hall. I stopped in my tracks immediately, my mind suddenly thrusting me back to that hallway in the RPD, just outside of the West Office. All those zombies. All those Lickers.

I grimaced, pushing the harrowing vision away and forcing myself to continue on. This wasn't the same.

I turned the corner, stopping in my tracks once more as I saw a woman blocking the rest of my path. She stood with her back to me, her shoulders hunched. Her fingers were poised like claws. Her messy blond hair had fallen out of the bun it must have been put up in. It fell around her shoulders in haphazard waves. Her pressed suit was torn and shredded.

I swallowed thickly as I heard that groaning again—this time louder, coming from her. Lifting my gun, I set my sights on this mysterious woman. I breathed in. I breathed out.

“Excuse me. Ma’am.”

I knew exactly what I was dealing with before the zombified woman had even turned around to launch herself onto me. I sucked in a breath against the smell of decay as I squeezed the trigger tight. My ears rang against the gunshot as blood splattered against the pristine checkerboard tile and against the sideboard.

The zombie fell at my feet with a thud, brain matter spilling out of the hole I had put in its head.

“Fuck.” I cursed under my breath. My hands were starting to shake and my heart felt like a hummingbird, a woodpecker trying to jam its way out of my chest. I had to take a minute to catch my breath—to brace my hands against my knees and blink several times against my tunnelled vision.

Two questions raced through my mind at lightning speed. First—how the fuck did zombies get into The White House? And second—how many more were there?

Footsteps drummed across the floor to my left, and I looked up to see two more zombies advancing on me. Suited men shuffling towards me with arms outstretched, their skin gray, their eyes clouded over. I dispatched them quickly, causing more blood to splatter across the walls. The smell of death and decay was stomach-churning, and the high-pitched screeching as each zombie fell took me right back to those familiar hallways. Right back to when I was fighting for my life.

Sweat drenched my skin as I broke into a run. My chest pinched tight, my heart lurching faster and faster as my adrenaline kicked in. I could feel the phantom weight of my uniform hanging off of me, my bulletproof vest covered in blood and guts and despair.

But I didn't have my vest on anymore. Nor did I bear the uniform of the Raccoon City police department. I was in my suit—a dark navy blue slacks and blazer and a white dress shirt. The same suit I had put on every single day since joining the agency. I didn't have any more protection, except for the skills that I had honed over the years.

The same skills I was currently using to clear my path.

“Press Secretary Spacer! Stop!”