lysa more like lysol

That sounded closer to the truth. The coat had once been beautiful and, beneath the abuse, still was—scarlet leather cut to accommodate broad shoulders and a narrow waist, with enough weight in the sweeping tails to turn every movement into theatre. Whoever had made it knew exactly what he wanted from it: to be seen coming. The red entered a room before his sword did and made certain everyone was looking when he followed. Unfortunately, its owner appeared to regard being mauled as a routine laundering method.

You lifted the severed sleeve and turned back the lining. “This needs to be partially dismantled. The back panel has stretched out of shape, the lining will have to come away, and I may be able to save the sleeve if you haven’t lost any pieces.”

He bent to inspect it beside you, bringing with him the faint scents of gunpowder, old leather and something recently singed. “You’re the expert.”

“I am, which is why I’m telling you it will take at least four days.”

He tried two days, then three, and when neither moved you, deployed a charming please with all the confidence of a man unaccustomed to finding doors closed after he smiled at them. You assured him that such a polite customer could collect his coat in four days.

The grin came easily then, quick and bright and entirely too pleased by your refusal. “I like you.”

“I charge extra for flirting.”

“Put it on my bill.”

You reached for the order book and asked for his name. Dante offered no surname—“Just Dante,” he said, as though one should have been enough for you and generally was for everyone else—then watched your pen move down the page until you paused over the blood saturating the torn lining. Curiosity had its limits, yes, but professional safety required several answers.

“Is there anything on this coat likely to dissolve my hands?”

“Not anymore.”

“Venom?”

“Nope.”

“Curses?”

“Not in the traditional sense.”

Your pen stopped. “In the traditional sense.”

Dante leant closer, lowering his voice as though confiding an ancient superstition. “You know how people say red attracts trouble?”

“No.”

“Well, they should. You’d be amazed.”

You wrote the estimated cost on a separate slip. Dante whistled at the alleged abundance of zeroes, all two of them, and excavated his pockets in the desperate belief that money might have bred in one of them. Across your counter appeared two loose cartridges, a pizza voucher, several keys, a silver lighter, four coins, a demon tooth and a handful of crystallised organs.

You picked up the tooth between two fingers. “Should I ask?”

“Souvenir.”

“Take it away.”

“You don’t think it adds character?”

“I think it has saliva on it.”

He returned it to his pocket and contemplated his four coins. His attempts to negotiate instalments and barter met with escalating hostility, but the offer to handle any demons troubling you deserved an answer. “The only demon giving me trouble,” you told him, “is standing in my shop without enough money to pay the deposit.”

Dante pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“I think you’ll recover.”

His attention sharpened, amusement gaining a flicker of curiosity. You had the peculiar impression of answering a question he had not asked, then levity swept back over it and he reached for the enormous sword strapped across his body, apparently intending to leave it as collateral.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s worth more than the coat.”

“I’m not keeping a sword in my workroom.”

“Rebellion’s perfectly behaved.”

“It has a name?”

“Don’t be rude.”

“You came here carrying a named weapon, several unidentified organs and no money.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I sound interesting.”

“When I put it like that, you sound like a police report.”

He eventually discovered several crumpled notes in an inside pocket, enough to cover most of the deposit. You accepted the shortfall on the condition that the coat remained with you until he paid the balance, and Dante offered his hand across the counter as though you had concluded some vital piece of diplomacy rather than negotiated with a delinquent peacock. His palm was warm, rough with old calluses and large enough to swallow yours.

“Four days,” you reminded him.

“I’ll miss you.”

“You’ve known me for twelve minutes.”

“Longest twelve minutes of my life.”

The bell chimed as you escorted him outside. Stripped of that red flare, he seemed oddly diminished, although the dark clothes beneath revealed how much of his apparent size belonged not to the garment but to the man himself. He caught you looking, flexed one shoulder with shameless deliberation, and laughed when you shut the door in his face.

The sound followed you back to the counter, where the coat lay waiting like the first bad decision in a story you had not yet agreed to tell.

The coat proved more complicated than you had initially expected. The claws had dragged the leather out of shape, stretching the edges until the panels could no longer meet, and the damage spread each time you opened another seam. You removed the lining and built a fine support beneath the worst of it, strengthening without making the leather rigid; then you placed each stitch so the repaired sections would flex with Dante’s body rather than split during his next quarrel with something possessing talons.

The deeper you went, the more old repairs emerged. Some were competent, others appalling. One sleeve had been reattached with what looked suspiciously like fishing line, and the left side had been scorched, conditioned and scorched again. Beneath the lapel, your fingertips found the mouths of bullet holes, a dark stain near the ribs and a narrow cut through the collar which had missed the wearer’s throat by perhaps an inch if you were being generous. The garment had become an accidental biography, each scar evidence of some disaster its owner had survived and reduced to a joke. You suspected Dante would be much the same beneath it.

He returned on the fourth day carrying the remainder of your money and a pizza he introduced as a peace offering. When you pointed out that he owed you fifteen and the restaurant offered free delivery, Dante maintained that a large pizza held at least twenty in emotional value, then surrendered the money when it became clear charm would not alter arithmetic. You accepted a slice while he stepped onto the fitting platform and slipped into the restored coat.

It settled across his shoulders as though relieved to have found him again. The reconstructed leather bent cleanly when he rolled his arms, the long tails sweeping around his legs as he turned before the mirror. Yet for all his earlier noise, Dante fell quiet when his fingers reached the seam crossing his back.

“You saved it.”

For once, Dante let the sincerity survive without smothering it beneath a wink. You busied yourself with the collar and told him that was generally what people paid you to do, but his thumb continued slowly over the repair. “Most would’ve replaced the whole panel.”

“Most would have told you to buy another coat. The original leather was still workable, it just needed a little patience.”

In the mirror, mischief had fallen away from a face seemingly built to contain it. Without the grin, older things became visible. The weariness feathered around his eyes, a habitual distance in the set of his mouth, sorrow worn for so long it no longer troubled to announce itself. You looked away before observation became intrusion and smoothed the scarlet leather over his shoulders.

“Lucky me,” Dante said.

You pretended not to hear the answer beneath the answer.

The second catastrophe arrived several weeks later as a neat, smouldering hole through the coat. Dante invited you to see the other guy, who turned out to have been a flaming skull mounted on a demonic centipede. Because it fired projectiles, he insisted, it was cannon-adjacent. You asserted it made him an idiot.

This time he had remembered money, or at least enough that you accepted the garment without conducting another financial inquest. He had also brought coffee prepared exactly as you liked it, a coincidence requiring him to pass over several nearer cafés in order to visit the one you frequented each morning. You did not mention that just as he did not mention how carefully he watched you take the first sip.

The damaged panel required new measurements, so Dante climbed onto the fitting platform and spread his arms while you circled him with the tape. He asked you to buy him dinner before wrapping it around his chest, expanded his ribcage by three blatant inches and claimed nervousness when confronted. You pulled the tape snug enough to expel the breath in a betrayed rush.

“Cruel,” he accused.

“Occupational necessity.”

He remained unrepentant while you measured the breadth of his shoulders, the length of his back and the fall from waist to hem, offering opinions throughout, most of which concerned additional pockets. He wanted one large enough for a slice of pizza that was insulated, removable, and perhaps came with a waterproof flap. You were threatening to pin the measurements directly to him when his reflection asked whether that was a promise.

The tape slipped between your fingers.

His delight was immediate, warm and intolerable. You recovered by tightening it around his waist, but Dante merely laughed until you stepped nearer to check the fit beneath his collar. Then, with the abruptness of a curtain falling at the end of an act, he became quiet beneath your hands.

You would come to recognise that stillness. Dante filled any silence left near him, whether with a joke or the extravagant sprawl of his body. Under your hands, he let the quiet remain. His eyes followed you in the mirror while you adjusted the line of the coat and marked the damaged panel with chalk, but he made no attempt to disturb your concentration.

Few customers recognised how intimate a fitting could become. You learnt the angle of their shoulders, where tension gathered through the spine, which parts of themselves they concealed and which they exaggerated. Dante wore confidence with the same dramatic ease as scarlet leather, but his body held truths the costume could not completely disguise. There was an old stiffness beneath one shoulder blade, a faint flinch when your fingers passed his left side, pale scars rising wherever the shirt pulled taut; there were too many to count, and more beneath the surface than any mirror could offer you.

“You always stare this intensely at your customers?” he asked.

“Only the ones assembled incorrectly.”

“That hurts, sweetheart.”

“Hold still.”

He did.

After that, one repair threaded itself into the next. Dante returned with a singed hem, a missing cuff and, on one memorable occasion, a sleeve stiff with something he insisted was not technically blood. You banished him until it had been cleaned and he reappeared the following morning with the coat dripping wet and the righteous expression of a schoolboy who believed literal compliance should exempt him from consequences.

Soon the damage barely justified professional attention. A loose button required an hour on your fitting platform and most of the sweets beside the till. A pulled thread became an excuse to occupy the little sofa while you worked on commissions, his long legs hanging over one arm as he supplied increasingly improbable accounts of his latest hunt. You learnt that he ran a business called Devil May Cry, although ‘ran’ seemed generous. Most days, he appeared to survive through bad planning and a body too stubborn to die. Whatever god protected fools had clearly made Dante a personal project. In return, Dante learnt which afternoons were quietest, where you hid the good coffee and how to distinguish the expression that meant you were listening from the one that meant you were considering stabbing him with your shears.

His pockets developed their own ecosystem. Shell casings bred beside lollipops and overdue bills while the demon teeth multiplied until you suspected the first had begun a dental archive. You made him empty everything before surrendering the coat, and during one such excavation found a scrap of scarlet thread looped carefully around a card.

It was the thread you used for his repairs.

“You’ve been carrying this?”

Dante glanced over from the mirror. “Emergency.”

“You can’t perform emergency leather restoration with six inches of thread and no needle.”

“Good luck charm, then.”

Lightly said, but he took the card from you with surprising care and returned it to the safest inside pocket. After that, you began signing your work with a tiny line of embroidery concealed beneath the lining, where nobody would find it unless they went searching. Dante said nothing when he discovered the first, but he arrived the following week with pizza from the expensive restaurant across town and the entire cost of his repair in cash.

You might have carried on pretending his visits meant nothing if you had not caught him manufacturing one. Late on a rain-swept afternoon, Dante placed the coat across your counter and pointed gravely to a separation in the lining. The stitches had been snipped one by one. The leather was neither strained nor frayed; even the loose thread remained caught beneath the lining, damning him.

“Must’ve been a very small demon,” he said.

“A demon carrying a seam ripper?”

“They’re evolving.”

“You picked this open.”

He received the accusation with magnificent offence. You informed him that your trust had died the moment he disembowelled his own lining. Dante called that dramatic, and you reminded him he had come to the right shop.

Rain threaded silver down the windows behind him. Without the usual catastrophe demanding your attention, the absurdity of the arrangement stood plainly between you—he had sabotaged a perfectly sound repair because he wanted an excuse to visit. Apparently, a man who could face a flaming centipede without hesitation could not ask whether you wanted to see him outside the shop.

You pushed the coat back across the counter. “This doesn’t need a tailor. It needs ten minutes and someone capable of threading a needle.”

“Know anyone?”

“I’m busy.”

His grin faltered—not enough to disappear, but enough to reveal the uncertainty underneath it—and he reached for the coat. You let his fingers find the leather before adding that you finished at seven and intended to eat at the restaurant around the corner. They served pizza, since that appeared to constitute the entirety of his diet.

Dante’s hand remained where it was. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“I’m telling you where I’m eating tonight. Your interpretation is your own problem.”

“At seven?”

“If you’re late, I’m leaving without you.”

He arrived at half past six.

Dinner became another kind of routine. Dante remained an inconsistent correspondent and a terrible planner, but he appeared at odd hours with coffee, takeaway or news of some minor disaster he insisted you would find entertaining. Sometimes he vanished for several days, never warning you before he went; you refused to ask when he would return, as though silence could make the waiting less revealing.

The coat always came back eventually, until the night Dante arrived wearing it over an injury he thought you would not notice.

The damage he presented was almost insulting. There was a narrow tear beside the lower seam, simple enough to mend within the hour. He launched into a story about an overgrown lizard with attachment issues while you examined it, but the familiar animation had thinned into effort. He kept his left side angled away, one hand braced upon the counter and carrying far  more weight than his careless posture would admit. When your fingertips touched the torn leather, it was wet with blood.

“How long ago?”

“Couple of hours.”

You told him to take off the coat. Dante attempted a remark about finally winning you over, but whatever he found in your expression discouraged the rest. He drew the garment gingerly from his shoulders, and beneath it his shirt clung dark and wet to his side.

The tear was forgotten. You caught his wrist when he tried to wave you away and found a steady pulse beneath skin colder than it should have been. “Sit down.”

“I heal fast.”

“You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“I’ll pay for cleaning.”

“With what money?”

“Good point.”

The joke had no shine left in it by the time Dante lowered himself onto the fitting platform, the same narrow stage from which he had posed, preened and stolen enough pins to establish a private armoury. Now he folded instinctively around an injury he insisted did not deserve attention, and the sight of him there felt wrong enough to hollow out the room. You fetched the medical box from beneath the counter, cut through the darkened side of his shirt, and listened as he pointed out, with dwindling conviction, that the shop was already closing.

“Then you can stop bleeding whenever it becomes convenient.”

“You should see the other guy.”

You looked up. “If you say that again, I will make this hurt.”

“There’s my favourite bedside manner.”

The wound curved across his ribs, vicious but already surrendering to his unnatural healing. Once the blood was cleaned away, new skin showed beneath the torn edges; it would not kill him, but relief did not arrive softly. It entered your hands as anger, sharpened by the sudden knowledge of how much the coat had hidden. How many times had it reached your worktable like this while Dante laughed until you attended to the leather and overlooked the body that had bled into it?

You pressed clean gauze against his side, drawing a hiss through his teeth. Dante assured you the wound would be gone by morning, but you secured the dressing anyway. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt tonight.”

The answer seemed to hit harder than you intended. Without the sword, the coat or the swagger broadening his shoulders, Dante seemed less like the impossible figure who had once occupied your doorway than a man who had never learnt what to do when someone noticed his pain and refused to be distracted by his survival.

“The jacket can wait,” you said.

“I knew it. You only love me for my wardrobe.”

“I’d prefer if the man inside it stayed in one piece as well.”

Outside, the rain had thinned to a whisper beneath the awning. Your hands remained at his waist, one resting over the bandage and the other warm against his back. In the hush following your admission, the intimacy of your position asserted itself all at once. You stood between Dante’s knees, close enough to feel heat returning gradually to his skin and each careful expansion of his ribs beneath your palm.

His hand closed loosely around your wrist. “You worried about me, Stitches?”

Usually the nickname earned an eye-roll. Tonight it had lost its teasing edge. You accused him of arriving half-disembowelled; he accused you of melodrama, reminding you that his rapid healing had already begun. The coat, he pointed out, had once survived being set on fire beneath your care.

“The coat, yes. You are considerably more difficult.”

His thumb moved once across your pulse. “You keep trying anyway.”

The glib answer waiting behind your teeth refused to come. You knew what to do with Dante when he was flirting. You knew considerably less about what to do when he meant something, and now he watched you without offering either of you a place to hide.

“I come here ‘cause you don’t ask,” he said at last, his gaze drifting towards the scarlet leather darkened by his blood. “Most people see the sword and the whole half-demon thing, and decide what I’m supposed to be. Monster, hero, tragedy—depends who’s asking.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You just think I’m bad for leather.”

“You are calamitous for leather.”

“Exactly.”

There was no self-pity in him, only an old fatigue spoken plainly for once. You smoothed the edge of the bandage and told him that catastrophic nuisances still deserved medical attention, a sentiment he warned might give a man ideas. Yet when he lifted his chin and drew you a fraction closer, the confidence with which Dante faced every violence deserted him before compassion. His gaze fell to your mouth; your breath caught, the shop contracting around the narrow distance between you.

Then his stomach growled loudly enough to qualify as a demonic incident in its own right.

Dante closed his eyes. “You didn’t hear that.”

You had undressed him, lost a considerable quantity of his blood upon your floor and were now ordering him dinner, he observed once you insisted upon food. As far as he was concerned, the evening was going exceptionally well. Your laughter loosened the moment without quite breaking it, warmth returning to his face at the sound.

He fell asleep on the shop sofa before the pizza arrived, one arm folded beneath his head and his long legs trailing over the edge. When the leather was clean enough to move, you laid the coat across him and watched scarlet rise and fall with the deep rhythm of his breathing.

By the time you woke at your worktable, Dante was gone. He had taken the remaining pizza and left enough money to pay for it beneath your empty coffee cup.

For nearly two weeks afterwards, you saw nothing of him. His work took him beyond the city without warning, and Dante treated plans as polite suggestions rather than obligations, so the silence should not have troubled you. You told yourself it felt different only because you had seen him injured before he left. Even so, every ring of the bell lifted your attention from the needle in your hand, and every customer who entered left a little more disappointment hanging in the doorway behind them.

On the twelfth evening, the door struck the wall hard enough to rattle the glass. A young man with short white hair stood on the threshold, breathing heavily, one mechanical hand clutching a bundle of ruined scarlet leather.

Your body understood before your mind did. “Where is he?”

The stranger assured you Dante was alive, which was not an answer and did nothing to slow the cold travelling through your veins. He laid down what remained of the coat. For one dislocated instant, you could not recognise it. The back had split almost from collar to hem, one side eaten brittle by acid, the lining in ribbons and blood drying to rust across the surviving panels.

You braced your fingers against the counter because touching it felt impossible. “How alive?”

“He was standing when I left. Complaining, showing off, being a pain in the ass. Normal Dante.”

“Then why isn’t he wearing this?”

“Demon grabbed it. He slipped out before it dragged him into a mouth the size of a van.” The stranger paused, sympathy tempering his impatience. “Would’ve left the coat, but he went back for it.”

Of course he had. Dante had told him to rescue the leather before the acid dissolved it and predicted, with satisfaction, that you would kill him. You informed Nero, once he finally introduced himself, that this stayed under consideration. He received your promise to save the coat with offensive scepticism, then left after swearing he would contact you when the hunt ended.

You worked through the night.

There would be no hiding what had happened to the coat. You could replace every ruined panel, but Dante would return to something cut from the same pattern and stripped of all the same history. Instead, you cut away only what could not be restored, treated the acid damage and built support beneath the torn back. New leather bridged the missing sections, dyed to belong beside the old scarlet without pretending to share its age, while the lining was pieced together from whatever had survived. Each pass of the needle drew the longest rupture closer, not erasing the wound but teaching its edges how to hold.

The coat had always narrated Dante’s survival. Beneath the work lamp, it became an omen.

Every old repair passed through your hands; the claw marks from the first night, the scorched panel, the cuff once torn away during an alleged fall through a church roof. Your hidden embroidery remained safe among the wreckage. He had not replaced a single piece bearing your mark unless the damage made it unavoidable, and when the creature tried to take all of it, he had gone back.

The tenderness of it hurt, though the idiocy, at least, kept your hands steady. You drove the needle through the backing, pulled the thread taut and tried not to wonder whether anyone would remain to wear what you were saving.

Morning slowly unpicked the darkness from the windows. Beyond the glass, the city stirred, oblivious to the terror gathered in your shop. Coffee cooled beside your elbow and cramps stiffened your fingers, but stopping would mean waiting, and waiting offered nothing you could mend.

The bell rang shortly after nine.

Dante stood in the doorway, bruised, filthy and missing part of one boot. Blood had dried through his hair and a fresh cut crossed his forehead, yet he remained upright, breathing and leaning against the frame with exaggerated ease, as though returning from the dead was simply another late arrival.

“Morning, Stitches.”

You crossed the shop before deciding whether you planned to strike or embrace him and managed both in swift succession. Your palm met his chest with enough force to wipe the grin from his face, and when Dante confirmed that he had gone back into a demon’s mouth for the coat—“Would’ve ruined the leather,” he attempted—you caught the front of his shirt and dragged him against you.

For one heartbeat, he was motionless. Then his arms folded around you, one hand spreading over your back while the other cradled your head with a care so immediate it hurt. Beneath your ear, his heart beat hard and steady.

“There,” he murmured into your hair. “Still ticking.”

You called him an idiot, told him you hated him and tightened your arms until his answering laugh dissolved into something without humour. Dante rested his cheek against your temple and, for once, made no attempt to rescue either of you with a joke. He simply held you while the fear drained slowly from your body.

When you stepped back, his hands lingered at your waist and his attention travelled to the worktable where morning light found every alteration. The new leather among old, fine stitches crossing the back, the pale scar left where the acid had bitten too deeply to erase.

“I couldn’t make it look untouched,” you said. “Not without replacing almost everything.”

Dante ran his fingers along the reconstructed seam. “Wouldn’t want that.”

“The marks will still be there.”

“So will I.”

The answer was quiet. He turned while you lifted the coat and settled it over his shoulders, easing the repaired side around his arm and drawing the collar into place. Despite all your measurements, it fitted differently now, a garment assembled from several versions of itself, altered by every survival and strengthened where it had once given way. Dante rolled his shoulders once and the seams held.

You reached around him to fasten an interior closure, your arms almost encircling his waist, and he covered your hand before you could retreat. When Dante turned within the loose circle of your embrace, the tails swept around your legs and enclosed you both in scarlet.

“You’re shaking.”

“I’ve been awake all night.”

“Because of the coat?”

“Don’t insult me.”

He lifted your hand to his chest, pressing your palm over the heartbeat waiting beneath the leather. “Still here.”

You warned him that he had better remain there, because you refused to perform another restoration before next month. Dante considered that a vote of confidence, and when you threatened to sew him into the coat, his smile tilted and he accused you of promising him a good time again.

“For the record,” he said, thumb following the pulse inside your wrist, “I didn’t go back because it’s a nice coat.”

“No?”

“Lots of nice coats in the world.”

“None you can afford.”

“Low blow.” His forehead lowered towards yours, mischief softening into something unguarded as the distance disappeared. “I went back ‘cause you made this one mine.”

The words drew tight every thread stretched between you—the two sleepless weeks, one unbearable night, months of small returns and the hidden marks of your hands carried faithfully against his body. Rather than trust yourself to answer, you closed the remaining distance and kissed him.

After months of shameless provocation, Dante kissed you with startling care. One hand slid into your hair while the other settled at your waist, close without presuming; it was only when you caught his lapels and pulled him nearer that the familiar confidence came rushing back. Even then, beneath all that instinct and flair, he listened to every change in your breath.

When you parted, his smile was softer and slightly dazed. “So, does kissing the tailor get me a discount?”

“Actually, romantic partners incur a nuisance fee.”

His laughter filled the shop, bright enough to scatter the shadows the night had left behind. There were conditions, of course. Dante would pay his invoices, stop opening perfectly sound seams and attempt to avoid being swallowed by anything larger than a delivery van. He considered the last restriction unreasonable, but stole another kiss and promised to try.

It was a worthless promise. You both knew it.

Later, while Dante sat on the fitting platform eating the breakfast he had persuaded you to order, you discovered one final weakness beneath his right arm. He lifted it obediently while you threaded the needle and leant close, your arm curved partially around his waist as his free hand settled at the small of your back with the ease of something finding its intended place.

“Could add that pizza pocket while you’re in there.”

“I have a needle beside your ribs.”

“Just brainstorming.”

“You’re already storing food in my shop. Your coat doesn't need provisions.”

“Our shop.”

Your needle paused, but Dante continued eating with an expression of calculated innocence while the hand at your back drew you slightly closer. You should have corrected him. The shop was yours, as were the bills, the workrooms and the demon teeth hidden in an empty button tin. He had just wandered through the door one evening carrying trouble, blood and four coins. Instead, you tied off the final stitch.

It sat hidden beneath his arm; a small scarlet promise holding old leather to new. Dante could not see it, but he tested the seam with a roll of his shoulder and smiled when it held.

He would tear it again. He would return scorched, bloodied and carrying some outrageous explanation, and you would curse him, mend what you could and remind him that survival did not render pain inconsequential. The coat would never be pristine again. Neither would Dante, but you had never asked them to be. The difference was that now, when Dante came home carrying the damage, he would find someone waiting to let him in.

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“Well now I have all the more reason to try.”

Nico glanced up from beneath the van. “What’s impossible?”

You placed a hand dramatically over your chest. “Making Vergil smile.”

Nico’s wrench clattered against the concrete. Then she laughed loud enough to startle Nero. “Oh, that’s what this is?”

“This?” you question.

“You’ve been circling him like a cat since breakfast.” she points out.

“I have not.”

“You asked him if he wanted pancakes shaped like rabbits.”

“That was generosity.” you defend.

“Girl.” Nico deadpans.

In the room over, through the open door, Vergil sat in the old armchair by the window with a book open in one hand and tea balanced beside him. Unbothered and silent. Entirely unaware, or pretending to be, that your entire day had become centered around getting one visible reaction from him. One smile.

Not even a full one. You'd be happy with just a twitch of the corner of his mouth. And so far, nothing.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Attempt one had been breakfast.

“Vergil.” you softly called his name.

He looked up from his tea. You set a plate in front of him proudly. Two pancakes, shaped vaguely like rabbits, one of the ears had collapsed. The syrup smile had slid halfway off the plate. Vergil stared at them. Then at you.

“…What is this?”

“Breakfast.” you said plainly, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I gathered that.”

“Bunny pancakes.” you smiled.

There was a pause. Dante nearly choked on his coffee. Vergil lowered his gaze back to the plate in silence.

“Thank you.” his words were short and polite, but no smile.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Failure two was verbal. You caught him in the hallway while he was heading downstairs.

“Vergil.”

“Yes?”

“If Dante and Nero switched coats without telling anyone… how long would it take you to notice?”

He paused. “…Immediately.”

“What if Dante styled his hair like yours?”

“Disturbing.”

“Would you be upset?”

“Yes.”

“Emotionally?”

“Profoundly.” he insisted, his face making more of a frown than a smile.

Nero, overhearing from the staircase, barked a laugh. Vergil continued downstairs, still no smile.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Attempt three involved a sketch. A terrible one, but a sketch, nonetheless. You slid the folded paper across the table toward him while he read. He opened it. Inside was a charcoal drawing of him. Very serious. Very stoic. Except someone (meaning you) had added cat ears and labeled it: Vergil, if he allowed himself joy

He stared at it. You stared at him, waiting.

“…Did you spend time on this?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” He folded it neatly and placed it beside his book. No reaction, not even a breath. You dropped your head onto the table.

Nico patted your shoulder on her way past. “Tough crowd.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By late afternoon you were losing faith. Vergil remained exactly as he always was, composed and unreadable. Standing by the bookcase now while sunlight stretched across the floorboards. He turned pages with the same serene focus he always had.

You flopped dramatically onto the couch beside Dante. “I quit.”

Dante glanced over his magazine. “Already?”

“It’s hopeless.”

“Yep...” Dante agreed. “Nero said that.”

“Because Nero was right.” you sighed. “I thought maybe I could at least get a smirk.”

Dante snorted. “Vergil doesn’t smirk.”

“Yes, he does.”

“Nope.”

“I’ve seen it.” you insisted.

“That was probably indigestion.”

“I’m done trying.” You groaned into the couch cushion.

Across the room, Vergil turned a page, utterly unaffected. You narrowed your eyes at him from afar. He didn’t even look up like the ridiculous, impossible man that he is.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evening settled over Devil May Cry slowly. Nico shut down the garage, Nero had left to go back home to Kyrie, Dante left to grab food, and the office became quiet in that familiar way with the old wood creaking, pipes ticking, and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

You wandered in with a blanket over your shoulders and found Vergil alone near the window, tea untouched beside him, book open in his lap. The blue twilight spilling over the floor painting him as handsome as ever. You paused in the doorway. Then sighed dramatically.

“I surrender.”

He looked up. “Surrender?”

“I’ve spent all day trying to make you smile.”

“I am aware.”

Your jaw dropped. “You knew?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“This morning.” he said taking a sip of his almost forgotten tea.

“During the pancakes?”

“Before the pancakes.”

You stared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Vergil turned a page. “You seemed committed.”

“That’s evil.”

“Perhaps.”

You walked farther into the room and dropped into the couch opposite him. “I can’t believe you knew.”

“You were not subtle.”

“Rude.”

“You asked if I would recognize Dante wearing my coat.”

“That was a legitimate question.”

“It was not.”

You huffed, blanket gathered around your knees. “Well. It doesn’t matter. I lost.”

“Lost?”

“I never made you smile.”

Vergil said nothing. You leaned your head back against the couch and stared at the ceiling. “Not even once.”

“I disagree.”

You turned so fast the blanket nearly slid off. “What?”

Vergil was still looking at his book. “You did.”

“When?”

“This afternoon.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did.” he said plainly.

“Vergil.”

He closed the book carefully and set it aside calmly. “When you handed me the drawing.”

“The cat ears?”

“Yes.”

Your eyes narrowed. “That made you smile?”

“A little.”

“How little?”

He considered. “…Minimal.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“It does.”

“You’re lying.” you pressed.

“I have no reason to.”

You sat up straighter. “Then prove it.”

Vergil raised an eyebrow. “Prove… that I smiled?”

“Yes.”

“That would be difficult.”

“Oh, that must be convenient for you.” You crossed your arms.

He studied you quietly for a moment. Then stood, moved toward the bookshelf to set his tea aside, and as he passed the couch, you caught it. So small you nearly doubted it. A faint shift at the corner of his mouth, gone almost instantly. You shot upright.

“There.” you pointed at you.

Vergil kept walking. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I saw that.”

“Saw what?” he said browsing the books like they weren't all his own.

“That.”

“You are imagining things.”

“I am not! You smiled.” you shifted in your seat.

“No.”

“You absolutely did.”

Vergil picked up another book from the shelf with perfect composure. You stared at him open-mouthed and victorious.

“Vergil.” No response. “You smiled.”

Silence. You stood from the couch, pointing accusingly. “You smiled.”

Still facing the shelf, he answered, “Perhaps.”

It felt strange sometimes. For years, he'd wanted something like this. A place that felt lived in. A beautiful woman waiting at home instead of another government briefing or another hotel room. A life outside of missions.

His phone buzzed against the coffee table. Unknown number. Leon frowned. Most people who needed him had secure lines, which means this could only be one person.

His thumb hovered over the screen before he answered. "...Hello?"

There wasn't an answer right away. Just quiet breathing before he finally heard someone call his name. "...Leon."

Every muscle in his body went rigid. He hadn't heard your voice in a little while. He stood from the couch so quickly the whiskey in his glass sloshed onto his hand.

"...Honey," he said quietly, disbelief softening his voice. "Why're you calling me so late?"

You laughed weakly through tears. "I don't know, Lee."

He checked the hallway toward the bedroom. "It's kinda hard to talk right now."

"I'm sorry, I can go."

"Please don't." He answered too quickly. He closed his eyes. "Don't hang up."

Silence settled between you. It was comfortable... familiar. Dangerous. You tried to steady your breathing, but another shaky sob slipped out anyway. Leon heard it immediately.

"Hey... talk to me, baby." 

He didn't even register the pet name he used. Concern replaced every trace of surprise he had from your call. You pressed your forehead against your bedroom window. The rain slid down the glass in crooked lines.

"Is everything okay?" Leon asked again.

You wanted to lie. You'd always lied to Leon when you were hurting. When he was hurting you.

"I'm fine."

"Fine doesn't call me at two in the morning, sweetheart."

Another tear rolled down your cheek. Leon hadn't always been good at this comforting part. When you'd been together, it was a toxic and heated love-hate relationship.

"It doesn't matter. I don't know why I called."

Leon sighed into the phone. He knew you like nobody else. He knew at some point you'd call him or see him, and every emotion he'd ever felt for you would come back.

"It matters to me because you're crying."

You covered your mouth. God... he still knew exactly how to break through every wall you'd built.

"I..." You laughed bitterly. "I miss you, baby."

Leon looked back toward the bedroom again. Ada moved around in her sleep, blankets shifting above her. He instinctively lowered his voice.

"Uh... I... miss you." Leon said breathily, barely moving his mouth.

"What? I can't hear you."

"Uh, sorry, I gotta whisper cause I can't be too loud."

"...Why?"

He leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. "My girl's in the next room."

The words landed like someone dropping a bucket of ice water on your head. Your heart sank. Fuck. The room around you suddenly felt too quiet. Your fingers tightened around your phone until your knuckles ached.

You'd seen the pictures. Not because you'd gone looking for them. At least not the first time. A mutual friend had posted one after some charity gala. Leon stood in a tailored black suit, one hand tucked into his pocket while Ada rested comfortably against his side. She looked effortlessly elegant. He looked... happy. Or as close to happy as Leon Kennedy ever looked in front of a camera.

After that, you'd made the mistake of searching. One picture became five. Five became an hour of convincing yourself that smiling for a photograph didn't mean anything. Leon had always hated cameras. Half the pictures from when you'd dated caught him rolling his eyes while you laughed beside him, or trying to hide behind the hood of his jacket because you'd insisted on taking "just one more."

You'd told yourself people online loved inventing stories. You'd told yourself maybe she was just another partner. Another contact? Another assignment? Now there wasn't any room left to lie to yourself.

"She lives with you?" you asked, barely above a whisper.

Leon's eyes squeezed shut. He hated admitting it to you. Hated that you were hearing about this life from him instead of living it with him. Somewhere deep down, a selfish part of him still imagined what it would've looked like if you'd been the one waiting behind the bedroom door.

"Yeah."

Nothing else. He didn't offer any details. He just said that one word. Somehow that hurt more than if he tried to explain it. He didn't want you to know details. It isn't your business. And yet, it felt like it was.

You laughed quietly, though there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "I picked a hell of a night to miss you then."

Leon's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt. There it was. The sentence he'd been terrified of hearing. The quiet admission that, after everything you've done to each other, you still missed him.

"Don't do that." He shook his head left and right.

"Do what?"

"Don't pretend you don't care." He said a little louder than before.

You looked at the ceiling, wondering what you should even say to him now. You called him because you missed him. You called him because you thought maybe the girlfriend thing was a fluke and you could weasel your way back in. You called because you thought he would miss you too.

"I'm trying not to care."

"You're terrible at it, sweetheart."

"That's funny, I'm pretty sure I learned that from you."

---

"You disappeared again," you said.

Leon didn't answer. He just looked at you.

"It's been three months, and you didn't even call."

"I'm sorry, baby."

"You couldn't even send a fucking text?"

"I know... I know, but I'm here now."

"You show up with flowers and think it erases everything?"

"I'm trying, though," he says, stepping forward.

"You let me think you were dead and gone."

"I'm sorry."

The mission had gone sideways before anyone even realized they were compromised. Communications had been cut. Debriefings had stretched into weeks. When he'd finally been cleared to go home, he'd spent three days sitting in his apartment staring at your number without pressing Call. He hadn't known how to explain another disappearance. Another lie. Another apology. By the time he'd found the courage... You'd already packed your things again. It was a nasty pattern.

---

"Leon..." you whispered, pain seeping deep into your chest. "You remember what I said last time we saw each other?"

Leon's jaw tightened. He hated thinking about it. "Every word."

"Go find someone who can actually love you." 

The sentence tasted poisonous coming back. You'd thought about it regularly. It hurt you, and you know it destroyed him so much, but here you are, calling him. Because the only person you've ever been able to love is him.

"Seems like you listened."

Leon laughed once, but it was hollow enough to make your chest ache.

"Did I, though?"

Silence answered him. The truth? He hadn't. He found someone. Ada was kind and mysterious. She was beautiful and patient. Steady when it came right down to it. You and Leon had been anything but steady. Ada didn't beg for his attention. She gave him space. She trusted him. She deserved every piece of him.

Instead, he was standing in a dark hallway of his house whispering into a phone at two in the morning because the woman he'd never stopped loving missed him. Because she called and he felt everything he'd ignored after the breakup.

"I hate you sometimes," you admitted.

"I know."

"I hated waiting for you."

"I know, sweetheart."

"I hated wondering if every knock at my door was going to be someone telling me you were dead," your voice broke.

Leon's breathing caught in his throat.

"I hated loving someone who belonged to everybody except me."

The words carved straight through him. You'd never said them before. At least not like that. Not without yelling or anger to cushion the blow.

"But leaving you? I'm just stuck in that same loop. Except now, you're really gone."

Your words were simple and true. Leon covered his eyes with his free hand.

"I'm sorry."

You sniffled. "You've apologized enough, Lee. Clearly you've moved on."

"I've never apologized the right way."

"It doesn't matter now." You shook your head.

"I kept asking you to forgive me for things I never stopped doing."

Your heart broke a little more. He understood now, but it was too late. It was always too late with him.

"I miss you," he whispered so you could hear him this time.

You let out a shaky breath. "I know."

"I don't mean the idea of you," his voice cracked. "I miss Sunday mornings."

You frowned. "What?"

"The pancakes."

Despite everything, you laughed. "You couldn't make those suckers to save your life."

"I still can't... burn every single one." He smiled into the phone. "But you always ate the crispy edges."

"Those are the best part, dude!"

"You always said so..." he sighed.

A warmth settled over both of you for the briefest moment. Long enough to remember what it had felt like before everything became so complicated. The memories made him feel nothing but happy. Even though the bad times were really bad... the good times were the best he's ever felt. After everything he'd been through, you were always the best part of his day and the last thing he thought about before going to bed.

Leon swallowed. "Sometimes..."

His voice was barely above a breath again. "Sometimes I wish..."

He stopped himself. You waited patiently... something he'd noticed you'd developed since you last spoke. The silence stretched long.

"...Sometimes I wish she was you."

The words slipped out before he could catch them. His eyes flew open. He hadn't meant to say that. He hadn't meant to think it. He certainly hadn't meant to give it a voice. The apartment felt impossibly still. From the bedroom, he could see Ada moving again. Guilt crashed into him with enough force to make his stomach turn.

They lingered in the silence between you, impossible to take back, impossible to pretend you'd imagined them. His pulse pounded in his ears. He could still hear Ada breathing down the hall. Every steady inhale was another reminder that he'd crossed a line he'd promised himself he never would. She trusted him. She'd built a home with him, given him pieces of herself without asking for much in return. She had no idea that a single phone call had unraveled months of careful restraint.

Because that was the truth Leon had spent so long burying beneath missions, routine, and the comfort of something stable. He'd fallen in love with Ada. He cared about her. He wanted a future with her. But none of it had erased you. It had only taught him that a heart could carry more regret than he'd ever thought possible.

His eyes drifted shut. If he'd met Ada first... If Raccoon City had never happened... If he'd chosen you instead of another classified assignment. If he'd stayed. His life was littered with "ifs," and every single one of them somehow led back to you.

You realized your hand was shaking. Leon looked at his phone in disbelief, almost as if someone else had spoken through him.

"I'm sorry."

Across town, you couldn't breathe. Your chest tightened until it physically hurt.

For months you'd convinced yourself you were mourning a relationship. You weren't. You were mourning the version of Leon Kennedy that had only ever existed when the two of you were alone together.

The man who danced barefoot in your kitchen while pancakes burned on the stove. The one who absentmindedly reached for your hand whenever the two of you crossed a street. The one who smiled without realizing it because you were laughing at something stupid. That Leon had never completely disappeared. He'd simply learned to hide himself beneath duty, guilt, and impossible choices.

Now, hearing those words, you realized something that frightened you more than any breakup ever had. Your eyes filled with tears instantly. "Don't say sorry..."

"I shouldn't have..."

"Stop, Leon." Your voice trembled. "Don't apologize for telling me the truth."

"It's not fair to either of you." Leon sighed.

"It isn't." You agreed.

"I don't deserve even half of her. And I didn't deserve even half of you either."

Another silence settled over the call. You turned onto your side in bed. Leon slid down the wall and outstretched his legs. The guilt sat in his chest like wet concrete. You were the first to speak.

"...Does she make you happy?"

The question caught him off guard. It wasn't bitter. It wasn't meant to trap him. You genuinely wanted to know. He stared toward the bedroom door.

"I think..." He paused, choosing every word carefully. "I think she gives me the life I've always wanted."

You closed your eyes tight, seeing splotches of color against the back of your eyelids.

"A home?"

"Yes..."

"A chance to stop looking over your shoulder?"

He nodded before realizing you couldn't see him. "Something like that."

A small smile found your lips. It almost brought you comfort. "I'm glad, Lee."

"You don't sound glad."

"I'm really trying to be..." 

Silence drifted between you again. You laughed quietly to yourself.

"Remember when you told me we'd end up eighty years old still arguing over whether pineapple belongs on pizza?"

Leon smiled despite himself. "I do."

"I guess you were wrong..." You trailed off.

You'd imagined it many times. Growing old with Leon. Finally making up for the lost time when he retired. Finding his first gray hair and getting wrinkles together. Seeing parts of the world that weren't burdened by the government's secret missions. Buying a house together... maybe raising some kids. Now it's the opposite.

"We don't know that, sweetheart," Leon said again, not realizing what kind of emotions that would put on you.

"You get this peaceful life with her... and I get to be alone." You bit your lip to stop another sob.

"You won't always be alone. You'll find someone," Leon said, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

"I already found him. There's no getting over Leon Kennedy. It will always be you."

You let that sink in. You're not sure whether you're trying to convince him to change his mind or just to help you feel some closure. Maybe both?

"You deserve better than me," he said, shaking his head.

"I've never wanted better. I've only ever wanted you," you wiped at your eyes with the back of your free hand.

Leon covered his eyes. Every instinct screamed at him to tell you to come over tomorrow, to tell you he'd figure it out, to tell you this wasn't over. But he looked toward his bedroom. Ada trusted him enough to sleep soundly while he did whatever this was. She trusted him enough to live with him. She trusted him enough to build this life. He couldn't destroy that because he'd spent twenty minutes remembering the woman he'd never truly let go.

He swallowed hard. "I can't do this to her."

The words came out broken. He loved you. But he loved her too, and she was the easiest choice.

"You always knew what kind of man I wanted to be."

"And what kind is that?" you asked.

"The one who doesn't keep hurting people."

Your tears finally spilled over again. It's him saying goodbye, though his words make it seem doubtful. That maybe, just maybe, something could come of this in the future.

"That's funny... you're hurting me right now." You cry softly. "You should go back to bed, Leon."

He didn't move. He didn't even know what to say.

"I don't want to hang up, though. I missed hearing your voice."

"I know."

"I forgot..." He smiled sadly. "I forgot what it sounded like when you laughed."

You wiped your eyes. "I guess this is goodbye."

Leon leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "This has to be the last one."

You covered your mouth to stop the sob from ripping out of your lungs. Your phone lay on speakerphone now, his contact picture an old one of you both. It's like you're torturing yourself by staring at it. Neither of you believed him, though. That was the cruel part. Every breakup had been the last one. Every goodbye had been forever. Until they weren't anymore.

"I'm never going to stop loving you," you choked out. "I'll always be here."

"I know..."

No 'I love you, too.' No promise that you'll ever hear from him again. No impossible hope. Just the quiet acknowledgment of something that had existed for years and probably always would. Leon listened as you exhaled slowly.

"...Goodbye, Lee."

His eyes closed. He hadn't heard that nickname in over a year. You'd been the only person who called him that. And it was probably the last time he'd hear it from your mouth.

"Goodbye, honey."

The line went dead. Leon remained on the floor long after the call ended, staring at his reflection in the phone's black screen. Eventually, he turned it over, tucked it into his pocket, and walked back to the bedroom. When he got there, he plugged it in and crawled into bed.

Ada stirred the moment the mattress dipped beneath his weight. Still half asleep, she instinctively reached for him. Her fingers found his hand under the blankets. She smiled without opening her eyes. 

"There you are."

Leon intertwined his fingers with hers and kissed the side of her head.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

He stared into the darkness. Your voice still echoed in the corners of his mind. He wondered if it always would.

Ada shifted closer in her sleep, her forehead brushing against his shoulder.

"Love you," she murmured, her voice barely more than a dream.

Leon's throat tightened. "...Love you too."

The words came automatically, and they should've felt comforting. Instead, all he could hear was another voice calling him Lee over a phone line.

Thanks for reading! <3 I hope you enjoyed.

Bastard.

You can’t help your smile, glancing at him sidelong and drumming your fingers along your keyboard.

“Don’t you have something to do?”

He rolls the chair forward, bringing an elbow to your desk to rest his chin atop a fist.

“Stopping by in the middle of you reaming into everyone's favorite was on my to-do list.”

You flick him on the nose.

He snatches your hand, trapping it against his cheek.

“Wanna make out?”

You snort and yank your hand back. “You’re three seconds from Mike part two if you don’t leave me alone.”

He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Oh no, can't have that.”

He stands and meanders around the desk, slow, deliberate—giving you plenty of time to glare at him.

Never mind the twitch of your lips betraying you completely.

He drops to his knees in front of you, hands coming to your waist to stroke gingerly up and down.

Your brow hikes upward.

His grin widens.

“Leon,” you mutter, pushing loosely against his chest.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Stop. We’re at work.”

He hums. “I’m not doing anything.”

He edges a finger into your waistband and snaps it against your hip. You huff, planting your palms on his cheeks, smushing them once.

“Leon Scott.”

His brows lift at the middle name. You ignore them.

“I’m busy, you’re supposed to be busy…”

God, his stupid eyes.

You bite your lip at the softness in them, too close now to resist. He takes it as an invitation, closing the distance and capturing your mouth with his. His arms snake around your waist, scooting you forward so that he’s between your knees.

You sigh into the kiss. Involuntary.

He matches it, his tongue edging into your mouth.

“Okay.” You push a finger against his lips. “That's enough.”

He only stares, amused and slightly miffed.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, and bring your forehead to his.

“We. Are. At. Work.” Each syllable accompanies a light bump of your head against his.

“I’m aware.” He kneads the curve of your ass, aiming for your lips again.

You smile and lean back despite his arms heeling you. Your fingers walk under his chin, edging the stubble there.

“Look. The sooner we finish here—“

“Yeah, I’d like to finish here,” he interrupts, deadpan.

You slap his shoulder. “Listen. I was going to say, the sooner we finish here, the sooner we can continue this,” you run your thumb along his lower lip, “at home.”

He groans, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

You laugh, the sound light and genuine. “Oh god. Where’s my camera. The Leon Kennedy on his knees, begging? Nobody’ll believe me.”

He only plunks facedown into your lap, grumbling something that vibrates against your skin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, twisting the strands into small ringlets. “What? Sorry, didn’t catch that.”

He turns just enough to free his mouth from the fold of your thigh.

You rested your shoulder on the column again. You wanted to say that nothing was wrong. Because it shouldn’t. A part of you felt like you were making a deal out of things, and that you were too old to be upset about this.Before you could shake your head and dismiss it all together, he placed his hand on your back, “Don’t you even think about saying it’s nothing.”

You’d been dating Leon for six months now. Others might say that wasn’t much time, but it was to the both of you and it’s been a serious relationship.

At the start of the month of December, Leon asked if you wanted to come to his office party. The party was a week before Christmas, since everyone would be busy for the holidays. Cute was your original thought. For one, you had no plans. Two, he wanted to take this opportunity to introduce you to everyone. So you agreed to accompany him.

Earlier tonight, he picked you up. You arrived at least thirty minutes after the party had started. The first person who greeted you was also the first person who met you. He welcomed you, and then said you could both help yourselves to whatever.

Leon led you around to his colleagues, letting them know who you were. Most of them were surprised to know he had a girlfriend since he kept his personal life rather private.

Some time into the party, he said he’d be right back. When he left, you felt rather awkward around his colleagues since they were in their own conversations. No worries. You’d wait for Leon. You kept your composure and didn’t let it show. You just checked your phone for some notifications that came in and occupied yourself with that.

Until you heard whispers that weren’t as quiet as they were supposed to be.

“I thought you said Leon got back with Claire.”

“I did! I mean… I thought he did.”

That caught your attention.

Leon told you about his previous girlfriend, Claire. They met on that dreadful day in ‘98 and survived with Sherry at their side.

Now, their jobs had them crossing paths on occasion, but it was never intentional. They both were confused, and believed since they had gone through something traumatic together, that meant they should be together. They did date in their late thirties, and it lasted for a year and a half.

Everyone thought they were a beautiful couple and assumed they’d end up get married. That was their goal, all while they both knew something was off. Eventually, neither of them could deal with that nagging feeling in their chest and confronted the situation head on.

They broke up on good terms, realizing they’d mistaken their platonic relationship for a romantic one.

When you started dating Leon, he made sure to explain it to you in the early stages of your relationship because he didn’t want you to feel comfortable. He even suggested you meet Claire, and knew you’d get along with her. She was kind and sweet towards you. She said there wasn’t anything you had to worry about, and encouraged your relationship.

“Okay so, what did he say to you?”

“He said he was bringing his girlfriend as his plus one. I just assumed it was Claire because she was the only girlfriend we knew about.”

“You didn’t think about asking him?”

As much as you tried to block the conversation, all of a sudden, you couldn’t. The pair kept making remarks about how they’d been waiting for Claire and Leon to get back together. Now they were “disappointed” to find out Leon’s girlfriend wasn’t her, but instead someone completely different.

It stung to hear these people you barely knew talking about you while you were at a distance away. There were a few subtle comments thrown in as well. Ones that were making you feel slightly insecure in what you hadn’t felt for years. You wondered if all the other colleagues of his were talking about you too.

Without Leon at your side, you became more and more uncomfortable. You glanced around again. No sight of him coming back from wherever he went.

Where was he?

You accidentally made eye contact with those two colleagues, still whispering as if you couldn’t hear them, and they immediately looked away.

It led you to notice the door leading outside to the courtyard. Stepping out for a bit seemed like a good idea. You’d gather your composure the best you could and then you’d come inside again. You made your quick escape, and then never came back inside.

“Hey, look at me.” Seeing as you weren’t answering, Leon moved his hands and placed them on your shoulders. He stood in front of you, his eyes narrowing in concern. “Tell me what’s going on?” Could you lie your way out of this? He already said he wouldn’t take, ‘Nothing’s wrong’, as an answer. You also didn’t want to make a big deal out of this.

Ever so hesitantly, you sighed out.

“When you left… I overheard some of your coworkers talking about me.” That immediately caught his attention, and not in a good way. You took a brief pause. You shouldn’t keep going, but now that you said it, he wouldn’t let you stop. “At first they were talking about how they thought you were with Claire again. Then they were expressing their disappointment that you weren’t with her, and that you were dating me instead.”

Leon was quiet. On the inside, he was fuming. Who the hell did they think they were talking about you when they’d just met you? You weren’t confrontational, he knew that. But he was. Especially when it came to his girlfriend.

His silence made you feel uneasy.

“I’m sorry, I know I’m too grown to be making a big deal out of this—” You were in your early 40s, and this was high school gossip. Instead, he cut you off.

“Hey, hey. I didn’t say any of that.” Leon squeezed your arms gently, “Your age doesn’t have anything to do with how you feel. You’re allowed to feel upset when people say things about you.”

Those self doubts were truly starting to get the better of you. You’d never really felt this way before in any of your past relationships. Though, Leon meant more to you than previous boyfriends. He was someone who put the same amount of effort and energy you did. He considered himself to be a busy man, yet, always found the time to be with you and made those moments special.

That’s what bothered you. His colleagues were insinuating you weren’t worthy of that or him.

“Their opinion about my relationship doesn’t matter to me, and it shouldn’t to you either.” He held your gaze as he spoke because he needed you to understand what you meant to him. “Do you want me to go say something to them?”

“No, no, it’s fine.” You said. You knew he’d defend you. Just that right now, you wanted his comfort. “Thank you… Can we stay out here a little longer?” You asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah. We’ll go back in whenever you’re ready.” That made you smile. “But if this happens again, I will say something to them about it.” He wrapped his arm around you to bring you closer to his side. He kissed your temple, and you leaned your head on his shoulder.

Something came into your vision. You furrowed your brows and focused on it.

A mistletoe. You lifted your head from Leon’s shoulder, meeting his gaze. That sly smirk was on his face, the one he always gave you whenever he did something he knew would annoy you.

“Well,” He dragged out. He swayed the small plant above your head gently, “Looks like we have to kiss now. I heard if you don’t kiss under a mistletoe, Santa gives them coal.”

“Who did you hear that from?”

Your POV

You stared at the reflection in the mirror. Other girls were getting ready in the background. All chatting about something that'd gone down in one of the private suites the other night. A drop gone awry. Several casualties. There hadn’t been a night like that in quite some time. It was one of the many rules of the club. Crime is welcome, violence is not. Whatever that’s supposed to mean. 

You finished your makeup, donning some fake lashes, before getting up. Luckily, you didn’t have much time on the floor. You were too hot a commodity for it. Only VIP guests had access to private sessions with you.

“Vixen!” A girl rushed over to you with a wide smile on her face. Crystal. She was a newbie. Did stage most of the time for that reason. Inexperienced and frankly, too innocent for this line of business.

“Oh uh… hey, Crystal. Need something?” You tilted your head to the side slightly.

She then pulled out a small cookie, wrapped in a cutesy plastic bag with a bow tied at the top.

“I made it for everyone here tonight,” she beamed and handed it over. You took it and admired it for a little while. This girl was too kind to be in a place like this… 

“Thanks… I’ll make sure to eat it on my break.” You gave her a curt smile, then put the dessert in your bag and locked it up in your locker.

Walking out of the dressing room and out onto the floor, your high pony swayed from side to side. The rhinestones dangling from your lingerie clicked together, though deafened by the loud music blasting throughout the place.

It was the same crowd of regulars tonight. Gangsters and mobsters who were making deals and planning their next big thing. You’d gotten good at spotting the big spenders. Usually, the ones sucking on a Cuban and being able to blow rings. They were surprisingly also the ones who were the most polite and respectful. Men like them held a high regard for the girls at the club, and almost always spent more than just a pretty penny.

Just as you were about to chat up a regular group of guys, your manager rushed over with a hasty and jittery bout of his movements.

“Vixen! Good thing you’re out. A VIP guest just came in. Young fella. He’s loaded. You’ll work some sweet magic on him, right? Make him feel reeeaal welcome, eh?” He urged desperately,

“He’s in room six, waiting for you. I told him he’d get our best, so you better prove it. He has you for the entire night,” he finished.

Your eyes blew wide open. The entire night? Only bosses had that kind of petty cash. Whoever this guy was, he was important and probably dangerous. “Seriously? How much’d he pay?”

“He paid thirty grand, so I want you to disregard any of our rules completely tonight. He can touch you as much as he wants if you permit it. I’ll turn the cameras off in that room for tonight. Do, however, turn on your earpiece if you’re in trouble.” He clapped your back and pushed you towards the VIP rooms.

You found the sixth room and opened the door, expecting thick smoke and some nepotism son of a mob boss. 

What? 

Your mouth went slightly agape. That was barely a man. He didn’t look a day over eighteen. He was definitely younger than you.

He didn’t say a word. You carefully examined him, trying to read his character. Innocent? College fresher? Something was off about him, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. He seemed nervous.

“I’m twenty-one. You can relax,” he finally spoke after your prolonged staring,

“I honestly didn’t expect this when I came here,” he huffed whilst avoiding your gaze, before taking a generous sip of his Diet Coke. “You dropped thirty grand. I had different expectations…” You sauntered over to him and sat on his spread lap. He almost flinched at that.

“Yeah, well, it’s company-issued,” he answered with a shaky voice and grabbed you by the waist. It was far from confident and, quite frankly, awkward. Not usually something the club allowed, but it didn’t matter. He was a generous spender and quite attractive.

Your hands slowly found his hair with a sultry grin. You were used to seducing all types of men. Surely, he’d fall into your trap.

“Company-issued? Dangerous game you’re playing there,” you commented.

He shrugged and reached up to pull a stray piece of hair behind your ear that’d escaped from your ponytail. But as he did so, you felt him pull your earpiece out.

Your blood ran cold. Fuck. Maybe he really was a dangerous guy, or at least the son of one.

“How old are you?” He asked, clearly not confident. Whatever he was trying to do, he was not well-versed in it.

“Mmm, I’m twenty-six. A bit older than twenty-one, huh?” You scoffed and shifted slightly in his lap. It only served to freeze him up even more.

“Suppose so…” He averted his gaze before guiding you off his lap to sit next to him instead,

“Look… I uh… I heard about this place from uh… a-a friend. Said some good deals are going on here. I just wanted to know a little more about them. Could you provide me with some information?”

Was it his first buy or what? He seemed like a fish out of water. There was no way he was experienced at all, and you knew most deals and buys involved the heavier stuff like crystals.

“Do you know how out of your depth you sound? What are you even talking about?” You raised a brow.

He swallowed thickly, and it seemed like he was trying to think for a moment. Like he knew he’d slipped up or something.

“Look, I know I don’t look like it, but I’m really into that stuff. Uh… coke and um hallucinogens…?” He tried to cover, but you were starting to see through him now. This guy had probably never even touched a single line in his life.

“What’s your name?” You asked out of nowhere, with a tug at the corner of your lip. He was cute.

“Leon… my name’s Leon,” he answered carefully, trying to gauge your next move. You could tell by the look in his eyes. He was inspecting you just as much as you were him.

“I’m Vixen… but I bet my manager already told you that,” you chuckled and reached to play with his hair,

“You’re not really here for coke and girls, are you?”

That did it. He was quiet for a moment before letting out a hopeless sigh,

“RPD… It’s my first case, actually….”

You certainly didn’t expect that. You’d thought he might’ve stolen some money from his rich parents and tried to go rogue with it. Things like that happened more often than not in Raccoon City.

“So you’re here on police business? Doing what? Trying to intercept a deal?” You scoffed. He was way in over his head. Especially as a rookie cop. You knew what the regulars here did to people like him. They’d swallow him whole for breakfast.

“I’m just investigating this place in general. The detectives are supposed to deal with my findings, that's all.” His hands were shaking already. As if he knew just how fucked he’d be if any of the men out there knew about this. You shook your head and huffed out,

“Let me guess, I’ve already incriminated myself?” It was more a confirmation than a question. You knew everything you’d spilt could land you a good few years in the slammer. Fucking hell.

He only nodded in response and pulled out a recording device he’d kept hidden in his underwear of all things.

“Would you be willing to give me immunity if I tattle?” There was no question about it. Of course, he would. That was a classic police tactic many fell for, and you were no exception. The thought of prison was enough to make you betray it all.

“I’ll make sure you’re granted complete immunity. I’ll see about a safehouse for you as well…” You considered his words. Chewed on them. You knew a lot of mobs would be after whoever snitched and ratted out their hotspot. Not to mention you’d likely be blacklisted somehow from all other clubs if you weren’t already dead and buried.

“I’ll tell you what I know… if you also keep my identity secret. I don’t want anyone to know I’m the snitch.” Here you were, a grown woman, succumbing to the pressure of some rookie cop. All because you’d seen one too many episodes of Orange is the New Black. Fuck!

“Good to know you’re considering the right side of the law here.” You watched as he pulled out a notepad. Likely to jot down whatever you were saying. For some reason, he turned off his recording device and pocketed it.

“Lay it on me.” His eyes met yours. He was no longer insecure or scared. Maybe because he knew he had the upper hand? You couldn’t tell. He was the first one in a while that you couldn’t read all that well.

Leon’s POV

He’d just shown up at his desk after filing stacks of paperwork in the filing room. Rookies always bore the burden of grunt work.

“Hey, rookie!” The chief’s secretary approached him with a sly look on her face,

“Irons wants you in his office.” Fuck. Had he slipped up in his reports again? Had he messed up timelines?

He swallowed thickly before taking nervous steps towards the chief’s office. He knocked twice before walking in.

“You wanted to see me, sir…” he tilted his head, his voice reaching a slightly higher octave.

“Leon! Good, you’re here. There’s a situation at this local bar. Shady business. People are saying they’ve seen some high-profile mobs there. Mind taking a look?” What. He was used to being sent out to check on house calls and random Karens who wanted to complain about their neighbour being too loud in their backyard. Nothing like this. He was a rookie. Was he even qualified for something like this?

“Sir… with all due respect… Am I really the right person for that job? I mean—“ He started, but wasn’t allowed to finish. The bellowing laughter of the chief filled the stuffy office,

“You’re not going in as some detective undercover,” he laughed,

“Just a slight disguise whilst you take some statements,” he shrugged,

“There’ll be a task force to aid the rest of the investigation, of course. You’re not that special, Kennedy.” Right. He figured as much. He barely knew his way around the museum-turned-precinct. Taking down the hub for all organised crime was definitely not in his job description.

“So, what do you need me to do? Just waltz in there like I own the place?” He spoke with slight sarcasm. The chief grinned widely and nodded,

“Actually, yeah. You’ll get thirty grand to spend at the bar. You know, so as not to raise any suspicion.”

Leon’s eyes blew wide open at that. Thirty grand? He’d never been to a bar where he’d somehow rack up anything past two hundred at most. Tip included. Then again… it was a mobster hotspot. Perhaps the bar was bougie and priced its stock as such.

After he got the rest of the information in a file and read it through carefully, he clocked out and drove his truck back home. It was a modest one-bedroom apartment, but a steal for a policeman’s salary. He hung his jacket on the coat hanger in the entrance after taking off his shoes. It’d been a long day of mindless filing, so he decided to treat himself to takeout instead of fixing something up.

After the food—Chinese—arrived, he set it on his kitchen island in the quaint corner of his kitchen. As he ate in silence, a call suddenly came through— His damned boss.

“Chief Irons,” he answered the phone, barely managing to swallow his food before then.

“Leon, I’d like you to go investigate that bar tonight at midnight.” You’ve got to be kidding me… Leon groaned to himself. He hadn’t even been on stakeouts that late before. Why were they putting this on a rookie?

“You’ll get double the overtime,” he continued, after sensing the silence was from obvious disbelief. Double the pay for the amount of overtime wasn’t too shabby a deal. Especially considering many of his coworkers worked unpaid overtime.

“Fine… send me the address. I didn’t get a picture when I had the file earlier,” he huffed into the phone before hanging up. Only a few minutes later, the chief had sent a pin. Heaven’s Night. 

He finished his food, took out the trash, and did the dishes before setting an alarm and hitting the hay.

A few hours later, the alarm sounded with a gentle tune. He wasn’t one for the louder sounds. Slept like a feather anyway. Rubbing his eyes, he groaned and rose from his spot on the couch.

It was 11:40 PM. He had ten minutes to get ready and ten minutes to get down to the bar. He did a quick outfit change and slicked back his hair. Something he’d seen in movies. There was something rich and sketchy about a slicked-back look. He needed to look the part if he didn’t want to get caught tonight.

However, when he went outside, there was a mustang parked in front of his truck. A piece of paper was taped to the passenger window, “Use for bar. 30K in glovebox.” Right… of course, he couldn’t show up in his rusty old truck.

The drive to the bar was fairly smooth. There weren’t many people on the road at this time of night. Raccoon City was a small city after all. Thank fuck for that. The radio was playing some god-awful “classics”; he had to turn it off and drive in silence instead.

Soon enough, the bar was in sight. He parked on the other side of the road before walking over. Something seemed off about the place. The exterior was all black. No illustrations in sight. Just a big sign with the name of the bar on it. Heaven’s Night. Odd name for a bar…

But, walking in, he realised it wasn’t just any bar. It was a strip club. Could’ve led with that… he sighed to himself before pulling out a fake ID and having it checked. He passed. They clearly didn’t care much for security, but that was another story entirely. Didn’t need that in his report.

“Hey, uh… where can I find the manager?” Leon went up to the bar, where the keeper was cleaning some glasses.

“He’s in the dressing rooms. He should be back out in a minute. Need anything meanwhile?” She asked, to which he shook his head,

“I’m good.”

A few moments later, the manager walked out with some girls following behind. They went out onto the floor where all the thirsty men were seated. Many of them were in suits, smoking cigars and drinking scotch or bourbon. He saw files being passed around, too. Definitely something sketchy. 

Leon saw it as his chance, though, and swiftly made his way to where the manager was standing. Shit shit shit… he was panicking internally. He’d never done anything like this before. How was he supposed to know what to do?

“... ‘You the manager?” He spoke as gruffly as possible, trying to seem intimidating. The manager was of shorter stature. 5’6 maybe? More rotund as well.

“Sure, I am. What do you need?” He smirked with a disgustingly knowing look on his face. Eugh… 

“I have thirty thousand on me. I want the best of the best.” Leon had virtually no idea what he was saying, but hopefully it wasn’t gibberish.

“You talk big game, but where’s the proof, eh?” He chuckled gutturally and patted his belly.

Leon reached into the bag he'd brought with him and zipped it open, revealing the fat stacks,

“I’m good for it.”

As soon as he saw the money, the manager laughed heartily and slung his arm around Leon’s back, leading him to a room to the far side of the club. He called in some girls to ready a bucket with champagne on rocks, along with some caviar and a plate of oysters.

“Cuban?” he pulled out a fat cigar with a sleek label on it, but Leon shook his head. He wasn’t going to start smoking just for cover.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke. Thanks, though…” he nodded. The manager just shrugged as if it were Leon’s loss,

“Well, I can assure you, you will still have our best girl here to enjoy all night. She’s a real looker. I’ll turn off the cameras in here,” he chuckled,

“You can go wild.” What a sad man, Leon thought to himself, as he saw the devious smile on the manager’s face. He hadn’t quite noticed it before, but his hair was slightly thinning and sort of greasy too. There was something deeply disturbing about both him and whatever this club was.

After the door shut behind him, dread began settling in Leon’s chest. What if his cover was weak? He knew the moment something was off, any of the men out on that floor would take great pleasure in ending his life.

He took a few deep breaths before freezing as the door opened again.

Wow… you were beautiful. Fucking gorgeous. The way the lingerie cropped your ass nicely and cupped your breasts with perfection— you could be an art installation.

This was certainly not what he’d signed up for…

Your POV

You thought things over for a moment. Was it really worth it to spill your guts? It practically meant risking your life, and you knew death wouldn’t be the only thing to fear. Those guys would have you begging for it.

“You’re sure they won’t know it’s me?” You chewed on your lip, suddenly feeling a bit intimidated.

Leon had a look in his eyes. As if he could see the fear in yours. As if he knew exactly what you were feeling.

There was a slight pause. As if he were stuck between telling you the truth and giving you a sugar-coated half-truth.

“Look… I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything…” he muttered and averted his gaze down to his blank notepad.

You let out a sigh, contemplating it some more, before closing your eyes and clearing your throat,

“I’ll do it…” You spoke softly. He nodded in response, and you started spilling everything you knew.

You gave him names, places, connections, even dirty cops. Coworkers of his. People he thought he knew. You gave him more ammunition than a gun range. It didn’t seem to end.

His wrist was getting sore from the note-taking. You could tell by the way he twisted and turned it now and then.

However, just as you were about to move on to a new piece of information, you heard something outside. Larger than normal commotion. People screaming. Things were being thrown. Your heart stopped for a moment, and your eyes froze on the door. It was long before gunshots rang out in the club.

You looked back at Leon with a look of pure horror in your eyes,

“W-w-what the fuck?!” You stammered, reasonably shaken up. Sure, things had gotten violent before with some fighting here and there— but never with guns being involved.

“Wait here. I’ll go check it out…” Leon focused on the door and pulled out a handgun he’d hidden in his pants. You just went to hide as best as you could.

Leon’s POV

As the gunshots rang out, he was immediately on high alert. His eyes zeroed in on the door. He heard the screaming. It was loud over the already loud music.

When he turned to look at you, your face was as pale as a ghost. Clearly, this wasn’t just any regular occurrence.

He got up as you went to hide behind a couch in the corner.

Slowly stepping out, the music was still playing. He went down the long corridor of VIP rooms before finally arriving on the floor and stage.

What. The. Fuck. 

People were strewn about. Flesh was torn into, and it was like a crimson pool. Dancers were on the stage, face down, blood soaking the money that’d been thrown at them mere moments before.

He felt sick to his stomach. Then suddenly, a man appeared with a gun trained right at Leon. More specifically, his temple.

“Don’t fucking move!” He sounded horrified, panicked.

Leon put his arms up in the air and stood completely still,

“What the hell happened here?”

The man looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. He hyperventilated, trying to get words to come out of his mouth.

“Fuck! I don’t know! Some… some thing came in here and-a-a-and started eating people! Fucking eating them!” He jittered with a shaky voice, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead from all the adrenaline.

A sense of doom settled deep in Leon’s body. Some… thing..? Was eating people? He was just a rookie. He hadn’t even been working at the station for a full month, and now he was dealing with what sounded like fucking bioterrorism?!

“Look, I’m not gonna hurt you. I was in a VIP room. It was locked. I have a girl back there, and she needs to get to safety. Can you please lower your gun?” Leon slowly lowered his arms.

“O-okay…” he lowered his gun and came closer, trusting Leon— not before something flashed behind him. In a sudden moment, a girl appeared behind him. A dancer. Her eyes were way off. Blood poured from her mouth, and even more so as she dug into the flesh of the man right in front of Leon.

Shit.

He took off running towards the room where you were still hiding. He burst in and found you safe and sound,

“We have to go. We can’t stay here!” He helped you up and dragged you out with him.

Your POV

You sat in silence and tried to cover your breathing with your hand to minimise noise. Your heart pounded wildly against your chest, and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Where was Leon? Why hadn’t he come back yet? He’d said he’d just check it out. So why wasn’t he back yet?

After a while, you heard the door open. Your entire body froze up. Tears prickled your eyes, and you closed them, bracing for the worst. Only to feel a hand grab your wrist. You looked up and saw him standing there. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. Leon’s face was stuck in some kind of horror. 

As he dragged you out of the room and towards the emergency exit, you pulled your wrist back.

“Wait! My stuff is in the changing room—“

“It can wait!” Leon grabbed your wrist again. Not before there was the sound of groaning. Both of you turned around to see the same girl he’d seen earlier. Lingerie covered with blood. Her skin was stained red.

Oh my goodness.

“C-Crystal?” You looked at her with pure terror. She staggered towards you, and you almost reached out to her, but Leon was able to stop you.

“We have to go!” He pulled you with him, and the two of you ran out the emergency exit. The streets were smashed by now, too. Gunshots were being fired in the distance, and fire had broken out, too. What the fuck was happening?!

The two of you quickly made it to his car, and you hopped in. It didn’t take him much time to start the thing up and drive off at unprecedented speed. He drove with absolutely no regard for safety. 

“F-fuck! What the fuck is going on?!” You screamed as he swung around a few sharp corners.

“I don’t know, okay? I’m just as scared as you are,” he breathed out heavily and focused on the road ahead.

“Where are you driving us?!”

“The precinct. It should be safe there… I-I think…”

“You think?!” You yelled with panic.

“Forgive me, I’m just a rookie trying to do his best here!” He shot back.

Eventually, he pulled into the garage. It seemed fine…? The two of you got out of the car and hurried inside by the back entrance.

People were huddled together in the grand hall of the precinct. It seemed like it was being used as a safe place for now. Detectives were boarding up windows and locking doors as well.

You clung to Leon’s arm like a lifeline. You had absolutely no intention of letting go, and he didn’t seem to mind much.

“Stay with the other civilians… it’s safest,” he led you over to them, but you shook your head and clung tighter.

“U-uhm… well then… I guess we can stay together…” he muttered and awkwardly slid his arm around your waist. Mainly for the sake of your comfort, but a little for his too.

“I take it you knew the girl back at the club…?” He asked carefully,  not wanting to intrude too much.

Your face dropped slightly as you remembered what she looked like back there. How she’d gone from her cutest self earlier that night, to whatever the fuck that was,

“Yeah… Crystal…” you barely managed to utter and continued,

“New girl. Too sweet and innocent to have been working there in the first place…” 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t save her…” Leon swallowed thickly, feeling a sense of guilt creep up his back. He was supposed to be a cop. So why’d he run? Why couldn’t he have saved more than just one person? 

“We could’ve. You just didn’t want to. You grabbed me and ran,” you teared up.

You knew you were being irrational. You knew she’d been too far gone. Her eyes said it all back there. Even so, you felt horrible for leaving her behind. She was so young. So innocent. She didn’t deserve any of that.

“I did what I thought was best in the moment…” He sighed and averted his gaze,

“Look… I’ll see if I can go get you some coffee or something else to drink.”

You felt him try to pull his arm away, but you held on, desperate not to be alone.

“We can go together,” you said, taking a few steps. 

“U-uh okay…” he grew slightly flustered and continued walking towards one of the water fountains that were in the facility.

As you went up the stairs and into one of the corridors, you shivered. After all, you were still only clad in the lingerie you wore back at the club.

You could tell he noticed it, because he immediately turned around,

“We’ll find you something to cover up.”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child, I’m literally older than you…” You huffed, half joking.

“I’m just trying to keep you safe. You are a civilian.” He shrugged.

After getting some water, you tried to open some of the other doors along the corridor, but they’d been locked by the detectives. Surely it was just for the extra safety?

“Go back to the others. I’ll get one of these open to go find something,” Leon spoke, clearly a bit nervous.

“Will you be okay?” You cocked your head to the side. He was only twenty-one. Anyone would be shitting their pants in this situation.

“I’ll be fine… just go back to the others.”

You pulled away from him and nodded, hurrying down the main stairs and into the grand hall where everyone was huddled up together.

As you stood there and waited, there was a sudden banging on the shutter near the entrance. Everyone’s attention turned to it. Detectives drew their guns, and you tried your best to blend into the masses for your own safety.

But then again. How could you even trust that—whatever this was— these people hadn’t somehow contracted it? You thought back to all the zombie movies you watched in your high school days and started searching for possible symptoms.

You didn’t get that much of a chance to actually do so, as someone in the group suddenly went rogue. You and everyone else screamed and scattered. 

“Shit shit shit!” You huffed as you made a run for it. You felt your ankles hurt and threw your heels off.

Detectives were trying to calm people down whilst also getting control of the infected, who were now spreading from the initial attack. 

But it wasn’t enough. They were running out of ammunition way too quickly. The infection was spreading, and soon enough, it was everyone for themselves. 

You were luckily able to make it outside via the garage back door you came in from, and quickly ran a few blocks to the local gun shop. It’d already been looted, but you were able to find a handgun and a rifle just in case. You grabbed a bag that’d been gathering dust on one of the shelves and stocked it full with magazines and other necessities. What the fuck were you even doing?

You were a fucking stripper. Not some survivalist.

That didn’t matter, though. You knew you had to pull through and handle matters yourself. You knew how to shoot a gun. You had to. All dancers were always at risk back at the club. Even if most of the mobsters were relatively respectful.

Leon’s POV

He managed to unlock the door with a small spare key he’d found in the custodian’s office. Everything was pure darkness. He had to turn on a flashlight to move further in. It was eerie for sure, but he rationalised the situation. All he had to do was find the lockers and get a jacket and a pair of shoes.

Easier said than done. 

A sudden groan made his heart drop. He slowly turned around and saw the gruesome-looking appearance of the Chief’s secretary. He knew her. Mainly because his cubicle was so close to Iron’s office.

“Shit…” he huffed and trained his gun at her forehead,

“I… I’m sorry,” he squeezed his eyes shut and shot her. He swallowed thickly and stood over her for a few moments, picking up her name tag and pocketing it. Carole Sindermann,

“Rest easy.” 

With that, he rose back up and moved on. Eventually, he reached the lockers and went through each one. When he finally found a jacket and a pair of boots that looked your size, he made a run for it. All the way back to the grand hall.

Only to be met with the stench of death. A sickly sweet smell of decaying flesh, and way too many infected people.

You were nowhere to be seen. He concluded you must’ve escaped somehow. Which was a good thing, only now he had to find you again.

He checked his handgun, realising he only had a few rounds left. Not enough for that horde. So he did what anybody would do, and ran back the way he’d just come from.

He looted every room he passed. Every locker. Stocked up on medicine and ammo.

Until he stumbled upon a desk in the waiting area. The woman he’d put down earlier. Carole. Her diary was open. Partly out of guilt, obligation to return it to her loved ones and morbid curiosity, he opened it.

“Fuck me…” he whispered to himself as he read through the diary. The more pages he flipped through, the worse it got.

It detailed all the records of bribes and shady dealings Chief Irons himself had done with Umbrella… who’d apparently been secretly working on biological weapons… aka whatever the fuck was going on. 

“Irons…” Leon grumbled,

“That bastard…”

He shut the diary and put it in his bag, which he carried on his back. He had to find some way out of the station and come find you.

Your POV

A lot of time had passed. You don’t know how many magazines you’ve reloaded, nor do you know how many infected you’ve killed. They came in droves. Fuck’s sake. You had plenty of ammo left, but there was no way you had enough for the entire city.

Besides… you needed to find Leon. It felt wrong to leave him behind. Especially after he’d helped you out so much.

You could only hope he somehow made it out of the station. People had shut the garage door behind you after escaping. He was effectively trapped there.

You’d managed to break into a mall, to get some clothes and shoes on. You roamed the mall for a while, checking for any threats.

Just as you were entering a small convenience store that had clearly already been raided, you heard sniffling somewhere. Out of fear and suspicion, you raised your gun. The closer you came, however, the more it sounded like…  crying?

Finally, your eyes locked onto a little girl hugging a stuffed animal in the far back corner of the store. Tears were pouring down her face uncontrollably. She seemed thoroughly traumatised. Who wouldn’t be? Especially a little kid like her.

“… Hey there…” You approached slowly. She tried to back herself further into the corner. You could tell she was scared of you. Her little hands were squeezing the stuffed animal tighter.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I promise.” You lowered your gun and reached out to her,

“Come with me, it’s not safe here.” She looked up at you with terrified, unsure eyes before eventually crawling out of the corner and towards you.

“What’s your name, honey?” You crouched down to her level.

“Marie”, she mumbled and buried her face in her stuffed toy. You gently rubbed her arms, feeling how cold she was.

“Do you know where your parents are?”

Wrong thing to ask. She started bawling her eyes out. Shocked, you tried your best to soothe her, hugging her and shushing her softly.

“It’s okay…. Let’s get you out of here safe,” you grabbed her hand,

“Stay close to me, okay?” She clenched your hand in response and held the stuffy close with her free hand.

You navigated the ruined streets of Raccoon City, killing any infected in the way whilst simultaneously shielding Marie. It wasn’t as easy as it seemed, and you were running out of ammo fast. 

You knew you had to find some way out of the city, but most roads were obstructed with cars in piles. People had fled from them, after all. The metro was likely shut down, too. There truly was no way out.

“I’m tired…” You heard a small voice squeak behind you. Marie wasn’t in good shape at all. Her face was red from running, and tears prickled her eyes from exhaustion and trauma.

“I know… so am I, Marie…” you sighed and crouched down,

“Here, get on my back.” As you offered the transport, she crawled up and got comfortable, wrapping her arms around your neck to steady herself. You hooked one arm under one of her legs and let her hold the other up by herself. That left you with one free arm.

“We’re getting out of here soon, okay, Marie?” You huffed and kept moving, not wanting to stay in one place too long.

A new day had started breaking by now. You’d been walking for too long. Marie was fast asleep on your back when there was a sudden helicopter sound from above the two of you.

“Marie,” you rustled her a bit,

“I’m sorry, honey, but I’m going to have to put you down.” You gently helped her onto the ground before flailing your arms and shouting at the helicopter.

Thankfully, it noticed the two of you and lowered a throw-ladder. Good thing the military finally stepped in… right?

You made sure Marie got on board first, before climbing up behind her. When you got in, there was a man wearing shades and with his hair slicked back.

“Good thing you shouted,” he said. His voice was low but had some weird undertone to it,

“Didn’t matter either way, though. We still would’ve picked you up.” He shrugged and signalled for the pilot to continue moving.

You strapped Marie in, making sure the buckle was secured before strapping yourself in. You held her close, caressing her gently to soothe her distress.

“Where are we going?” You tried to get a look at the man, but his shades prevented it.

“Don’t worry about that. Rest assured, it’s not a place of destruction.”

Leon’s POV

“Damn it…” Leon had finally made it out of the station after looting it for weapons and magazines. He could only hope you’d gotten to safety somehow. It was too late to go around searching for you aimlessly. Especially considering you’d already run off.

He double-checked his pouch before confirming he had what he needed. He knew there was a helipad near the hospital, so he set out for it without hesitation.

It was not without difficulty, however, as the infected came from all sides. Shit. He made a run for it, shooting whatever was in his way with frantic and shaky hands. He wasn’t cut out for this. He was just a rookie cop!

Eventually, he was able to find a sewage system. Traversing through it was no easy task. There were more than just a couple of undead civilians meandering about. They most likely thought they’d be safe in the underground systems– only to be proven brutally wrong. Whatever this virus was, it was spreading at an unprecedented speed. “What the fuck?” Leon huffed as he thought he had finally reached the surface. Of course, that wasn’t the case. He stood before some rundown gondola, as if this were some theme park. Might as well have brought some snacks. He somehow managed to crank the thing into gear and hopped into the ride before it passed. It rattled and squeaked the whole way down. Almost scarier than the hell he’d just fought his way through. The walls were all concrete. From all the files he’d read back at the station, he had an idea of what was down there. It sickened Leon to know that his old boss had ties to it. That he, by extension, had somehow been a part of it. Fuck… 

Eventually, the gondola came to a screeching halt. The gears twisted out of place, and he knew he had to hurry and get on out of there before the whole thing would go kaputski. He barely managed to drop and roll out of the cramped space before it caved in on itself and burst into flames.

“Fucking hell…” He whinged and got up with a slight groan. He wasn’t built for this kind of stuff. A rookie cop, taking on an underground criminal enterprise? Yeah, fuck no.

He found a large door with a red and white umbrella logo before. He knew it rather well. The umbrella corporation. They handled a lot of matters in Raccoon City. Practically owned the place with all the money they put into it. Leon had always been suspicious of their involvement in the city. Well? Now he certainly had his answer.

Upon entering the facility, he was greeted with a rather clean and antiseptic space, like the waiting rooms of doctors and dentists. The reception even had a monstera to match. It seemed so out of place for something that was several feet underground.

Some doors required certain levels of access. What a pain… but luckily, he managed to find some key cards along the way. Not that it was a particularly easy task. Whatever experiments these sick fucks had going on down there weren't exactly beaming to see him. He couldn’t even count all the close calls on his fingers.

But as he finally made it to a grand module, with bridges connecting the different rooms scattered about, he heard a voice calling out— which he recognised. Yours.

Your POV

Your head was pounding worse than any alcohol you’d ever been forced to ingest at the club for big spenders. As you eyed your surroundings, you found yourself bound by your hands and feet. A feeling of helplessness surged throughout your body. What the hell? You tried to struggle, having learned a few tricks from the plethora of mobs you’d serviced over the years. After you managed to get one hand free, the rest was a walk in the park.

“Wait…” you shuddered to yourself. The little girl you’d rescued earlier. She was nowhere to be seen. You were inside some office. There were cabinets with glass smashed, and files scattered about the floor. Clearly, people had been in a rush to leave.

“Some random guy with a helicopter was too good to be true… fuck,” you huffed under your breath, and got up on your feet. Your gun was gone. Your bag too.

“Fuck!” You snapped and started frantically searching for whatever could be used as a weapon.

After aimlessly wandering about the different rooms in the facility, you managed to find a hatchet and some magazines. No gun, though. Perfect. Ammo, but nothing to use it with.

More importantly, however, was the fact that you had to find Marie. You hadn’t come across her yet, which meant she was being held somewhere with high security. What the hell did they want with her anyway?

It was by pure luck that you managed to find a level II access key card on a dead researcher. Additionally, you found a hand pistol. Nothing much, but you had to make do with what you had. The magazines didn’t fit it. You needed a different kind of ammo. Why did it have to be so hard? At the very least, the pistol had all its rounds remaining.

“Marie!” You called out as you reached a large bay, with bridges connecting the different wings. All you heard was an echo of your own voice. It was probably a bad idea to shout out like that anyway. You let out a sigh before walking into the middle, where the bridges joined together in a circle surrounding some big… rock? You couldn’t exactly tell.

“Vixen?” You heard a voice on the other side. It sounded an awful lot like…

“Leon?” You called back.

“Yeah… It’s me,” he huffed and ran over, finding you on the other side of the rock.

“The hell are you doing here?” He holstered his gun and came closer, seemingly checking you for injuries.

“Some guy in a helicopter came and rescued me from the city. I think he chloroformed me… I woke up in a random office an hour or so ago.” Leon’s jaw tensed at your words.

“Look, this lab is fucked up, alright? I read several files. There’s a vial with a virus down here that they’re guarding. I have to find it and get it to the government or something.” You looked at him with wide eyes. Well, yeah, you’d figured it was an underground lab. You just believed it to be some research lab, though. Not an institution housing a bioweapon. Then again, you hadn’t bothered to read any of the files that’d been lying around.

“Holy shit… Leon… I-I came with a girl. They took her. I don’t know where, but I have to find her,” you quavered. Now, new thoughts were plaguing your mind. What if they were doing some sick testing on Marie? What if they were using her for whatever vial Leon was talking about?

“Don’t worry, alright? We’ll find her,” he nodded,

“I bet she’s in the same place as the vial. I don’t think there’s any reason for us to split up.” You let out a sigh, but followed his lead as he began walking towards the west wing.

You had no time to waste. Marie was in danger, and you’d already wandered around for too long. Leon seemed to pick up on your mood, and the two of you moved with the utmost efficiency. You came across some infected and other experiments, but they were swiftly defeated with Leon’s help. Not that you didn’t do your part.

After a while, you finally made it to a grand door. Connecting the dots from the files Leon had picked up along the way, the vial was supposedly housed in the adjoining room.

“Get behind me.” He pushed you back and readied himself for whatever was behind the door.

An office? An empty one, at that.

“What the hell?” You scoffed and scoured the place for any clues. Leon read through the files he’d collected once more. There was nothing to note, other than an adjoining room. Right… adjoining behind the door. It didn’t make sense, though. There was no door to any adjoining room inside the office. Nor was there some vent to crawl through.

It wasn’t until you started pulling out random books as you’d seen in movies that a secret passage was opened from behind the bookshelf.

“Huh, that really works.” Both you and Leon were dumbfounded for a moment before you made haste.

The space was huge. Numerous wires were connected to various ports and devices. You couldn’t make out what it all was—just machinery. That didn’t matter, however, because your eyes soon landed on a figure inside some kind of capsule.

“Marie!” You rushed over and put your hands on the capsule. She was fast asleep within it. Leon ran over behind you,

“Doesn’t seem like they’ve done anything to her yet. Just kept her asleep so she wouldn’t escape…”

“Perceptive…” a voice suddenly boomed throughout the place. A man in a lab coat emerged from the shadows. Not the same guy from the helicopter…  then who…?

“You’re looking for something, aren’t you?” He chuckled, showing a syringe in his hand. There was a bright purple liquid inside it. You watched as Leon sharpened his gaze and pointed a gun at the man. To your surprise, the man only laughed before injecting himself with the liquid. That prompted Leon to blast off three shots.

… to no avail.

You’d never seen anything like it in your life. Even with all the infected you’d encountered. His body contorted and grew a different colour. His arms started bulging and expanding with the rest of his body. Hell, even his eyes changed.

“What the fuck?!” You screamed at the sight. Whoever that man was, he was no longer human.

“I’ll deal with him; you save the kid and get out of here!” Leon urged. You just nodded in panic. Finding a hatchet, you broke the glass of the capsule and pulled Marie out of it, carrying her as you ran out of the room.

Infected you’d missed before jumped out at you, but you just ran as fast as you could. Whatever to get back to the surface unscathed. Marie didn’t deserve any of this.

Eventually, through sheer brute force, you found a way out of that twisted underground lab. A new dawn had broken in the time you’d been down there. Helicopters were swarming above in drones. Luckily, it seemed to be the military.

Leon’s POV 

The monster before him had finally taken its last hit. He watched as it collapsed with a roar, before exploding all over the place, prompting pipes to disconnect with fumes spilling out. No doubt harmful stuff to breathe in. Alarms started blaring, and it seemed whatever had happened started a chain reaction.

“Initiating self-destruction in T minus ten minutes.” He heard a voice through the speakers attached to the ceiling. Fuck… that wasn’t good.

He didn’t bother finding the vial he came for. It was time to run.

He shot everything that got in his way as he navigated the place in sheer panic. Some rookie job… The automated voice kept counting down the minutes until he finally heard the seconds being counted.

Fifty…

He found the set of stairs leading out of the place and climbed them, pushing himself beyond his capabilities.

Thirty-five… 

He reached the end of the stairs and pushed the doors open frantically, as he made a run for it, getting as far away from the blast zone as possible.

As he made it outside the gates just in time to see you standing there with Marie in your arms, a huge explosion lit up behind him.

“Holy shit…” he heard you mutter. The two of you eyed the dark cloud of smoke forming.

“Leon, there’s military personnel just a few yards out. We should get out of here before anything else happens.” You jogged off. Leon followed suit behind you until you finally made it to a quarantine zone, where you were cleared before being allowed aboard a helicopter.

Your POV

As you touched down in New York City, Leon helped you and Marie off the helicopter.

“Thanks…” you huffed, relieved to no longer be in imminent danger. Marie was still passed out, but some soldiers were tending to her, having medical staff check her for injuries.

“No… I should thank you too.” Leon scratched the back of his head awkwardly. He had such a sweet, but exhausted look on his face. Almost innocent.

“One hell of a first date, huh?” You scoffed. He laughed with you.

“First date?” He glanced at you with a knowing smile. You smirked and came closer,

“Why? You don’t go for older women?” His face grew flushed as you said that. He tripped over his words a bit before producing a coherent sentence,

“You’d wanna go out with me? We just met…”

“After what we’ve just been through? Might as well have been a lifetime of knowing each other.” You shrugged, waiting for his response. He seemed like a nervous wreck.

“I suppose you’re right. Maybe we should take it from the top, though. Nice to meet you, I’m Leon. Leon Kennedy.” He extended his hand for you to shake. You took it in yours and told him your name. Not your stripper name. Your real name.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he commented.

Feeling bold after all the shit you’d just gone through, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled you in for a kiss.

Six years later…

You had just finished ironing Leon’s coat for an upcoming mission of his. He’d been recruited by the DSO and gone on various missions here and there after the events that happened in Raccoon City. You still took up work as a stripper. It was a versatile job. You could easily switch clubs whenever Leon’s job demanded moving to a different area, which it often did.

The two of you had adopted Marie. It took some getting used to on both sides, but everyone eventually came around. It wasn’t a picture-perfect family life. It was far from it, actually, but you were all happy. That’s what mattered in the end.

“You ironed my jacket?” Leon scoffed, coming up behind you to kiss your neck before reaching your mouth.

“You’ll want to look fly on your mission. Impress all the infected, you know?” You chuckled softly.

“Nah, the only person I have to impress is my lovely wife.” He squeezed your hips and pecked you once more.

You helped him get the coat on and straightened it out on his shoulders before he picked up his attaché case. Marie came running down the stairs and tumbled into Leon,

“Come back safe, please, Dad?” She always worried about him. He smiled and ruffled her hair with a soft smile,

“You got it, kid. I’ll be back before you know it. In the meantime, be good to your mother, yeah?” Marie nodded at his words and hugged him again. He gave her a peck on the forehead before giving you another kiss, before leaning in to whisper in your ear.

“Reward when I get back, yeah?” With a flushed face, you just nodded.

“That’s my vixen.”

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