it was just an awful dream.

─✴︎ resident evil.

❖ break room coffee. ─ leon x dso!reader (smut)

you meet leon kennedy at work, the absolute last place you should be looking to date anyone. too bad you're a sucker for blue eyes and vaguely pathetic-looking men.

❖ the sound a body makes when it's still. ─ leon x doctor!reader (ongoing, smut)

You and Leon Kennedy collide like stars—over and over and over again. It is as devastating as it is inevitable, and maybe there is some comfort in knowing that you will always find your way back to each other. A slightly canon-divergent retelling of the events of the Resident Evil series. Each chapter focuses on a different game/movie in the series with little interludes sprinkled in between.

─✴︎ a knight of the seven kingdoms.

❖ in bloom. ─ daeron x snow!fem!original character (smut)

daeron dreams of a flower among the snow, his only reprieve from the terrible nightmares of death and destruction that he drowns in his cups to forget. at ashford meadow, on the eve of the trial of seven, he meets a woman who brings new meaning to his dreams of snowdrifts and blossoms.

─✴︎ dragon age.

❖ simmer. ─ solas x f!lavellan (long fic, ongoing)

a canon-divergent re-telling of the events of dragon age: inquisition through to pre-veilguard. chapters updated weekly on saturday with sprinklings of codexes and interludes posted throughout the week.

─✴︎ superman.

❖ yes, ma'am. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.

❖ six months. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (smut)

sequel to 'yes, ma'am.' clark and you have been dating for six months and he's acting... weird.

❖ no good, very bad day. ─ clark kent x editor!reader (request, smut)

companion to 'yes, ma'am.' and 'six months.' you have a bad day. clark makes it better.

❖ family album. ─ single dad!clark kent x photographer!reader (request, fluff)

clark doesn't want to ruin what you both have.

─✴︎ mcu.

❖ to know grief. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/comfort)

bob knew one thing - Lucy Jean was sad, and he would very much like her to not be.

❖ almost lover. ─ bob reynolds x witch!oc (fluff/angst)

sequel to 'to know grief.' bob and lucy jean are both idiots when it comes to feelings.

─✴︎ alien.

❖ for science. ─ kirsh x reader (smut)

you think kirsh fascinating. he reciprocates.

❖ punishment. ─ kirsh x reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'for science.' while kirsh grounds slightly and smee, he has a better punishment in mind for you.

❖ put him in rice. ─ kirsh x reader (request, ficlet)

❖ dandelion. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, ficlet)

❖ self-preservation. ─ kirsh x lab tech!reader (request, smut)

sequel to 'dandelion.'

The sound of a door clicking open makes your spine straighten as you look through the archway toward the conference room entry—Ryan, the Chief of Staff, scurries through the door, phone at his ear, speaking in a hushed voice to whoever is on the other end. He spares you only a cursory glance, sending you a distracted wave over his shoulder as he remains in the vestibule, while another figure walks in behind him, shutting the door.

It's a man, broad and tall, carrying himself with a rigidity that can only be military. When he steps closer, you realize he's familiar. A big war hero you read about in the newspaper and in reports circulating about the civil war in Penamstan—Jason, you think his name is. When he walks into the room, he looks at you as if you're nothing more than the decor you've been trying to blend into—his eyes sliding over you as if he's taking in the bland color of the walls. He pulls a chair from the table and slumps into it, crossing his arms and staring ahead, scowling.

You bite back whatever snide remark curls around your tongue. God knows you don't want to make small talk with some jarhead, but the lack of courtesy leaves a bad taste in your mouth. There's no time to linger on the bitterness as the door opens again and another man walks through—shorter and wirier, looking more like a pencil-pusher than the seasoned agent you expected to be on assignment with, not that you've gotten much information about this supposed mission. He mutters a hello to Ryan, then to Jason, a polite smile on his face as he nods at you.

There's not even a chance for you to utter your own greeting before he surveys the room and turns to you. "Would you mind grabbing us some water and coffee?" he asks before adding, like an afterthought, "Thanks."

It's an effort to keep your mouth from hanging open. Your eyebrow twitches with annoyance, even more so when you notice Jason has finally deemed you important enough to look at as more than a piece of furniture. It's measured, as if he's waiting to gauge your response to the slight. Maybe he's expecting you to fly off the handle, or worse, to comply without any fuss.

How many times have you been mistaken for an intern or a secretary—a pretty face with no substance or use beyond what you're able to provide for the men around you, on the assumption that they were obviously more powerful and more important?

In the past, as a fresh-faced R1, still wide-eyed with wonder after witnessing your first lateral canthotomy, you'd smile awkwardly and gently correct a patient who mistook you for a nurse, the title of doctor rolling from your tongue clumsily, still feeling foreign. You didn't want to make a big deal of it, even though your cheeks burned with frustration at the assumption and maybe a bit embarrassed that something so simple made you feel lesser than your colleagues.

When you first joined STRATCOM, you carefully masked the disgust that crawled up your spine at every "sweetheart" and "honey" directed your way, maintaining well-crafted professionalism. You didn't wish to test your precarious position in the governmental hierarchy by being obstinate and lippy. At least, not at the time.

Now, though, with your place secured after years of blood, sweat, and tears, you're no longer willing to grit your teeth and tolerate the blatant disrespect, no matter how unintentional it may seem. Permitting impertinence only meant the behavior would continue, and if you've learned anything, it's that a dog will bark and bark and bark until it's reprimanded. Your eyes slide down the man, then slowly and deliberately settle back on his face. "Do your legs not work?" you ask.

He freezes, clearly having expected you to jump to the task right away. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You want water?" you reiterate. "You can get it yourself."

He gapes, words stuttering out, and it's fortunate for him that Ryan is incredibly adept at his job. Even in the middle of his phone call, he hears the request, pokes his head out the door, and orders one of the numerous interns milling around in the halls of the White House to find refreshments before continuing his conversation in the next breath.

Tense silence fills the room until, mere minutes later, a meek-looking boy, sweaty and gasping for air as if he just ran a marathon, peeks in. "Um, I have the water?" he says, and Ryan directs him with an impatient gesture. The boy, wearing a nametag that reads 'Simon,' quickly sets it down on a table, pausing as if he's about to ask if you all need anything else, but the words die in his mouth when he recognizes the friction that threatens to spark a flame. "If… that's all…"

If it isn't, he doesn't give any of you time to say so, scurrying out of the room in haste, no doubt off to try your approach of blending in with the scenery, hopefully with a bit better luck than you. The man shrinks under your shrewd gaze, having enough sense to avoid eye contact as he hesitantly grabs a water bottle. A knock catches both of your attentions, and a young, dark-haired woman enters, waved in by Ryan. As she scans the room, her eyes briefly catch yours—you don't know her, but recognition flickers onto her face, suggesting she knows exactly who you are.

"Are you the fourth agent?" the man asks, resting against the table and watching her saunter into the room with raised eyebrows. You're only surprised he didn't immediately ask her to fetch him a snack to go with his water. "Aren't there supposed to be five of us? Where's the fifth?"

Envy swells in your gut as you think of Leon, wherever he is, not having to endure this awkward first encounter. When the briefing for this mission came across your desk only hours earlier, there was very little information, much to your chagrin. The orders were simple enough; you were to report to the White House, where you would convene with four other agents and await further directives from the President and Defense Secretary. Leon's was the only name offered in the file; the others were suspiciously redacted, though there's comfort in knowing at least you'll have him watching your back, even if he is currently late.

In the months following Jill's death and your brother's wedding, the persistent avoidant dance you two have been engaged in has ceased, and with it have come numerous assignments together. You doubt very much that the higher-ups at STRATCOM were aware of the divide between you and Leon before, so the sudden influx of missions could only mean he specifically requested you. You've wondered if it's his attempt to make up for the last few years. Neither of you have broached the topic, maybe afraid of rehashing the same thing and ending up at square one.

The immutable truth of it all, though, is that you've missed him more than you could ever put into words. Maybe it's fanciful to keep pretending nothing is wrong, but the alternative seems so much scarier. For now, you're content to live in this well-crafted bubble.

"Leon should be on his way," she says, snatching the unopened water bottle from his hands and taking a seat across from Jason, who has stayed delightfully quiet this entire time—you wish the other bozo would do the same.

The man groans with a barely concealed roll of the eyes. "Leon?" he asks exasperatedly, a bad taste in his mouth. "Leon, as in the guy who saved the President's daughter?"

The annoyed sigh you let out is anything but inaudible, and even so, he still doesn't seem to notice. How many times have you caught the tail end of snide conversations about what happened in Spain, or felt the condemning stares of agents bitter that they weren't the ones to receive all the honors and esteem from such a high-profile mission? As if they had any idea what the two of you actually went through—the nitty-gritty details of Los Iluminados and Las Plagas, buried under mountains of red tape and security clearances far above their pay grade.

"Yup, that Leon," she says. A knowing smirk accompanies the sideways glance she gives you, and you only crinkle your nose in response, averting your gaze to something more interesting… like the chipped paint on the wall trim. God, this country is really going to hell if they can't even afford to keep up appearances in their own seat of government. "He's more than qualified."

He scoffs, "Qualified? More like lucky. The only reason he's the golden boy now is 'cause he was in the wrong place at the right time. Besides, he had that one chick with him—" Even with a deep, controlled breath, you can feel yourself bristle. "—what's her name—"

When your own name falls from your lips, he snaps his fingers in your direction with an 'ah-ha' expression, completely ignoring the scowl you give him and glaring at the offending appendage as if it's radioactive.

"That's it." He crosses his arms as his brows knit together with contempt. "Heard she's a bigwig now, doesn't like coming down from the ivory tower unless there's some big containment breach."

"That doesn't bode well for you then," you say, absentmindedly playing with the hour hand of the clock on the mantle, ignoring the click click click it does in protest as you spin it the wrong way.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, tilting his head to the side, reminding you of a puzzled animal.

"They've both handled dozens of critical missions," the woman interjects, folding her hands on the table, amusement glinting in her eyes at the man's obliviousness. "In fact, he's on his way here from that terror attack in Pittsburgh."

Part of you is curious about how she seems so clued in to Leon's goings-on, or at least why she's touting this information as if it's her own personal accomplishment. Only part of you, though. The majority is growing increasingly bored with this conversation and impatient to get moving on this assignment.

Never before have you so baldly wished to be sent out of the country to deal with a B.O.W. attack as you do right now.

The man stands up straight, arms splayed out into a shrug. "Like I said—"

"In this line of work, luck doesn't solve problems," Jason interrupts. "Skills do."

Clapping erupts before any other retort can be made, and Ryan peeks his head into the room. "The President's ready," he announces.

"Thank God," you murmur snidely as you push off the mantle, the first to leave the room, brushing past the rest of them to walk just behind Ryan as he leads you through the halls of the White House, explaining that you've all been called in because of a security breach, of all things.

"Unauthorized access?" parrots the other agent, who, moments ago, at last tried to introduce himself to you while hurrying to keep pace—Patrick is his name. An unimpressed look is your reply, not even bothering to offer your own name in return.

"That's right, someone was trying to get into files pertaining to the President," Ryan confirms. He leads you through the door to the Oval Office, where two other men are already inside—President Graham and the Secretary of Defense, Wilson. "Thank you for waiting, gentlemen. One agent is still en route, but these four are probably the most qualified—"

Stepping forward, President Graham reaches a hand out toward you, the warmth of familiarity in his voice as he says your name. "I'm glad you could make it. I requested you and Kennedy specifically."

Your lips press together in a measured curve, polite and practiced, though it doesn't reach your eyes as you shake his hand. "Always happy to be of service, sir," you say as evenly as possible. "I hope Ashley is well."

"Staying in just enough trouble to keep me on my toes," he replies.

At that, the smile softens into something genuine as you think of the girl you helped rescue two years ago. She'll be graduating from college this year—you spoke to her months ago, and she told you all about how she planned to travel afterward, already had her entire itinerary set, and asked you if you wanted to meet up in Bermuda in the summer or Thailand in the fall.

You only laughed and said you don't plan that far ahead.

What you didn't say was that you're proud of her. It would have been so easy—reasonable—for her to spend the rest of her life nestled in the cradle of fear after what happened to her. You certainly wouldn't have blamed her, but she's continued to surprise you with her resilience. Even when she stumbles, she rights herself and keeps going.

It's admirable.

For you, Spain remains a sore spot, and you suspect it always will, no matter how much time passes. It's another tragedy in the long line that will mar your lifetime—another fracture of self, splitting you into three parts, again and again: who you were before, during, and after.

You wonder how many times a person can splinter until they become nothing at all.

Taking a step back, you fold your hands behind you, catching sight of Patrick out of the corner of your eye, doing a rendition of a fish out of water as he looks between you and the President. A self-satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth.

"Let's get started," President Graham announces, then defers to Wilson, who remains seated on the couch, clearly not finding any of you important enough to merit more than a pursed look. "Defense Secretary Wilson?"

As Wilson expands on the information Ryan gave you, you listen with a frown—an unknown person hacking into the internal servers at the White House and snooping through military secrets and "files that are highly sensitive in nature." After reviewing surveillance footage, they still haven't been able to identify a suspect.

Glancing over at the President, you can't help but interrupt Wilson. "I'm sorry, sir, but why was I brought in to apprehend a… hacker?" you ask.

Cyber warfare assuredly isn't in your wheelhouse. Your expertise lies in viral outbreaks and containment. You haven't been sent on petty terrorist missions since your first year with STRATCOM, so it seems odd to you that you would be pulled for this assignment.

The glare Wilson sends you goes unacknowledged as Graham sighs, as if he were expecting the question, sitting on the edge of his desk and crossing his arms. "Because I trust you," he replies simply. "That's why I asked for you and Kennedy. The others have been brought on to expedite the search, but you two know how to produce results—and quickly."

Squaring your shoulders, you set your jaw and give a sharp nod in understanding before the conversation resumes. While the others begin hashing out a plan of action, Wilson reveals he suspects China is behind the attack. When the President lets out a scoff, you realize this probably isn't the first time he's heard this particular song from his Defense Secretary.

As he goes on, you zone out.

Whumpf.

The lights go out in a slow exhale, and you snap to attention as the others look around the room, confused. The lack of urgency from the other agents in the room pisses you off. You rush to the President, gun drawn, and direct him out of the seat he'd just taken. "Sir, get away from the window."

"What's going on?" Ryan questions as the Secret Service barges into the room, taking over to secure the President, while one orders everyone else to get down. Pressing up against the wall, you peer cautiously out the window, scanning the Rose Garden for any suspicious activity.

"You—" Jason points to Patrick. "With me." The smaller man seems taken aback by the order, but nevertheless, follows Jason out of the office. You roll your eyes as they leave, idly checking your gun, trying to ignore the blatant stare you're receiving from the woman.

"I'm Shen May, by the way," she says.

You snort. "A pleasure, I'm sure," you reply curtly, cutting off whatever attempt at conversation she was about to make.

The clock on the wall tick, tick, ticks, signaling the passage of time. Five minutes pass before you hear Patrick radioing in over the earpiece Ryan procured for the lot of you, saying he's found the Press Secretary injured in the hall and possibly going into cardiac arrest. You perk up, moving before you can think better of it. "Wait, where are you going?" Shen May asks when she sees you heading toward the door.

"I'm a doctor," you call over your shoulder. "Besides, I doubt that idiot could handle anything more than a papercut."

It isn't hard to discern which direction to go when you hear snarling and gunfire. The darkened halls of the White House provide a horrifying backdrop, and a familiar buzz begins to work through your veins, but you don't feel the fear that should accompany the rush of adrenaline. Instead, your mind is clear, unburdened by the trivialities of day-to-day life. You have a goal and a clear path to it.

You round the corner to see Leon fire on a zombie scrambling toward Patrick, who is gasping for breath on the ground.

Two shots.

Bang.

Bang.

Shoulder to stagger, then head for the killshot. It's standard procedure when dealing with this type of infection, but you suspect Patrick has never had the misfortune of being at the center of an outbreak, judging by how he's trembling as he stares at the corpse only feet away.

"Might want to try aiming for the head next time," Leon says, not unkindly but pointedly. With a gesture, he ushers him away from the corpse, which remains unmoving—no twitching or spasms, no wheezing gasps, just truly and resolutely dead.

Letting out an undignified snort, you walk past them toward the body, the click-clack of your heels muffled by the carpeted floor, now soaked through with the slow creep of blood. Leon hums in warning—a reminder to be careful—while you only quip, with no real bite, "Nice of you to join us."

"What are you doing?" Patrick asks as he frantically clambers to his feet, still retreating.

"My job," you answer simply as you squat next to the body, snapping on gloves you grab from your pockets—never one to be caught unprepared. You're cautious, even though you're fairly certain the creature is no longer a threat, as you begin your examination. Voice recorder in hand—battered and well-loved—you flick it on. "Subject is male, mid-thirties, presenting with pallor and varicose veins—" You pull back an eyelid. "—and unnatural yellowing of the irises."

You pause the recording, quiet in your contemplation as your finger tap, tap, taps against the device. At first glance, the virus that caused this infection appears similar to the t-Virus, a worrying prospect on its own, but a discomforting feeling lands in your gut like lead.

"How was it behaving?" you ask suddenly.

"W-what?" Patrick stutters.

Angling your head, you glance at him over your shoulder. "It attacked you, correct?" you question, but don't allow him the chance to answer. "Was it highly aggressive? Any indication of maintaining awareness? Was it quick? Slow?"

When he sputters, Leon answers for him. "It was fast." He meets your stare with an inquisitive look, as though he's trying to follow your train of thought, however confounding and impossible it may be. "Didn't seem to be aware of anything but its next meal."

A ruminative sound emanates from the back of your throat as you hold the recorder to your lips, a distinctive click echoing as you turn it on again. "Witnesses report the subject moved with exceptional speed and maintained the basic physiological need to feed, indicating possible preservation of the hypothalamus." With that, you stuff the voice recorder into your pocket before tugging the gloves off with a definitive snap, tossing them uncaringly onto the floor. They would get cleaned up with the body. "We should head back."

Shaken by what just happened, Patrick walks ahead as if in a daze, an unsteady sway to his gait that you keep close observation of in case the adrenaline wearing off causes him to pass out. Once Leon is sure he's not paying you any mind, he peers at you from the corner of his eye, as if he knows from the way you're chewing the inside of your cheek that you're stuck in a thought loop. "What is it?" he asks.

Your mouth flattens into a displeased line. "It's not a virus I'm familiar with," you admit quietly.

And you're familiar with a lot of viruses.

Worry lines his forehead. "It's not the t-Virus?"

You shake your head in dismay. There's a shame in not knowing. You're the person others look to for this expertise, and above all, it's frustrating not to have answers.

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" he asks, his voice light, as if he's trying to apply salve to a metaphorical burn.

Leveling him with a flat look, you let out a sharp huff through your nose. "Worse, actually," you answer. "An enemy you know is better than one you don't."

He grimaces at the truth of your statement but nods in agreement. The worst thing in your line of work is the unknown. It's usually what gets you killed.

Regardless, you shrug your shoulders as if to say, 'what can you do?' before changing the subject. "How was Pittsburgh?" you ask.

"A shitshow," he replies with a sardonic smirk. "Though I feel like I just stepped into a bigger one."

Back in the Oval Office, you all gear up from the hidden arsenal while Jason outlines the plan to get the President to the safety of the bunker, giving the S.W.A.T. team that just arrived the chance to take care of the zombies on the upper levels. You listen with rapt attention, taking stock of your inventory and paying special attention to how much ammo you have on you, knowing that, depending on how many others are infected, every bullet is going to count. It's a hard-won lesson, one you almost paid for with your life.

"Are they really zombies?" President Graham asks as he's outfitted with a bulletproof vest. Biting your tongue, you don't say that it won't do him any good if his jugular gets ripped out—if that meager shred of protection makes everyone else feel better, then it's an ignorant bliss you're happier to let stand.

"Yes, sir," Leon replies as he hands you a gun. "Sorry, I didn't get here sooner."

You give him a sidelong glance as you check the weapon once, then twice for good measure. The boy-scout act in front of a figure of authority makes him sound younger, a glimpse of the rookie cop he left behind in Raccoon City, the same one who sheepishly scratched his cheek and admitted it was his first day after you held him at gunpoint. It's not as though you can fault him for it; you fall to heel just as easily. A good dog through and through, knowing to obediently follow whoever tugs your leash, preferring a stiff pat on the head to a reprimanding boot.

The threat that coerced you into this life still looms in the depths of your mind, knowing that the lives of the people you love and care about could be forfeit if you don't comply with the whims of those in charge, one of whom you're looking at right now. "With the two of you here, we just might survive this," Graham says. "I never thought what happened in Raccoon City could happen here."

An ache pulses at the base of your skull, making you wince, but you ignore it; you always do.

"'til you can't," the voice taunts with a raspy, smoke-filled laugh.

Your shoulders tense, your eyes flutter shut, and your jaw clenches as you subtly shake your head, as if trying to shake off the shadow clinging to you. A hand on your arm startles you, and you see Leon standing there with knitted brows, silently asking if you're all right. You give him an unconvincing smile before skirting by as everyone falls into formation, though you can feel his stare lingering on your back.

The group moves through the halls of the White House with precision. Any infected you encounter don't even get within twenty feet of the President before they're gunned down, as you and Leon instructed everyone else—shoulder, then head. A trail of bodies lies in your wake, but within minutes, you arrive at the bunker, where the President is ushered safely inside.

Jason takes charge as he did before, and you idly listen while reloading your gun until he orders you and Patrick to stay here with the President. Your gaze snaps to him, a scowl twisting your features. "Absolutely not," you argue.

He blinks, taken aback, like he's not used to insubordination. Not as though he's your superior in any way, and quite frankly, you're not sure why he's the one handing out orders here when it's you and Leon who have the most experience dealing with infected. "What?" he asks.

"You want me—" There's a blank look on your face as you point at yourself. "—the expert on containing viral outbreaks to stay in there—" You jut your finger over your shoulder toward the bunker. "—during a viral outbreak?"

There's a moment of silence that passes between the two of you, like he's at a loss for words, and he glances over at Leon as though he's going to be of any assistance. Leon only raises his brows and gives a tight-lipped smile before averting his gaze. He certainly isn't going to volunteer to go toe-to-toe with you in an argument.

"She does have a point," Shen May pipes up as she casually crosses her arms, observing the little standoff between you and Jason.

Resignation darkens his face. "Fine," he grinds out. "You three with me."

"Trust me, you're gonna want her out here, and not in there," Leon mutters to him as he walks by.

The four of you set to work clearing the wing to ensure none of the infected make it to the bunker. While Jason and Shen May take the lower level, you and Leon head upstairs to see how far it's spread. You stick together, keeping a mental tally as each body hits the ground. There's more than you anticipated, leaving you to wonder exactly how this could have happened.

"What could have caused this?" you question aloud as you fire at a staffer trying to take a bite out of Leon's arm, stopping it in its tracks.

Once free of its hold, Leon takes down the two advancing toward you in the hall. The gunshots ring out, followed by two definitive thuds as the bodies slump to the ground. "Airborne?" he asks.

Shaking your head, you sidestep around the corpses. "Wouldn't make sense," you say. "If it were in the ventilation, then we all would be infected as well."

Thwop-thwop.

The sound of a helicopter churning overhead catches your attention, and you both flinch away as a bright light shines through a nearby window, nearly blinding you. Blinking, you see spots fill your vision before you avert your gaze, staring down at the bodies lining the hall. The reinforcements have come, but how many lives are already ruined? And for what purpose?

Heaving a heavy sigh, you holster your gun before leaning against the wall. The ache in your feet finally registers in your mind, and for a second, you consider shucking off the heels. "You okay?" Leon asks as he steps in front of you, standing close enough that you can feel the heat from his body and smell the musk of his cologne.

His hand finds your shoulder, forcing you to meet his gaze. You relax under his touch, letting him glide his hand up until it cups the base of your neck, his thumb tracing the base of your skull, soothing away the pain that's been steadily building. He moves closer still until his breath fans across your face. Your stare dips to his lips for only a split second, but it's enough for the blood to rush to your cheeks. Quickly, your eyes find his once more, taking in the soft gradient of the blue, how clear it is at the center, ringed by a deeper hue, like day held inside night.

It's almost instinctual to ask, "Do you want the truth?" and wonder if he might answer with a familiar phrase. How easy it feels to fall back into who you were eight years ago is frightening. "Gonna be a long night," is what you manage to say while trying to keep yourself firmly rooted to the floor and not allow yourself to lean hopelessly into him.

"Should've worn more sensible shoes," he jokes, looking to your now blood-splattered heels.

"Keep it up, and I'll make you switch with me," you reply, poking him in the chest, pretending you don't notice how he gravitates toward you, turning away before you see the soft smile curl onto his lips.

Sandpaper coats your eyes, or at least it feels that way as you slowblink tiredly, staring down as the men in P.P.E. zip up the last of the corpses into a body bag, then haul it onto the gurney and carry it away. Sunrays spread across the floor, casting the world in a serene glow, the horrors of the night persisting only in the blood smeared into the carpets, though you suspect that come afternoon, there won't be a trace left of what transpired, at least not physically.

"You don't think it's the t-Virus?" Jason asks, the hard lines of his face making it impossible to discern what he's thinking.

You shake your head, shifting your weight from foot to foot in an attempt to alleviate the steady throbbing ache in the arches of your feet, but you're long past relief after so many hours spent stalking through the halls overseeing the containment and cleanup. "No, it's something else," you reply.

How many people had you seen infected with the t-Virus? How many had you treated during the outbreak in Raccoon City? It pains you to say you've long forgotten their names and faces—their visages a smeared, blurred collective lost to time. But you remember the symptoms—the blackening of veins, the bloodshot eyes, the slow, shambling movement.

Whatever was infecting these people? It certainly wasn't the t-Virus.

"And you're sure of that?" Jason asks, arms crossed, casting a side-eye toward you.

"As sure as I can be until we get the lab results," you say. Your phone pings, and you glance down, your brow quirking at the name flashing on the screen. "Excuse me. I have to take this." You ignore Leon's questioning look and Jason's disapproving stare as you head down the hall, flipping open your phone and answering, "Luis."

"Oh, corazón, you sound so disappointed to hear from me," he answers, and you can hear the playful smile in his voice. Even though he can't see you, you roll your eyes, amusement tugging at the corners of your lips.

"Just tired, Luis," you assure, stopping once you're sure you're out of earshot of the others. Only once you lean against the wall do you become keenly aware of how tired you are, though you suspect it will still be a few more hours before you're given leave. "Is everything okay?"

Once Luis was transported to the United States following the events in Spain, he found himself in a unique position. Facing a laundry list of charges for his involvement with both Los Iluminados and Umbrella, he was likely never to see the outside of a jail cell again.

It's only due to Ashley Graham and her testimony—corroborated by you and Leon—that had it not been for Luis, she would have died on the island that he was offered a plea deal. With all of the research and evidence of the cult's activities being blown to hell, Luis remained the last primary witness, and thus, an invaluable resource for the United States government.

In exchange for a significantly reduced sentence, Luis agreed to exchange all of the information he had, including his biological research, locations of other known Umbrella labs, and most importantly, intel on who he was planning on trading the Amber to in exchange for his freedom—Albert Wesker.

The same man who you'd had in your crosshairs and not taken the shot on for the sake of what? Curiosity? Stupidity? To try to discern the machinations of a madman who wants to tear the world apart?

Then two years later, that stupidity would cost you the life of your best friend. How might life be different if you had just taken the shot?

Now, Luis is entering the third year of his five-year house arrest sentence, after which he will be granted citizenship and officially brought onto the government payroll as a consulting researcher on bioweapons. Coincidentally, he'll be directly under your purview, helping with containment assignments, though you have a feeling he'll just end up being another pain in your ass.

"I should probably be asking you that," he answers. From the deep inhale, you're sure he just took a drag of a cigarette, as if you haven't warned him time and time again that those things were going to kill him. "I heard some birdies chirping that there was quite a commotion at the White House last night."

"Those little birdies might want to consider keeping their beaks closed," you mutter. "I can't get into it now, they're trying to keep it hush-hush—"

"What is it?" Luis asks when you suddenly fall silent.

"A virus," you reply, and rattle off the symptoms you observed throughout the night. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"

He hums thoughtfully. "Nothing I've encountered in my tenure with Umbrella," he says. "Do you know the mode of transmission?"

Sighing, you slump even further against the wall. "No," you answer. "It's not airborne, at least. It seems similar to the t-Virus, which can be transmitted through bodily fluids, but we're not sure how the initial infection occurred."

"Water supply?" he offers.

You give a negative grunt, cradling your cellphone between your ear and shoulder as you absentmindedly pick at your nails. "Unlikely. It would have affected far more people and not have been contained mainly to the staffers."

"How about the ol' faithful syringe?"

You snort. "Wouldn't get past security."

He whistles as he thinks. "Perhaps patient zero was already infected?"

You freeze. "What do you mean?" you question.

His voice lowers, like he's trying to keep quiet from any eavesdropping ears around him. "Similar to what Los Iluminados planned with the plaga," he explains. "A… bioterrorist suicide bomber of sorts. It would be the easiest way to avoid detection."

The sound of your name being called draws your attention, and your gaze flicks to Leon, who is now standing with Patrick and beckoning you with a wave. "I gotta go. I'll talk to you later," you quickly say.

"Oy, don't just hang u—"

You flick your phone closed and shove it into the pocket of your jacket before making your way over. "Are they ready for us?" you ask.

Leon nods, glancing curiously to where you stowed away your phone. "Who was that?"

"A friend," you answer in a clipped tone, then start walking at a brisk pace.

"Oh, a friend?" he laughs as he falls into step with you, clearly amused by your dodgy behavior. "Anyone I know?" Behind you, Patrick's eyes ping-pong between you and Leon, confusion blooming on his face.

You give him a blank look and purse your lips. "No."

As you're stalking through the lobby, your and Leon's names being called makes you stutter to a halt. You both glance over your shoulders, spotting a familiar redhead staring back at you. "Claire?" you say in unison, bewildered.

Claire Redfield is the last person you expected to see standing in the White House lobby, and as she meets your gaze, she gives you a conspiratorial smirk and a little waggle of her eyebrows. You only huff at the implication—leave it to her to read into you and Leon being together, as if you're not coworkers.

Regardless, the two of you meet in the middle for a hug. It's been well over a year since you last saw each other, with your respective jobs making it hard to find time to connect. She wasn't even able to attend Jill's funeral months earlier because she was tied up with work at TerraSave in South America, something she apologized for numerous times, no doubt to Chris as well.

In the aftermath of Jill's death, you and the older Redfield proved to have at least one thing in common—the stark refusal to acknowledge uncomfortable feelings and a proclivity to dive headfirst into work to avoid confronting them. You've not heard from Chris, but you imagine he's doing about as well as you are.

When you and Claire part, Leon asks her, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here with some reps from Penamstan's provisional government," she explains with a shrug. "Just trying to get some schools and hospitals built."

"Penamstan?"

"Yeah," she nods. "The U.S. wants a military presence there—" You snort, because of course they do. "—so there's supposed to be some sort of signing ceremony next week." Blue eyes flit between you and Leon, brows drawing together in quick contemplation. "Actually, can you guys take a look at something?"

"What is it?" Leon asks as he takes the folder she extends out, flipping it open.

A cold dread turns over in your stomach at the drawing inside. Claire tells you it was done by a little boy who lived through the civil war in Penamstan, but it depicts a far-too-familiar, gruesome scene. Monsters covered in blood, tearing others apart with gnashing teeth and yellowed eyes. It's certainly not an image that a child could conjure on their own.

She hesitates, leaning onto the balls of her feet, peering down at the drawing. "Doesn't that look like Raccoon City?"

Leon gazes at you from the corner of his eye because it does look like Raccoon City, but it's also eerily similar to what happened here only a few hours ago. But really, what are the odds that the two are connected?

"I can't get anyone to go on record about what happened there," she says. "But after seeing that, I mean, it's gotta be another outbreak." Your mind is already spinning through the scenarios, and Claire is keen enough to pick up on it. "What?"

There's a moment of pause as you waver, before a sigh escapes you. "An unexplained B.O.W. event happening in a war-torn country, and no public official will give a statement about it?" you begin, voice lowered so only Leon and Claire can hear you. "You do the math."

Her mouth hangs open as her eyebrows knit together, but for once, she seems at a loss for words.

"Clock's ticking," Jason chides as he stalks into the lobby. "Let's move."

Claire blinks, her gaze following after him as he breezes past you all. "Wait," she says. "Isn't that the guy everyone calls 'the hero of Penamstan'?"

"In the flesh," Leon mutters as he hands the folder back to her. "We gotta go, but—" His mouth forms a thin line. "—don't do anything stupid."

Chuckling, you linger as he starts to walk away. "If you're still in town, we should grab dinner," you say before turning only to stop suddenly, looking over your shoulder at her. "Seriously, though, don't do anything stupid."

She huffs, crossing her arms. "Why do you think I'd do something stupid?"

Memories of a younger Claire Redfield brandishing a mini-gun, raining bullets into the mutated form of William Birkin as you escape from Raccoon City flash to mind, as well as the call you received after she and Chris returned from their little trip to Antarctica. "You have a distinguished pattern of stupidity."

"Yeah, well, your suits look stupid!" she retorts with the same indignation as the nineteen-year-old you first met.

A mischievous grin makes your cheeks hurt as you wink at her, then join Leon, who's waiting near the arch leading back to the Oval Office, amusement glinting in his eyes. For a second, you think maybe you shouldn't have said anything to Claire about the government's possible involvement in whatever happened in Penamstan, but it sounds a lot like they were testing the effects of a bioengineered weapon in a place they thought no one would care enough to ask questions.

Unfortunately, they didn't account for Claire Redfield.

The flight to the naval base in Guam is gloriously short, since you sleep fourteen of the sixteen hours. As you trail behind Leon, the captain of the submarine explains how you're going to sneak into the research base in China. Your eyes flick between the other three members of your group before dropping to your outfit—tactical and discreet, sans the leather jacket everyone else seems to have gotten the memo about.

"Did you guys all decide on leather jackets without me?" you ask Leon in a low voice.

He glances over his shoulder at you with an entertained smile. "Yeah, you didn't get the email?"

Narrowing your gaze at his teasing tone, you childishly stick your tongue out at him. The laughter that escapes him is short-lived as he comes to an abrupt stop along the walkway, allowing the rest of your party to continue on as he stares at the submarine with an indiscernible look.

"You okay?" you ask carefully.

"Yeah, just… something feels off," he answers.

"Something's felt off since the White House," you mutter. "Listen, about what Claire showed us—"

"Hey!" Jason barks. "Keep up."

Displeasure floods your face, but you and Leon still fall into step together, following the rest of the group. The captain's technical jargon, as you're shown around the submarine, goes over your head, and before long, the four of you find yourselves gathered in your designated meeting room.

Leon leans against the counter while Jason and Shen May take a seat at the farthest table, across from one another. Already feeling claustrophobia settle in the moment the doors were sealed, you sit at a table farther away. "Okay, where we at?" Leon asks Jason, who was given the official lead for this mission during your briefing at the White House.

You argued it, but Secretary Wilson was adamant.

"Our mission is to infiltrate the bio-research facility and seize any evidence pertaining to the hacking and viral terrorist attack at the White House," he explains. "I'll brief you further when we get to shore."

You idly listen, tracing shapes into the surface of the table with your nail in an effort to bite your tongue. This entire plan doesn't sit right with you, and from the way Leon shifts, you're sure it doesn't sit right with him, either.

"We could just hack them. What's the point of even going?" he questions.

"Sorry, champ," Jason replies, and your fingernail scrapes the table as you glare at him. "That's classified for now."

"Details on the facility?" Leon asks.

"For now, classified."

Leon inhales as if trying to keep his cool and failing miserably; you see the vein in his neck protrude as his jaw clenches. "Time limit?" He answers his own question in unison with Jason, "'Classified'. Right."

The two stare at each other in tense silence before Jason stands, the chair scraping across the metal floor. "Well, I'm going to check the gear," he says, walking past Leon and patting him on the arm. "Get some shut-eye."

As he passes by you, your eyes meet, and you're sure you're giving a terrible poker face, the disdain you feel melting clearly onto your features. He swiftly averts his gaze, and you only watch him leave from your periphery. Dead air fills the room in his absence, and after several awkward moments, Shen May shuffles out with a definitive bang as the door shuts behind her.

Leon sighs, slumping into the seat across from you. "Fantastic," he grumbles, his gaze drifting up to meet yours. "So… drinks after this?" When you frown, he only smirks, resting his elbows on the table as he curves toward you like a flower turning toward the sun.

Still, you purse your lips, nails tap, tap, tapping, trying to pretend that you're not at all endeared by him. "Leon," you warn.

His foot brushes yours under the table, too deliberately to be an accident. "Is that a no?" he asks, his voice dropping an octave. A shiver claws down your spine, white-hot, pooling at your core like liquid fire. It's familiar and uncomfortable all at once, leaving you red-faced and flustered.

Shifting in your seat, you kick his foot away, huffing as he chuckles. "Fine," you relent with a cross of your arms. "But you're buying."

"Don't I always?" he says with a boyish grin at his victory.

"Leon—" At the solemnity in your voice, his smile fades into something neutral. "That was weird, wasn't it?" you ask.

His eyes flick to the doorway, and he hums in confirmation. "Yeah, it was," he says. "Especially with all that 'classified' business."

Your mouth tightens into a thin line as you think back to the peculiarity of this entire situation. From being called in to handle a hacker, to the outbreak, and now being sent off to infiltrate some supposed top-secret facility in China. "I think we're being set up," you eventually say.

"What?" he asks, brows drawing together. "Set up for what?"

"For Wilson's agenda against China," you reply. "You weren't there, but he was going on about some cyberwar during the briefing—Graham seemed fed up with it, like it wasn't the first or fifth time he'd heard the spiel."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

Leaning forward, you lower your voice as you hold up a finger. "Supposedly secure internal servers containing files that should be accessible only via the President's credentials are mysteriously hacked, and despite hours of combing through security footage, there's no evidence of this supposed hacker anywhere."

He watches you intently, nodding as you speak, processing what he's being told. In a world where you're constantly discredited because you're a woman, it's validating that Leon always takes you seriously, no matter how far-fetched your ideas might seem, because he knows how smart you are and, more than that, because he trusts you.

A second finger goes up. "Then they discover the files that were accessed pertain to China, and their response is what? Send us there to retrieve files we already have? You said it yourself. Why don't we just hack them?"

As you hold up a third finger, you finish, "And now you ask for details for this supposedly critical mission we're on, and get told it's all classified? When has information, like details of a facility or time limits, ever been withheld from us? And don't even get me started on the fact that Wilson pushed so hard for Jason to lead this mission."

"Wouldn't they have just pulled us off the assignment?" he asks.

"I think he wanted to, but Graham was insistent that we be on it," you answer. "Told me we 'know how to produce results'." The sarcasm bleeds through as you throw up air quotes and roll your eyes.

He frowns. "So you think we're out on a wild goose chase?"

You sigh. "I don't know," you admit. "I think there might not be a facility at all. Or maybe there is, and I'm just being paranoid, but something fucking stinks about this whole thing."

"Whatever it is, I think the so-called hero of Penamstan knows more than he's letting on," he says.

Snorting, you lean back, tipping the chair onto its hind legs as you stare up at the fluorescent light buzzing above you. "That's a fucking understatement."

The hull of the submarine creaks and groans occasionally, a low, mechanical hum filling the silence between. The lack of natural sunlight leaves you disoriented, only exacerbated by the cramped halls that feel endless, like a labyrinth of mint-green, pipe-lined walls. You're Theseus, hunting for the Minotaur.

A crew member you pass by gives you a polite smile as he goes about his duties, unaware of any dangers that might be lurking down in the deep with you all. After what feels like hours of stalking through the halls and turning up nothing suspicious, you wonder if you're making a mountain out of a molehill, if your worries are unfounded. Then you're in the bathroom, washing your hands, staring with displeasure at the faucet when you hear a faint squeak, squeak, squeak.

At first, you think it's just the pipes, not even noticing the noise as you scrub your skin furiously. It's a habit from a life that is no longer yours, one you do mindlessly, uncaring that the ends of your sleeves get wet as you systematically lather all the way up your forearms before cleaning under your nails and between your fingers—counting each stroke as you were taught.

It's only when you've rinsed the suds away and turned off the faucet, flicking the water dripping from your hands into the sink, that you finally hear it.

Squeak, squeak, squeak.

Your body stills, and your eyebrows knit together as if you're unsure of what you just heard, until it starts up again. Tilting your head, you glance around the bathroom, trying to locate the source until you realize it's coming from the basin. Hesitantly, you peer down the drain, too dark to see anything, and slowly, you bend forward, ear angled toward it.

Squeak, squeak.

You brace your hands on the sides of the sink, lowering yourself as your face pinches with concentration, trying to place the source of the noise in your mind. It's on the tip of your tongue, dangling just out of reach, and with a huff, you inch closer.

Squeak.

Bang!

Flinching, you snap into a straight position so fast you feel lightheaded, your head swiveling to look at Shen May as she steps into the bathroom and pauses at the threshold when she sees you there. Her dark eyes narrow at you as neither of you moves. "Are you okay?" she asks, shifting from one leg to the other under the weight of the tension between you.

Your gaze flicks to the sink, and silence greets you. Instinctively, you take a precise step back, biting your inner cheek as your intestines knot. A thought takes root in your mind, an invasive weed springing up from the cracks in the sidewalk—Did you just imagine that? Was it all in your head?

A deep, crackling laugh sounds in your ear. "Hearing things, are ya?" your father jeers. "That ain't like you at all."

Inhaling sharply, you nod. "Yeah," you say, clearing your throat when the words stick. "Just a bit claustrophobic, that's all."

She attempts a smile, but it dies on her lips, not quite reaching her eyes. "I know what you mean." She hesitates, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. "I can leave if—"

You shake your head. "No," you interject. "I was just leaving, no need."

Stepping to the side, she lets you brush past her, and you're aware of her stare on your back until you disappear around the corner. You tug your sleeves down, smoothing your palms over the wrinkled fabric. The sounds of the ship are deafening now, so aggressively loud it feels like it's mocking you. You don't even realize you were heading to the meeting room until you're standing in front of the door. Just as you're about to walk in, you hear people talking inside, and your hand hovers over the door handle.

"But I have been through some shit myself," Leon says, his voice muffled. After a pregnant pause, he adds, "Raccoon City."

Your throat turns to sandpaper, and you don't realize you're biting your tongue until the taste of blood blooms in your mouth, like a jar full of pennies sitting on a windowsill, baking in the hot summer sun.

You realize it's Jason he's talking to when the hero of Penamstan answers, "They sterilized that place. You were there?"

"Yeah," Leon confirms, and you can hear the lump in his throat as he recalls, "I was just a rookie cop late on his first day."

Twenty-one-year-old Leon S. Kennedy comes to mind, fresh-faced and unburdened by the future he didn't know he was set upon the moment he stepped into that city. Does he still feel like that person? Or does he now feel like only a fraction of the whole as well? Too splintered to ever be put back together again.

"That's why I'm still alive—" He lets out a dry chuckle. "—I mean, that and…" Your name falling from his lips makes you shrink into yourself. "I don't know if I'd still be here if it weren't for her. The infected were everywhere, and the city had descended into chaos. I mean—we were just kids trying to make it out of there. It was terrifying. There's no way to describe it except—"

"Hell," Jason says resolutely.

You don't know why a repulsive feeling rises in your gut, pushing up your esophagus and tempting your gag reflex. It's not jealousy—no, something worse, something like hurt and dejection. Why does it bother you to hear Leon talk with someone else about what he experienced in Raccoon City?

Is it because, in eight years, the most you two have done is tiptoe around the subject? A carefully choreographed dance of pondering what-ifs and scraping the surface, never digging too deep for fear of what you might uncover. This stark refusal to confront what you both went through there, and the slow, creeping realization that the thing that brought you together is going to tear you apart.

"Yeah," he breathes, an unmistakable shake in his voice. "The government wiped the city off the map and covered it all up."

You were miles from the city when they bombed it, but you watched it unfold on the horizon, saw the missile sailing through the air moments before impact, and could do nothing but watch in horror as it happened. The life you had spent three years building for yourself was completely destroyed right before your eyes. You thought of Paulette, and of Daniel, and of Martin, and of Dr. McKay, and for a very brief moment, you were grateful they were already gone. You tried so very hard not to think about all the other people still alive, trying to survive, only to be snuffed out in an instant.

"Sure, they didn't want it to spread," Jason reasons. The casual tone in his voice makes you lurch forward, gripping the doorframe until your knuckles are white, your jaw clenched so tightly you think you hear your teeth crack. "You destroy a city to save a country. That's a tough call, but someone's gotta make it."

For someone who has apparently witnessed horrible atrocities, it seems callous for him to say such a thing. "A tough call," but it's not just a city—it's somebody's child, parent, or friend. It's a person—it's thousands of people who are gone, chalked up to a sacrifice someone else, a thousand miles away, was willing to make.

But we see how quickly the squeaky gears of the government get greased when the threat is on their doorstep—in their house.

Leon's voice rises, and there's anger, mirroring the bitter fury that you swallow down. "There were people alive in there. There were families alive in there. And they didn't even try to get them out. So, tough call, my ass!"

"Look, I get it—" You don't think he does. You think he's being a pedantic, heartless asshole. "—You were a cop. It was your job to protect those people, and you want justice for them. But agents like us, we don't get to think that way anymore. It's a new world, and we just gotta roll with it."

"You cannot save a country if you don't give a damn about the people in it," Leon argues, the idealistic rookie cop bubbling to the surface. Even a shattered mirror can still show your reflection, no matter how distorted.

You back away from the door until the voices muffle, hand reaching up to grasp the nape of your neck as pain begins to ebb into it, like a crick you can't quite work out. "Your delicate sensibilities hurt?" the voice hisses. "Hard to hear the truth, ain't it? It's like I always told you, they ain't give a fuck about no one."

Your muscles are a rubber band being pulled taut, and the snap comes as the lights begin to flash, the sub jolting so suddenly that it nearly sends you to the floor as you scramble to grab onto the wall. The metal hull groans as if in protest, and panic swells up in you as the door flies open. The two men seem surprised to see you standing just outside.

"What's going on?" Leon asks as he reaches out a hand to steady you, fingers wrapping securely around your upper arm to draw you closer to him.

"No idea," you answer, finding yourself leaning into his hold.

Jason gestures toward the Control Room. "C'mon, let's go check it out."

Your hurried footsteps echo through the halls, stopping short at the grim scene in the Control Room—all of the crew are dead at their stations, alarms blaring as the submarine begins to destabilize. Your mouth tightens as you carefully examine a body. Blood seeps down from the gash marks across his throat, and you carefully angle his head to get a better look. Messy, but markedly from a knife of some kind, perhaps one that has serrated edges.

At Jason's behest, the three of you split, and his insistence only sets you on edge. Your instincts scream that something isn't right, as if being trapped in a pressurized tin can hundreds of feet below the surface wasn't enough. "I should've stayed in D.C.," you grumble as you come across more bodies down in engineering. You recognize one of them as the crew member who smiled at you in the hall earlier—he was young, couldn't be more than twenty-five.

You wonder what they'll tell his family, whether his last moments will be twisted into a heroic tale of fighting to keep the ship operational long enough for others to escape. Or will they frame him as a victim, a casualty of China's supposed war on the United States? Another link in the propaganda machine, as his face and name are scattered to the hyenas of the media to be mangled and gnashed into the perfect catalyst for retribution?

"You and me both," Leon sighs, deflating when you come across another pile of bodies even further in. It smells like iron and shit, and these most certainly weren't killed by something as simple as a knife—no, it looks more like they were torn apart. "What is that?"

Following his gaze, you see the abdomen of one of the bodies seems to be roiling as a sick, squelching noise fills the air, like something is eating its way out of the corpse. With a schluck, a large, mutated rat burrows out, covered in blood and viscera. Slowly, its pupilless eyes turn toward you, a wheezing snarl escaping it.

Rats, you realize. The squeaking was rats.

"Jesus," Leon breathes as he steps back, an arm out to shield you from it and herd you behind him. "You gotta be shitting me."

The sudden, ear-piercing screech the rat lets out makes you flinch, and it darts toward the two of you. It doesn't get very far before Leon kicks it, though it rights itself just as quickly, scrambling along the piping around you to try to ambush you from behind. With not even a second to spare, Leon grabs the fire extinguisher and brings it down on the rat, stopping it in its tracks as its body caves in under the force.

Quiet fills the air as you both stare down at the flattened amalgamation of fur and bone, grimacing. "It's a bioweapon," he finally says.

"What are they trying to start another Black Plague?" you mutter.

The lights suddenly go dim, red overheads flashing as an emergency alarm wails. "Code 13 has been activated," the PA system announces. "This submarine will self-destruct in five minutes. All crew board the ACDS2 and evacuate."

"Who the fuck makes these protocols?" you whine, exasperated, before groaning as more rats begin to dig out of the other bodies, forming a small army of disgusting, infection-ridden creatures. Far more than you're able to fight, given you can't even use your gun for fear of blowing the submarine to hell.

Leon grabs you by the collar of your shirt as he backs up, taking you with him, trying to put distance between you and the advancing rats. "Wish I had some cheese," he quips.

"Now is not the time," you warn, and he takes your hand as you begin to run through the sub toward the Control Room, shutting the doors behind you along the route to trap the swarm of rats that trail behind.

Just when you think you've successfully cordoned them off, you stumble upon the first pile of corpses, though now their ribcages have been split apart as though something burst out of them, their innards strewn about as blood dribbles out and pools along the floor. The metallic tang of blood reaches the back of your throat, making your lip curl.

Labored chittering begins to fill the corridor until it feels like it's surrounding you, and your heart pounds frantically against your ribcage. "Shit," Leon murmurs as you both look up, seeing a horde of infected rats clinging to the ceiling. Their beady eyes reflect the red emergency lights, casting a sinister silhouette as a few begin to drop, slowly advancing.

Then, all at once, they dash toward you. With a flick of your wrist, you whirl in the nick of time to stab one crawling along the wall near your head. Meanwhile, Leon smashes the glass to reach the emergency fire axe, heaving it down to break open a pipe. Water gushes out, flooding the hall.

The rats rush toward you in droves through it, and Leon rears back with the axe, calling over his shoulder, "Jump!"

There's no hesitation, and you leap up not a moment too late as his axe sails through the air, hitting the electrical line, sending the current through water, electrocuting the swarm as both you and Leon dangle there. Once it's safe to do so, you drop down, staring at the corpses of hundreds of bioweapons before you let out a sigh.

"Fuck."

Once you reach the chamber leading to the evacuation pod, you're stopped in your tracks at the sight of three more bodies. Anger causes your ears to burn as you spot a knife embedded into the throat of one of the men, splayed out as though he hadn't anticipated the attack. "Leon," you mutter.

"Yeah," he nods, a hard edge to his voice.

Above, the PA announces, "Sixty seconds until self-destruct."

"Goddamnit," he swears. "C'mon."

You're right behind him as he scrambles up the stairs to the hatch, and you see the gun pointed at his head the second he pries it open. Shen May stares down at him with a deceptively neutral expression, her finger firmly on the trigger. That's enough for you to draw your own weapon and point it over his shoulder. Meeting her gaze, you deliberately adjust your aim, targeting the wall of the escape vehicle just behind her, a silent challenge—a dare—for her to try it. You'd ensure none of you gets out of this alive.

In front of you, Leon tenses. "I'm not a rat," he says, subtly placing a hand on your hip and squeezing it reassuringly, though it does nothing to make you lower your gun—not when he's the one being threatened. "You wanna get that out of my face?"

Someone reaches in, pushing Shen May's gun down, and you watch Jason lean into view. "You'll kill us all," he murmurs to her, and only then does she holster it. When he peers over at you with an expectant look, you feel nothing but ire as you begrudgingly holster your weapon.

Tilting his head, Leon's eyes flit between the two of them, quirking an eyebrow as he asks, "Are we interrupting something here?"

There are only seconds to spare by the time the evacuation pod jets off, and you can feel the shockwaves in the aftermath of the detonation. A tense silence weaves through the four of you, and when you make it to shore, Leon can tell you're itching for a fight. He smooths his hand down your spine as you traverse the unfamiliar back alleyways of Shanghai. Unfortunately, his tenderness does nothing to quell the fury seeping into every fiber of your being, only exacerbated by the lack of answers from your other two companions. It's only because you want answers that you've refrained from putting a bullet in them. Although that's not to say you haven't considered doing so, if only to maim.

"This is it," Shen May murmurs, breaking the steadfast quiet she and Jason kept throughout the journey.

Standing back, you stare at the drabby door in the rundown walk-up apartment building she led you to. You're eagle-eyed as you watch her check that the safehouse hasn't been compromised, narrowing your gaze when you see her pull out a knife to cut the tape on the handle. The bloodstained, serrated edge glints in the dim light, and you inhale sharply.

Inside, it's well stocked, with a plethora of guns and ammo, along with stacks of Chinese Yuan. You help yourself, discreetly tucking a gun into the waistband of your pants. The smell of cigarette smoke wafts in the air like the coil of a bad memory digging deep into your sinuses. You peer over your shoulder at Jason, who sits on a sofa in the living room, an arsenal spread out on the coffee table in front of him as he flicks the ash from the tip of the cigarette into the tray amid the mess.

He meets your gaze for a moment before Leon cuts in front of you and settles on the couch opposite Jason. "All right, we made it to shore," he says. "You wanna brief us?" You trail behind him, not sitting, instead idling behind him, crossing your arms. "You can start by telling us what you're really after."

Jason briefly looks over at the entryway before returning to you and Leon. Shen May left twenty minutes ago with a few bills crumpled in her pocket, saying she was going to get food. You're not sure you trust her not to poison it.

"I mean, you killed the crew," Leon says, and you're glad he's the one talking right now. It's almost ironic that he's the calmer one. You've never considered yourself hot-headed, but the blatant games these two have been playing throughout this entire mission have grated on your last nerve. "Must be a major op, right?" Faintly, you hear the creak of the door as Shen May returns, and you calmly bring a hand behind you to rest on the gun at your waist. "If you're not gonna break into the facility, what are you here for?"

Jason exhales, smoke lingering in the air around him as he places the cigarette into the groove of the ashtray. "Shen May and I are on a different mission," he explains, voice calm, like he expects you both to understand why they killed innocent crew members. "We're looking for something else."

"And what would that be?" you ask, the bite in your tone hard to hide.

"Proof that will expose a conspiracy by the U.S. Government," he answers.

Leon splays out in his seat, scoffing, "Treason. Fun. I'll be sure to put that in my report."

His words hang in the air for a moment until, carefully, Jason reaches down, and you tense up, watching as his hand hovers near a firearm on the coffee table. Then, as if deciding better of it, he instead grabs the cigarette and snubs it out. "It won't do you any good. They'll just cover it up like they always do," he says. "And you know how good they are at covering things up." He hunches over until his elbows rest against his knees. "They're the bad guys here."

You swallow thickly, the taste of wrath is molasses on your tongue, weighing you down. The desire to lash out is almost overwhelming, and it's only because of Leon that you don't. "Where's your proof?" he asks.

"That's what we're here for," Jason replies. "And you're going to help us get it."

"The fuck we are," you snap, drawing his attention to dart to you, and you can see the venom in his gaze. "You think we don't know you killed those people on the sub? Why the fuck would we help you?"

His stare drops from you to Leon, as if assessing whether or not he holds a similar stance, and when he sees the thinly veiled anger on Leon's face, he shifts tactics. "Remember when I told you about terror?" he asks, and while your brows furrow with confusion, Leon angles his head with familiarity. "It starts with fear. You cultivate it, and you watch it spread, and then… Then you've got terror."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" You can't help it; it just tumbles out of your mouth. "What is this, some psychological experiment to you? You just wanna scare people?"

He laughs like you've said something funny. "No, I want people to understand the true meaning of terror."

Your mouth hangs open as disgust crawls onto your face. "You think because you went through some shit, you get to inflict that on other people?"

"I would think you, of all people, would understand," he says. "Haven't you seen the worst this world has to offer?"

An overwhelming fury makes you snarl, "I have, and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone else." Your hands find purchase on the back of the couch, nails digging into the stiff fabric. "But maybe it's because I'm not weak-willed like you."

His spine straightens, and any sense of humor vanishes from his face in an instant. The vitriol in his stare should unnerve you, raise your hackles, but you only feel satisfaction at getting under his skin. Let him look in the mirror and be forced to reconcile with what he sees. God knows you've had to.

Leon murmurs your name, a mixture of a warning and a job well done, before he addresses Jason, "You can tell them all about it at your court-martial."

A discontented sneer works its way onto his face. "So you're not gonna help us, then?"

Leon shakes his head. "Nope." The hard pop of the 'p' lingers definitively.

Jason sniffs, the tension hanging in the air like smog, and then he moves. But Leon is faster, grabbing a gun from the table and shooting him square in the chest, sending the hulking man sprawling in a tangle of limbs that knocks over the couch. Behind you, a surprised gasp reminds you that Shen May is still here, and you vault over the sofa just in time as a bullet whizzes by your ear, chipping a piece off the coffee table.

Leon launches himself at you, arms wrapping around your waist to drag you behind cover, and you can feel his heart pounding through his chest against your back as you shoot at Shen May. She grunts in pain, holding her hip where you hit her, and after a split second, she turns on her heel and flees the apartment, the door banging shut behind her.

"Are you okay?" Leon asks, breathing heavily, a hand coming up to cradle your cheek, thumb tracing gentle lines into your temple.

You nod, grabbing his hand to lace your fingers through his. "Yeah, you?"

"Never better," he grumbles as he hauls both of you to your feet. "C'mon."

Shen May is easy to track through the streets of Shanghai; the bullet you put in her makes sure of that. The cramped streets lined with shabby apartments give way to gated homes, making you all the more curious about where she's headed. You watch from the treeline as she stops in front of a large estate. The guard outside appears concerned by her injury, but she waves him off as she brushes by him.

"So, what's the plan?" you ask in a hushed whisper.

"Go in and ask her what the hell is going on," he answers, focusing on the door Shen May just disappeared into.

"Got it," you say as you press-check your gun, ignoring the confused look he sends you as you stalk toward the guard. "Hey!" you yell out, catching his attention.

Bewilderment crosses his face, and by the time he ultimately notices the gun in your hands, it's too late. You aim down and fire a shot at his foot. He hits the ground with a thud, collapsing in a heap, and swearing in his native language as he clutches his foot. Despite his loud, pained cries, no one else comes to investigate, a fact you find odd given the size of the estate, expecting more guards.

As you stand in front of him, head tilted to the side, apathetically watching him writhe on the floor, Leon comes up behind you. "I guess that's one way to do it."

You snort, jutting your chin forward. "Grab him, let's go."

The man is hauled up from the floor, despite his protests, and with a gun pressed to his skull, he's inclined to lead you through the winding halls of the mansion. As you come to a door, you fling it open with a bang, finding Shen May inside the sprawling bedroom speaking with an older man. They watch with shock as you barge into the room, Leon dragging their guard with you.

"Start talking," Leon demands, kicking the guard away, though he keeps his gun trained on the man, who nearly stumbles backward, hands raised in surrender, sweat pooling at his brow as he tries to balance on his good foot.

"Hao Ran!" Shen May exclaims, about to step toward him, but she's stopped in her tracks at the sight of the barrel of your gun.

"Hey," you chide, shaking your head with a tsk. "Uh-uh." Briefly, your eyes stray to the older man, who looks worriedly between you and Shen May but makes no move, perhaps afraid that doing so will provoke you or Leon.

The guard, Hao Ran, doesn't seem to have the same sense as he inches forward despite the hole in his foot, and Leon warns him, "Try it, pal." A tense moment passes between them, and when Hao Ran backs down, Leon looks over at Shen May. "Whenever you're ready."

Through the stillness from within the canopied bed at the center of the room, a heart rate monitor provides a steady beep, beep, beep in time with a wheezing rasp. "The man lying there is Jun See," she says, her lower lip quivering. "He's my little brother." Through the sheer curtains, you can faintly make out a figure lying in the bed.

Leon's brow furrows. "What are you and Jason up to?"

"Like he told you before, we're trying to expose a conspiracy," she answers. "I came here to get proof to out Defense Secretary Wilson as the one behind it."

"Explain," you demand with a slight press of your gun.

Her lips purse as if she's recalling a painful memory. "Jun See was with a special squad on a top-secret mission. Wilson, a major general at the time, was the commanding officer. But he was also working with a pharmaceutical company to make biorganic weapons for military use."

"And Penamstan was just a test run for his bioweapons," Leon says, sighing as his gaze meets yours, knowing you'd been right in your conversation with Claire. "Son of a bitch."

As he lowers his gun, yours remains trained on her. "So you thought killing people was the way to out him?" you ask, eyes narrowed. You almost don't recognize the coldness in your voice. Part of you wonders whether your twenty-three-year-old self would have shown more sympathy for her, whether your bleeding heart would have extended to a grieving sister who went to great lengths to help her brother.

As it stands, you only feel frustration and anger in this moment.

"We had to—"

"You had to what?" you hiss, interrupting her. "Crack a few eggs to make an omelet? How does that make you any different than Wilson, huh? Sacrificing people for the supposed 'greater good', why do you get to make that choice?"

She blinks, recoiling as if you've physically slapped her. "There wasn't any other way—"

"There's always another way!" you shout, finger twitching closer to the trigger. "You think because you were wronged, you get to ruin other people's lives?! Those were people on that sub—"

Leon whispers your name, trying to calm you, but hesitating to grab hold of your shoulder, his hand hovering just above it like he knows you'll lash out if he closes the distance.

"No!" you yell. "I could have killed him—" You point your gun at the guard, who tenses. "—I could've come in here, shot every single one of you without blinking, washed my hands of this entire thing, and been on a plane home within the hour. You wanna know why I didn't? Because I know the fucking value of a human life."

As she flinches away, your focus centers on the silhouette lying in bed, the labored breathing taking you back to days filled with pill organizers and a recliner that stank of cigarettes. An ache threatens to lock your jaw, and pinpricks dance across the base of your skull.

"Ain't that a lie," your father laughs. "You couldn't wait for me to die."

Exhaling a shuddering breath, you avert your gaze, staring at an unremarkable spot on the ground as you count down from ten in sync with the vitals monitor, your gun now held limply at your side. "What happened to him?" you ask, your voice lowered as if the fight up and left you all at once.

She explains how the Mad Dog squad found Jun See in Penamstan and how Jason contacted her grandfather to evacuate him rather than H.Q. They then returned to base and received a hero's welcome from Wilson, complete with all the awards and accolades befitting soldiers of their caliber. However, because of their activity in Penamstan, the entire squad returned infected, and their only hope of staying alive was to take an inhibitor developed to combat the infection—a temporary reprieve. Wilson held the inhibitor over their heads and used the unit for covert, personal operations, which led to his promotion to Defense Secretary.

"Even though he's a senior official now, he continues developing bioweapons with some pharmaceutical company on the side," she finishes.

"Which company?" you ask.

"We haven't figured that out yet," she admits. "But Wilson wants to be rich and powerful, and the inhibitor is his key to that kingdom."

"Then Wilson forced Jason to start the outbreak at the White House and sabotage the sub," Leon says. "Just to get the President pissed off enough at China to start a war."

"Then he contracts out to the pharmaceutical company for their bioweapons, and they give him a cut on the side so he turns a profit," you mutter.

"When I smuggled Jun See out of Penamstan, the virus had transformed him so much that I could not recognize him," her grandfather says as he pulls away the curtains on the bed.

You and Leon peer in and see the toll the infection has taken on Shen May's brother. He looks like a shell of a person, withered by the disease, with spiky growths protruding from half his face. It's likely he's been kept heavily sedated all these years to keep the aggression you saw in other infected at bay. Even so, the sheer number of machines he's hooked up to is a testament to what it's taking to keep him "alive" right now.

He continues, "I have spent my life savings to find a way to rid him of the thing eating away at him."

That certainly explains the lack of any other guard or staff in the expansive estate, but one look at Jun See, and you know there's no cure for this virus, but you stay resolutely silent on the subject. What good would it do to squash the hopes of an old man?

Shen May stares sadly at her grandfather. "I went looking for evidence against Wilson because I wanted revenge. Jason wanted out from under Wilson's control, so I decided to work with him, and after six years of digging, we realized the proof needed to bring Wilson down was right under our noses."

Hao Ran hobbles over to the wall, revealing a hidden safe. The small case he procures from it is innocuous, barely the size of your palm, but you angle your head with curiosity, watching as he walks over to Shen May and offers it to her.

She frowns as her thumb smooths over the glossy metal. "All of the prototype bioweapon soldiers had chips embedded in their bodies. Those chips were designed to record their vitals as well as all their combat data."

"A chip, huh?" Leon says.

Flipping the case open, she plucks a small square object from it. "Everything about Jun See is recorded on this, including who created him and who sent him on that mission. He tried to do what they did to Raccoon City; burn all the evidence to ash—"

"Including your brother," you add.

She nods. "Jason believed that if we went public with this, we could expose Wilson and put an end to the development of bioweapons and to him."

It's wishful thinking, you want to say. Wilson is just a single head of this Hydra; cut it off, and three more will sprout up. There will always be someone worse lurking in the shadows; you've seen it time and time again. It's hard not to feel like you're fighting a losing battle when, in the eight years you've been with STRATCOM, you think the bioterrorism spreading across the globe has only gotten worse. New players are entering the field every day, and it's only when some horrific tragedy happens that you realize they're there.

As you watch her regard the chip as if it were the one true answer to the universe, you can't help but think she's naive. But you were like that once, too. Back when you thought you could help.

You stumble as a loud crash rocks the building, barely able to keep yourself upright as the ceiling above starts to crumble. Your breath gets caught in your throat as you manage to dodge out of the way of falling debris. Leon and Shen May dive to the floor just as another large chunk of concrete caves in.

Another crash—an explosion, you realize—rumbles through the house, and while more of the structure starts to come down, you know it won't be long until the rest of it collapses.

Shen May glances around wildly, and through the canopy curtain, you see her grandfather shielding Jun See's body with his own. "Grandfather!" she screams, about to run toward them, but Leon catches her by the waist. She fights against him, not allowing him to drag her from the room, and you grab her arm, forcing her to look at you.

"If you stay here, you'll die with them," you say.

Her eyes widen as tears fill them, the fight leaving her, and Leon is able to heave her through the buckling halls of her home. Fire begins to envelop the building, and the smoke stings straight up through your sinuses. Breathing becomes difficult, and Shen May is the first to succumb, her body slumping forward. Fortunately, Leon is there to catch her, hauling her over his shoulder as the three of you flee from the house.

You don't stop until you're clear of the fiery ruins. Leon sets her down on the ground and stares at the mayhem you'd just escaped. Ash smudges his cheekbone as he struggles to catch his breath. Stepping in front of him, you grab him by the sides of his face, scanning his features for any sign of oxygen deprivation. "Any dizziness?" you ask, voice hoarse.

"I'm fine," he assures.

"Shortness of breath, chest pain?" you continue.

His fingers wrap around your wrists, bringing your hands down to rest on his chest, murmuring your name softly. "I'm fine," he repeats.

"Smoke inhalation is the leading cause of death in fire-related fatalities," you say, mouth forming a thin line to prevent your lip from quivering. You inch back, slowly drawing your hands from his grip. "I should—"

Words fail you, but he nods and lets you retreat, though that doesn't stop him from watching as you kneel to check Shen May for injuries. You examine her twice for good measure before you start to dig in her pocket.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

You hold the chip up. "Security," you say. Despite its small size, there's a profoundness to it, and for the second time in your life, it feels as though you carry the weight of billions of lives in the palm of your hand. It makes your skin crawl, just like the first time.

"You planning on going public with it?" he asks.

You scoff. "You think I'm stupid?"

He looks at the house, the flames dying down to smolder as the sun starts to rise on the horizon. "Guess a bullet to the chest wouldn't put him down, huh?"

"Nope," you answer. "Luckily for us, he's stupid enough not to stick around to make sure he finished the job." You tuck the chip into your pocket as you hear Shen May begin to stir.

Coughing, she groggily looks around as she staggers to her feet, then the sharp realization bears down on her, and she frantically searches through the pockets of her jacket. "The chip," she gasps.

"I have it," you say, though you don't offer it to her, and your flat tone implies that you are not going to do so.

She coils back, narrowing her eyes. "Give it to me," she urges. "If we go public with it, everything that Wilson has been doing will be out in the open."

"If we do that, you'll have every agent in the U.S. hunting you," Leon says, and the way he angles his body just slightly in front of yours sends a clear enough message.

She's not getting the chip.

Frowning, she looks between the two of you. "I have to do it," she begs. "So that everything that happened to Jun See will never happen again."

You wonder whether you'd feel differently if you were in her place. If you had to watch your brother—your little brother—waste away into nothing because of the machinations of people who think themselves kings of the new world order, would you feel the same thirst for revenge? Would you throw caution to the wind to ensure the downfall of those who harmed him?

"'course you would," your father chuckles. "You're spiteful as all get-out."

Leon sighs.

"I know you understand," she says, trying to reason with you. "Raccoon City was the beginning. We can't let what happened in Penamstan stay buried. Jason wants justice."

"No, Jason doesn't give a damn about justice," he retorts. "He wants the world to know what real terror's like, the kind him and his men knew. He wants that to be the new reality for everyone, and then he wants to burn it all down."

"He wouldn't do that," she says.

You stare at her incredulously, gesturing to the smoldering remains behind you. "Look around, Shen May. Don't be stupid. Do you really think there's anything he's not capable of?"

At the hurt that flashes across her face, Leon is gentler in his approach. "Shen May, where is he?"

Alarms blare overhead as the three of you stumble into the research facility—it had taken you several hours to reach the border between China and Penamstan, where the facility is located, and the sheer size of the facility would be impressive if not for the rows and rows of tubes filled with the experimental bioweapon soldiers that sprawl up through the stories-high central hub.

"Jesus," you breathe as you stare at the B.O.W.s, ready for deployment at a moment's notice. This many could decimate an entire city—maybe even an entire country.

The sound of metal grinding against metal joins the alarms as hatches along the outer walls begin to open, dispersing a sickly-looking liquid—acid, you recognize from the pungent smell—and the tubes containing the bioweapons are systematically dropped into the rising pool below, sizzling and spewing on impact as they're dissolved in the liquid.

"That's not good," Leon mutters.

Scanning the area, you spot movement on an upper level. "There," you indicate to where Secretary Wilson is being held up by the throat by a large, deformed creature—spikes protrude all along its figure, similar to the growths you saw on Jun See. Your footsteps pound along the grated walkways as you race upstairs, and as you get closer, you realize it's Jason.

He regards you all with bared teeth as he lets Secretary Wilson sag to the floor, the older man choking for breath. Beside you, Shen May gasps at what he's become, while you and Leon take aim, fingers hovering over the trigger. "I'm gonna end this," he says. "I'm gonna go up there and show myself to them—to the world. And then, this… this torture chamber, everything, is all gonna burn."

"No!" Shen May shouts. "I have my brother's chip; all of the evidence we need is right here. All we have to do is go public with it, like we planned. You don't have to do this."

"That won't help anything," he grits out.

"And you think this will?" you ask. "You go up there, and they're going to gun you down and be hailed as heroes for protecting the world against a monster."

He snarls, rushing you so quickly that you only manage to fire a single bullet that pings off the armored spikes on his body. He snatches you by the throat, and the sudden movement makes you lose your grip on your gun. It clatters to the floor with an unforgiving clack clack. You gasp for air that won't catch in your lungs as you dangle in his grasp, trying to pry yourself free. Leon yells your name, but hesitates to shoot as Jason tightens his grip.

"You have been a thorn in my side," he growls. "Thinking yourself above me—better than me—but I see you for who you are."

"Yeah?" you choke out, the edges of your vision beginning to darken. "And what's that?"

"A scared little girl." With that, he hurls you into the wall of tanks, knocking the last of your breath out. Then he begins to climb toward the ceiling, which is closing as the lab enters its containment protocol.

"Jason!" Shen May yells as she rushes after him while Leon runs to check on you.

You weakly wave him off, each sharp gasp of air you suck in feeling like a knife's edge sliding down your throat. "Go," you wheeze as you slowly catch your breath. When he wavers, you urge him more firmly, "Go!"

"I'll be back," he promises, and you give him a weak thumbs up as he follows after Jason and Shen May.

With a shaky sigh, you start to pick yourself up from the ground, rubbing at your sore neck when you finally manage to teeter to your feet. "Fuck," you grumble before plucking your gun off the floor, inspecting it for any damage with a frown. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot movement on a lower level, and as you lean against the railing to get a better look, your heart stutters in your chest. "Claire."

You vault to the floor below before you can falter, the impact sending a shockwave of pain up your spine, but you keep moving, keeping your focus on her as you watch her shimmy the chair she's tied to away from the advancing pool of bubbling acid.

"Claire!" you yell as you race along the broken, grated walkway. When her eyes meet yours, her face crumbles with relief. Jumping across the gap, you cut her hands loose and haul her up just as the acid begins to erode away at the chair.

"Shit," she wheezes, staring down in horror as if realizing how close she'd come to death or at least permanent disfigurement. "Thanks."

"The hell are you doing here?" you ask as you look back and realize the walkway you just jumped from is too far out of reach now.

"Did something stupid," she says, and when your head snaps to her, face full of disbelief, she shrugs sheepishly. "I have a distinguished pattern, remember?"

"Unbelievable," you mutter, then gesture with a tilt of your chin. "C'mon, I'll lift you."

She finds purchase on your shoulder as she steps into your cupped hand, pushing off the ground with her other foot in time with you as you heave her up, and she lands gracelessly in a heap before turning toward you. "Now you," she says as she outstretches a hand, and when you reach back, you find your fingertips barely grazing hers.

"I-I can't—" You grit your teeth, trying to edge closer, but another inch will send you careening into the rising pool of acid. "Just go, I can—"

"No," she interrupts. "I'm not leaving you."

The sound of your names being shouted catches your attention, and you both look over in unison to see Leon running toward you. "Leon!" Claire calls out.

The acid boils up near your feet, and the chemical reaction creates an uncomfortable heat you feel even through your boots. Time slows to a crawl as he slides across the ramp, hand out to you. "Jump!" he orders, and you do so without hesitation, feeling him grab hold of you and haul you the rest of the way across the gap, the two of you landing in a tangle of limbs.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as you push up from him, but his hand on your lower back keeps you securely fastened to him, your faces inches apart. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"You want the truth?"

He smirks. "Don't gotta sugarcoat it."

A huff of tired laughter escapes through your nose, and you feel your body warming from the inside out as you press your forehead against his sternum. "I think I'm getting too old for this," you reply.

His shoulders shake as he chuckles, and Claire's hand comes into view as she offers it to you. "C'mon, lovebirds," she teases.

Despite the scowl you give her, you accept the help. As soon as Leon is on his feet, you glance over at him. "Shen May?" you question.

The slight shake of his head is answer enough, and you frown. Disappointed, but not surprised by the outcome—she put far too much trust in Jason and paid for it with her life. Glancing up, you see him a few levels above, beginning to jump from railing to railing. "Let's go."

As you make it up to the level with the control room, Leon points to it. "Claire," he says. "Keep him busy."

"Got it," she nods, and before she can move away, you hold out one of your guns to her.

"Just in case," you say.

She winks and tucks it into her waistband as you and Leon make your way toward the lift on the far wall. "Going up," he says in a sing-song voice as the two of you file in.

"Were you bullied as a child?" you ask.

He lets out a bark of laughter as the elevator stops at an upper floor. "Well, well," he murmurs, spotting an arsenal just beside it, likely used for times like these when containment breaches occur. With a low whistle, he opens the cage, grabbing a rocket launcher off the rack. "Hey, sexy."

You roll your eyes as you grab a rifle, slinging it over your back, before your focus turns to Jason, watching as a crane with a container pivots right as he's jumping up, swatting him from the air. "Go, Claire," you murmur as you take a glance around, trying to find a better vantage point while Leon takes aim at the platform Jason landed on down below.

With a fwhump, he fires the rocket launcher, hitting the joist on the platform and sending it spiraling down into the acid. As the debris clears, you see Jason clinging to an overhead wire. He spots Leon and sneers before dropping onto a lower platform and ripping up part of the walkway, hurling it at him.

"Leon!" you shout as he sails over the railing, hitting the ground below with a hard thud.

"I'm fine," he groans.

Meanwhile, the shipping container Jason crawled onto disengages and drops. Followed by several more, blocking his path upward. He frantically looks around before he spots Claire in the control room, and with a roar, he heaves more of the platform straight through the window.

"Fuck," you mutter as you peer through the scope down at him, firing a shot that sinks straight into his shoulder between the spiky plates, causing him to cry out in pain. As you're trying to take aim again, he jumps up a level to where Leon is, stalking toward him and snatching him up by the neck, holding him over the edge.

You sharply inhale, finger hovering over the trigger. Leon says something to him, and with a growl, he flings him to the ground, looming menacingly over him. Rapid gunshots fill the air, and you spot Claire firing at him from across the facility, distracting him long enough for Leon to crawl toward the lever and pull it, sending them both sailing down to the acid below.

Your heart leaps into your throat, Leon's name sticking to the back of your tongue, and the worry morphs into relief when you see him suspended from a rope. "Fucking idiot," you murmur, shouldering the rifle, and looking for a means to get him down while Claire approaches, cradling her wrist that looks bent at the wrong angle.

"I'm gonna go see if I can find a way to stop the lockdown," she says through gritted teeth, sweat pooling at her brow.

"Do you want me to—"

She shakes her head. "No, get Boy Wonder down from there first."

You do as she says, and as you manage to get Leon onto solid ground, she must have found a way to end the containment protocols because the acid begins to recede, though what's left in its wake is nothing short of devastation. The lower walkways have all melted and coagulated into brittle strips of metal, and all the pods containing the B.O.W.s have been successfully purged, no doubt a serious blow to whatever pharmaceutical company Wilson allied with. Speaking of which, the little rat seems nowhere to be found, likely escaping while you all were busy dealing with Jason.

"Is that—" Leon murmurs as his gaze narrows on an amalgamation of flesh impaled on shrapnel. The remnants of Jason loom like a marble statue from Ancient Greece, a mere fraction of its former self, almost unrecognizable as its features have been eroded by the passage of time.

As the two of you cautiously walk over, the acrid smell of burning skin fills your sinuses. Leon scrunches his nose, grimacing as he says, "Your terror ends here, Jason—"

With a sudden gasp, he stirs, making both you and Leon recoil back, guns drawn. "It won't end," he rasps. "You are here. You are a witness to this fear, and now you will help it spread. And soon—"

A single gunshot resonates through the air, a bullet embedding right between his eyes, putting him down for good. Peering over, Leon sees you staring stonefaced ahead. "What a waste," you murmur.

His eyebrows furrow as he whispers your name.

"Thinking himself some modern-day philosopher," you say. "Sewing the seeds of fear to create terror? What a fucking joke. All he did was make himself a monster."

You're dead on your feet as you stand next to Leon on the airstrip, watching the President prepare to board Air Force One after delivering his big speech to the government of Penamstan. You heard it was quite the spectacle, with the President touting peace and partnership moving forward and absolutely no mention of a war with China, courtesy of the call Leon made to Patrick on your way to the lab.

"Hey," Patrick calls to the two of you. "I don't know how you survived a sub being blown up, and whatever happened downstairs, but holy shit, man. That's some hero-level stuff."

"We're just lucky," Leon says as humbly as ever, and beside him, you snort.

"Oh, come on." Patrick waves his hand, and to his credit, there's a hint of amusement on your face as you look at him. The complete one-eighty in his regard for Leon is worth studying. Maybe you'll call it the Leon Kennedy Effect. "You saved everyone's lives here. Plus, you helped the President decide the course this country's gonna take for years to come. Nah, you guys are definitely heroes."

"How's it feel, hero?" your father hisses. "Coulda brought it all down, but no, you find comfort in that leash around your neck—spineless."

As he walks up the stairs to the plane, the President turns to wave at the crowd gathered below before spotting you and Leon standing a ways away, giving you both a nod. A tight, uncomfortable smile forms on your face, and when he turns, you glance over at Leon.

"C'mon, hero," you spit the word. "Let's go home."

Once back in the United States, the next few days are spent on guard detail for the President as an extra precaution following the bioterrorist attack. When you get a text from Claire asking about dinner, you're only slightly surprised, half-expecting her to be jetting off as soon as possible. That girl never liked staying in one place for long.

As you and Leon make your way down the drive leading to the White House, you spot the redhead standing just outside the gates. She glances over her shoulder when she hears your footsteps, a smile on her face. "Hey," she greets.

"How's the wrist?" Leon asks, nodding to the casted arm nestled in a sling.

"Would've been worse off if the good doctor wasn't there," she says with a smirk and a wink.

You roll your eyes at her antics. "I'm just surprised you actually went to the hospital."

"Don't worry, I snuck out as soon as I could," she grins. "They got me trapped in this cast for the next six weeks, though."

"Yeah, well, make sure to go back to the hospital to get it cut off and don't just take a knife to it," you chide, already haunted by future visions of Claire trying to saw through the cast with a butter knife in some drabby motel room halfway across the world.

The mischievous glint in her eye tells you everything you need to know. "Whatever you say, doc." Her mouth tilts down, settling into a firm line, and the sight makes your stomach churn. "Anyway… about the chip. Do you have it?"

"Thought you wanted to grab dinner," Leon says, his gaze flicking to you, catching how your shoulders tense at her question.

"I want to make a copy of it and give it to all the newspapers," she says. "This thing's gonna blow up, big time."

"We can't," he says.

Her brows furrow as she looks taken aback by his answer. "What?" Claire asks. When she's met with silence, she scowls. "So that's how it's gonna be."

"Claire—" you start, but the glare she sends you makes the words die on your tongue. An awful, cruel feeling curls in you, as if you're standing at the precipice of a decision that will change the course of your friendship, and you're unable to choose the option you truly want. But you can't, because if someone is going to make the hard decision, it's going to be you.

"You know, I could expect this from the golden boy here, but not you," she says, the hurt clear on her face. "After everything—"

"Claire," your tone is a warning now, like you're trying to protect both of you from saying something you don't mean. "We can't give it to you."

"Why not?" she presses.

"Because if we do, the rest of your life is going to be spent in a jail cell," you say. "Or worse."

She steps forward, her good hand splayed out in a shrug. "You think I don't know that?" she asks.

"I'd rather not see you on the other side of bars or dead," you reply, trying to keep your tone as even as possible despite the lump that threatens to choke you. "I can't go through that again."

"So what? You two are just going to sit on this information?"

"No," you deny. "I'm taking care of it."

She scoffs. "What is that supposed to mean? Because from here, it seems like you're just going to bury it, like they buried Raccoon City. Is that what you're going to do? I thought you were better than that."

"You're not being fair," Leon cuts in.

She shakes her head dismissively, squaring her shoulders. "No, no," she says. "I get it, you guys are going to do things your way, and I'll do things mine."

You sigh her name, heart twisting up. "I don't want it to be like this."

"Then give me the chip!" she urges. Your lips press together in a thin line, and she takes that as your answer, nodding. "Fine."

Your chest rings out hollowly as you watch her walk away, leaving you and Leon standing idly next to each other long after she disappears from view.

Slowly, he glances over at you, eyes scanning your features that you force to remain neutral in fear that one small slip will cause everything else to come tumbling down. "Still want to go get dinner?" he asks softly.

"I believe you promised me a drink," you answer.

The bar is a smoke-filled haze, the stale smell of cigarettes clinging to the back of your throat like tar, as honky-tonk country music plays over the jukebox. People from all walks of life have gathered to celebrate the inaugural night of the weekend—men in cowboy hats swing their partners around on a makeshift dance floor, two middle-aged women sit at the other end of the bar, sipping their glasses of wine and gossiping, and a group of young men is engaged in a rather serious billiards competition to impress the gaggle of college girls who giggle around a table in the corner with their fruity cocktails and glittery eyeshadow.

Meanwhile, Leon flags down the bartender for another round—your third of the night. You idly trace the condensation on your empty beer bottle, your cheek resting against your palm, as your attention strays to the televisions overhead, watching the hockey game currently playing. A few other patrons seated at the bar gasp and lean forward before erupting in cheers, meaning something good happened at least. Your suit jacket hangs on the back of your barstool, having shed it as soon as you got here an hour or so earlier, popping open the first few buttons of your blouse, allowing you to breathe for the first time today.

As the bartender slides two more bottles of beer to you, Leon digs out his wallet, tossing a ten-dollar bill onto the counter. "Need change?" she asks—same as the last two times.

"Keep it," Leon answers—same as the last two times.

A satisfied, grateful smile graces her lips before she's off again, shoulders sagging when she sees one of the college girls standing at the other end of the bar—another round of Malibu Baybreezes dimming the nice tip she received.

As both you and Leon grab your beers, you tap them together with a clink before taking a long swig. Conversation ebbs and flows between you, and it's always been an aspect you've appreciated about him, the lack of a constant need to fill dead space.

When your phone, resting on the bartop, suddenly lights up and vibrates across the surface as you get an incoming call, both your gazes drop to it, and you know you're not quick enough to snatch it up before he sees who's calling you. "Be right back," you mutter, hopping down from the barstool and staggering outside to answer your phone. "Hello, Luis."

"You know, you can't just hang up on me and then dodge my calls for a week," Luis chides. "It makes a man worry.

"I've been working," you say, moving out of the way as a couple brushes by you to get inside.

"Yes, yes, too busy for your old pal Luis," he laments. "You know I am a sensitive fool, corazón, and so, so lonely."

You can practically see him holding a hand over his eyes in faux distress and scoffing at the dramatics. "Yes, my heart bleeds for you—"

"Oh, does it?" he questions with a teasing hum.

"Is there a reason you called Luis?"

"Ooh, touchy," he says before his tone turns serious. "I only wanted to make sure you were okay."

You sigh. "I'm okay, Luis."

The noise emanating from the back of his throat is one of doubt, but he doesn't press the issue. "I take it your mission was a success then?"

"As successful as any mission can be," you answer vaguely, some things better left unsaid. He's quiet on the other end, the faint sound of his breathing the only sign he hasn't hung up or been disconnected. In this quiet, a thought creeps into your mind. "Actually, there is something I'm wondering if you could help me with."

"You need only ask," he says.

Your voice lowers, hand covering your mouth as you huddle closer to the exterior brick wall of the bar, afraid someone might overhear you. "We have reason to believe that an unknown pharmaceutical company dabbling in bioweapons has at least one government official in its pocket—"

"Oh?" You've sparked his interest. "Tell me more."

"The only problem is that every string I've tugged has led to a dead end." And you've tugged plenty of strings over the last few days. "Do you have any ears you could bend?"

He chuckles. "Oh, I certainly have a few," he says. "Get me access to a secure line, and I'll have an answer to you in a few days."

"Done." The how of getting him a secure line is a problem for a future you who isn't two and a half beers deep. "I owe you one."

"Oh, I like that sound of that," he purrs.

You snort. "Goodbye, Luis." The phone clicks shut before you can hear his reply, no doubt salacious, but you've long since learned not to take his flirtations seriously. The chill in the night air starts to finally cool the heat of alcohol in your blood, and you slip back inside, finding Leon right where you left him.

He regards with a sideways glance. "What did Luis want?" he asks.

As you take a sip of your drink, you squint at him. His gaze drops to the delicate curve of your throat as you swallow the acrid, cheap beer, then flicks up, locking onto the way your lips glisten in the shitty bar lighting, intently following the slow glide of your tongue along your top lip. When he sees you watching him watching you, he hurriedly brings his own bottle to his lips and gulps down a mouthful.

"To proposition me," you answer flatly.

He chokes, sputtering, "What?!"

Rolling your eyes with a smirk, you set your beer down, kicking your foot out against his. "I'm kidding, idiot."

Coughing, he self-consciously swipes his arm across his mouth, his suit jacket soaking up the droplets of beer clinging to the five o'clock shadow around his mouth. "Right," he breathes, repeating again softly under his breath, "Right."

Quiet falls between you, and you gently nudge his knee with yours. "Relax, my virtue remains firmly in place—I'm saving myself for marriage," you tease with a wink.

He laughs. "Oh, are you?" he asks. "Is this a new vow of chastity you've taken, because I distinctly remember numerous occasions of being ba—"

You surge forward, hand slapping across his mouth, stopping the words from coming out, cheeks burning. "Leon!"

His eyes upturn with amusement as he grabs your hand, intertwining your fingers together, leaning closer like he's telling a secret. "What?" he questions, voice a low murmur. "Too crude for the lady's delicate ears?"

You scrunch your nose, letting out a fake laugh of 'ha-ha' as you slide out of the chair and out of his grip. Plucking your beer, you finish it off before saying, "I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

Moving through the groups of people, you make your way toward the rear of the bar, and as you open the door for the ladies' room, you feel the warmth of a body herding you into the bathroom. The buzz of your third beer slows your reflexes, and you only manage to look over your shoulder in time to see Leon closing and locking the door behind him. "What are you—"

There's little room to move in here, barely enough space for the toilet and sink, let alone two people. But that doesn't stop Leon from crowding you against the chipped porcelain basin, your hip bone pressing painfully into the hard surface as he angles his chin down and his lips press to your neck. Your head lolls to the side, giving him more room to trail kisses up your throat to your jawline.

Your breath escapes you in a shudder as your gaze falls forward to the dirty mirror, smudged with water spots, watching as he looms behind you. It's a scene you can't look away from, his breath hot on your skin, sending a shiver of want down your spine, but then your eyes flutter closed as he licks a stripe right behind your ear.

One hand creeps along the front of you, popping open the button to your slacks, and your breath catches in your throat as he slides a hand down into your pants, groaning into the crook of your neck when he feels how wet you are, seeping through your underwear. "Leon," you gasp as his other hand sneaks up your shirt, shoving your bra up to palm your breast. "I'm not going to fuck you in a bar bathroom."

He nips at your cheek before kissing your temple, his fingers pushing your underwear to the side to swipe through the wetness gathered at your core. "Not gonna fuck you in a bar bathroom," he assures, circling your clit in a way that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. His hips thrust against your ass, and you can feel the growing hardness beneath layers of clothes. "Gonna make you cum on my fingers in a bar bathroom—" A small, pathetic moan escapes you when he plunges two fingers into you. "—then, I'm gonna fuck you in my car."

As he sloppily kisses your cheek, you angle your neck to capture his lips with yours, meeting together in a mash-up of teeth and tongue. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, swallowing down your moans as he keeps pumping his fingers, twisting and pinching at your nipple, causing you to arch, rubbing against his cock. He whines into your mouth, licking the roof of it, desperately trying to taste every inch of you.

When he suddenly pulls away, retracting his fingers from you, you whimper at the loss, about to turn to chastise him, but then he yanks your pants and underwear down in one fell swoop, hand pressing down on your upper back as he bends you over the sink, your hands barely managing to find purchase on the mirror in time.

"God," he groans as he grabs your ass appreciatively.

"Leon," you complain, wiggling your hips as your forehead presses to the cool surface of the mirror. He doesn't let you linger in want for long, shoving his fingers back into you with a third added, making you groan as your walls clench around the sudden intrusion.

The pace he sets is spine-tingling, and you're keening, drool pooling from your mouth as lewd noises fill the small space, and you're vaguely aware of the feeling of your own juices dripping down your inner thigh. With his other hand, he wedges it between you and the sink, starting to circle your clit again in earnest.

"You gonna cum?" he asks. Your eyes scrunch closed, the only sound you're able to make is an eager 'mhm', as the band in your core tightens. "Desperate for me to fuck you, huh?" When you whine, your pussy tightening around his fingers, he hums lowly, "You're gonna let me fuck you, right?"

It starts in your toes, prickling up your legs. Once it settles in your abdomen, the band snaps, waves of pleasure washing over you as you nod frantically, the world deafening around you. If he says anything in reply, you don't hear it. You can only focus on the shockwaves of your orgasm as he continues to work you through it until you're left a shuddering mess, propped up on the sink.

When he finally pulls his fingers from you, you lean away slightly, watching in the mirror as he licks them clean, your cheeks burning even more, if that's possible. As he finishes, he twirls you around, and you feel so boneless that you can do nothing but let him. You watch in a daze as he pulls your underwear and then your pants up before buttoning them.

Smoothing out your blouse, he tucks it into your waistband, and despite being put back together, you can't help but feel like a mess. As you look up at him, you're met with his blown-out, half-lidded gaze, and he cups your face, smoothing a thumb across your cheekbone. His mouth presses into yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as it swipes against your lower lip.

"C'mon," he rasps as he pulls away. "We're going out the back."

You blink as he unlocks the door and opens it, grabbing your hand and tugging you along, ignoring the stunned looks from the two women waiting outside. "But my jacket—"

"I'll buy you a new one," he assures.

It's a short walk to Leon's car, but you're keenly aware of how damp your underwear is as it clings to you. Given how busy the bar is, you're surprised by how empty the rear parking lot is. His jeep sits nestled in the corner, under strategically placed trees, an effort to bring a bit of nature to D.C. But to your benefit, they provide a shadowy, obscured spot in your local dive bar's parking lot for you to fuck your on-again, off-again situationship.

He keeps an eye out as he opens the back door, helping you in with an extended hand before climbing in. Once the door shuts behind him, he's on you. Your arms wrap around his neck, drawing him closer as you recline into the seat, not minding that your knees knock into the center console or that the top of your head presses uncomfortably against the door, far too focused on the feel of his mouth on yours and how his hands wander down your sides.

The care he took in redressing you before is thrown out the window as he hurriedly unbuttons your shirt, pushing it down your shoulder so he can bite the skin there, before pushing your bra up and bending over so he can lick your nipple, tongue swirling around it until it's brought to a peak. "Leon," you moan as he sucks it.

Getting your pants off is a bit more arduous, but a task he is certainly up to as he maneuvers you to tug them off, throwing them into the trunk for safekeeping along with your underwear. He quickly unbuckles his belt, undoing his own pants and shoving them down until his cock springs free. Breathing heavily, he strokes himself up and down, eyes glued to your glistening cunt. "Have you—"

You shake your head. "No, I haven't—"

"Me neither," he admits. The declaration swirls in your gut, though you try not to dwell on it. It could mean nothing, but rumors about him and that woman from the Harvardville incident still sometimes sprout up treacherously in the back of your mind. Hearing him say there hasn't been anyone else brings you only relief.

As he angles his body over yours, it's an awkward position, with a knee resting on the floorboard. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder, pushing the other until you're practically folded in half. Slapping his cock on you, he thrusts against you, coating himself in the wetness still gathered there. He's enraptured by the side of himself sliding through your folds, mouth agape as he stares down in a daze.

Right before he pushes into you, his gaze meets yours, and an inexplicable weight barrels down on your chest. "Jesus Christ," he gasps as he inches into you. "Missed this so much."

Your mouth falls open, breath leaving your lungs as he gives one, two, three little thrusts before shoving the rest of the way in, bottoming out in a singular smooth motion. You feel so full, and your skin hums like there's electricity running along the surface as he experimentally moves his hips, groaning as you clench around him.

"Oh my god," you moan, toes curling as he sets a steady rhythm.

His thrusts are hard and precise, exactly how you like it. Sweat pools at your brow as heat builds inside the cramped backseat, the windows fogging up against the chilly night air outside. He doesn't break his stride as he slicks back the hair hanging in his face, eyes locked onto your breasts that bounce up and down with the movement.

Whimpering your name, he presses a lingering kiss to the inner part of your thigh on the leg that's strewn over his shoulder. "Not gonna last long," he murmurs, pressing your clit with his thumb. "You close?"

You are, desperately so. Still sensitive from your earlier orgasm, you feel yourself teetering on the precipice, egged on by the unrelenting drag of his cock in your soaked pussy, and now the calloused pad of his thumb rubbing in slow circles.

"Leon," you moan, hand blindly reaching for the driver's side headrest to steady yourself as his thrusts grow more erratic. "I'm gonna—fuck!"

Your vision blurs, darkening along the edges as your second orgasm rocks through you, your muscles seizing as you gasp out his name over and over. He whines as your pussy clamps around him, bucking into you as he chases his own release. "C'mon, cum for me, sweetheart. That's it," he murmurs, peering down at you with reverence as you gush around his cock. "Shit, you're so good for me, oh god."

He doubles over you as he reaches his end, jamming your knees all the way to your ears as he pumps into you, the hot spurt of his cum warming your still fluttering cunt, so overstimulated by everything—the sweat on your skin, the tremble in your muscles, the dizzying post-orgasmic bliss. Your name tumbles out of his mouth in a whimper, an ardent prayer, a gospel wholly his own.

His hips slow to a crawl as the last remnants of his release ebb away, leaving you both to catch your breath. Carefully, he lowers your legs, massaging your hips as you wince after being contorted into the awkward pose. He's just as sweaty as you are, so he doesn't mind as he leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips and tastes salt. Tilting your chin, you deepen it, neither of you eager to end this tender moment.

But it does eventually come to an end, and as he pulls away, he asks, "Was that okay?"

Fearing your voice will fail you, you give a thumbs-up, and he chuckles, caressing your face with a great, unspoken sentiment, before kissing your forehead and shuffling back to give you some room to sit up. When you hesitate to do so, gesturing to the combined fluids leaking out of you, panic spreads on his face.

"Shit, I don't have a towel," he says, looking around the jeep for anything to clean you up, finding nothing. "I'll just—" He starts to unbutton his shirt—an overly expensive, pressed white one—balls it up, and begins to wipe away the mess, his features pinched with concentration.

It's an incredibly earnest display.

You're quiet the whole time, and it isn't until he feels you shaking that he looks up, seeing you cover your mouth as you try to contain your laughter. He pauses, looking down and realizing what he's doing, before he sighs. "Shut up," he chides, pinching your hip, which only makes you laugh harder, your arms holding your stomach as it begins to ache.

He chucks the soiled shirt on the ground and hauls you over to him, tugging at your cheek as you weakly try to swat him away. Your skin, coated in cooling sweat, sticks together, and you playfully whine. "You're sweaty, get off."

"Oh, I'm sweaty," he balks. "At least you have a shirt!"

At that, you right your blouse, pulling it back up and buttoning it. "It's not my fault you didn't come prepared," you tease rather haughtily.

He reaches into the trunk and grabs your pants. "I should throw these out of the window," he threatens.

You gape at him, trying to reach out to snatch your clothing from him, but he only holds it out of your reach, keeping you at arm's length. "Leon, don't!" you gasp.

"I'm gonna do it," he taunts, beginning to crank the window open just an inch.

He barks with laughter as you yell at him, scrambling over him to grab your pants. He easily relents, his hands settling on your hips and pulling you down firmly into his lap, his half-hard cock brushing against your core, tantalizingly casually. You frown as you straddle him, cradling your pants to your chest protectively. "You're a jerk," you murmur, trying to ignore the way he slants his chin up as his gaze trains on your lips.

"Am I?" he asks, inching closer, hands sliding down to cup your ass.

"Mhm," you hum, feeling yourself get caught in his orbit. "A gigantic jerk."

He grins before angling his head and capturing your lips with his in a slow, tender movement. You feel him stir between your thighs, and you tilt your hips to grind on him, swallowing down the shuddering breath he exhales. "Want me to fuck you again, sweetheart?" he murmurs into your mouth.

"I'd prefer a bed this time," you whisper as you nip at his lower lip.