everything sings

At first, whenever you sat beside Maul as he meditated, you always made sure to keep a careful distance between your shoulder and his. He didn't look at you as you lowered yourself down beside him, nor did he acknowledge the way you folded your legs and tried to mimic his stillness. But he also didn't tell you to leave, which you took as permission.

Over time, the distance between you had become smaller incrementally. You started sitting close enough that your sleeve sometimes brushed his arm, and then you let your knee rest lightly against his. Then you leaned your shoulder into him, and although his breathing changed so subtly that anyone else would've missed it, he remained exactly where he was, as if pretending your weight against his side had no effect on him at all.

Eventually, it became routine for you to curl up against him while he meditated, with your cheek pressed to his chest and one of his arms settled loosely around you. He'd made some excuse once about how your nearness forced him to tolerate distraction, which you didn't argue with. Even when his arm started tightening around you, definitely betraying that he enjoyed the closeness whether he'd admit it or not.

That's when you started noticing the sound. Just a low, rumbling vibration in his chest that you could feel humming against your cheek. It always happened when Maul had been still for a long while and his expression had softened just the tiniest bit, when your breathing had evened out against him and all else was quiet.

The realization of what exactly was going on hit you one day when you were half-asleep, your head resting against the center of his chest while one of his arms was looped around your waist. You were listening almost absently to that low rumble that came from deep in his chest, too sleepy to really register it until it hit you all at once.

Your eyes opened. Maul's eyes snapped open immediately after, suspicious like he'd sensed your thought forming and was already irritated.

"You're…you're purring," you said, delighted by the realization.

Maul stiffened and the sound stopped so abruptly that you almost felt guilty. "Go back to sleep."

You tilted your head up to look at him, keeping your cheek pressed to his chest. Your mouth was slowly curving upwards despite your best efforts to keep your expression neutral. "That wasn't a denial…" you pointed out.

"It was an instruction," Maul replied lowly, just a little snappishly. His arm around your waist didn't loosen in the slightest, though. "One you would be wise to obey."

You ignored the order. "You were purring," you said again instead, almost to yourself. You pressed your cheek harder against his chest like it would somehow bring the sound back. "I didn't even know you could do that."

Maul inhaled slowly like he was forcing himself in check, his eyes narrowed at you. "Do not be presumptuous," he scoffed. "Is it so shocking that there are things you have not yet learnt about me?"

It was such an obvious deflection that you had to try hard not to laugh, because you were pretty sure that laughing would make him dump you on the floor out of spite. "Fair point," you agreed. "But this may be my favorite thing I've learnt so far."

You could swear Maul almost rolled his eyes. "A meaningless physical response?"

"Not meaningless," you mumbled, pressing your face into his chest affectionately. "It means you're comfortable."

"It means I am undisturbed," he corrected you pointedly, though his arm shifted a little higher on your waist to draw you more securely against him in a way that kind of ruined whatever point he was trying to make.

You hummed softly and let your eyes drift closed again, deciding you'd irritated him enough for now. "All right. I won't disturb you then."

For several moments, Maul stayed rigid, still staring down at you. Then, little by little, the tension eased from him. He exhaled quietly, his arm loosening a little around your waist, and eventually, that low rumble in his chest returned.

You kept your face carefully tucked against him, hiding the smile you knew he could probably feel anyway.

"Not," Maul murmured firmly above you, "a word."

You bit your lip to keep the words down and obeyed only because that purr meant you'd already won anyway.

Rain dragged itself down the windows of their apartment in crooked trails, blurring the lights outside into watery streaks of gold and red. The city below still moved with the restless pulse of late-night traffic, but inside the apartment, everything felt hushed beneath the soft hum of the television and the occasional rattle of Leon coughing into the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The sound came rough and deep from his chest.

From the kitchen counter, you looked up immediately, fingers still curled around the ceramic mug you'd been drying. "You're supposed to be resting," you said quietly, though there wasn't much bite left in the words anymore. Worry had worn itself smooth over the years.

Leon leaned deeper into the couch cushions with his eyes half-closed, one arm draped across his stomach. The veins beneath the skin of his hand curled darkly beneath the lamplight, blackened tributaries crawling over pale flesh before disappearing beneath the cuff of his sleeve. The splotch spreading along the side of his neck looked darker tonight, too, bruised violet against tired skin.

"I am resting," he muttered.

"You fell asleep sitting upright again."

"Occupational hazard."

A soft breath escaped you at that, halfway between amusement and exhaustion. You set the mug aside before crossing the apartment toward him. Even after all these years, Leon still watched you like you were something grounding. Something untouched by all the rot clinging stubbornly to him.

Your fingers brushed carefully against the side of his neck, just beneath the stain spreading there. Leon tried not to flinch beneath your touch.

"Tender?" you asked softly.

"No worse than usual."

That was the lie both of you used now. No worse than usual. It covered everything from sleepless nights to coughing blood to the way Leon occasionally lost his breath climbing the stairs after missions that once wouldn't have even quickened his pulse.

You studied him for another moment before moving toward the medicine cabinet near the kitchen. The apartment smelled faintly of soup and disinfectant, a strange combination that had followed you home from the hospital for years. Leon used to tease you about it back when things felt lighter. Back before every quiet moment carried the weight of wondering how many were left.

Now the smell only reminded him of how exhausted you looked lately. You tried to hide it well. Most days, you still tied your hair back neatly before work. Still ironed your scrubs. Still left sticky notes near the coffeemaker, reminding Leon to eat something green while you worked late shifts. To anyone else, you probably looked fine.

Leon noticed the small things, though, they're not that small. The way you paused before standing too quickly. The faint tremor in your hands when you thought nobody was watching. The shadows beneath your eyes growing darker every week. And the coughing. God, the coughing.

You returned with his medication and a glass of water before settling beside him on the couch. "You missed another dose this morning."

Leon accepted the pills from your hand. "I was busy."

"You were unconscious for fourteen hours."

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes faintly, though exhaustion softened even that reaction. When Leon swallowed the medication, you rested your head carefully against his shoulder, fitting there like habit. Outside, thunder murmured somewhere far away.

For a little while, neither of you spoke. Leon could feel the warmth of you pressed against his side. Too warm. His jaw tightened.

"You should've called out today," he said eventually.

"And told them what?" you asked softly. "Sorry, I can't come in because my husband and I are both slowly mutating."

A tired sound escaped him that almost resembled a laugh.

"Was it bad today?" he asked after a moment.

You stayed quiet long enough for him to know the answer before you finally spoke. "My hands cramped up during an IV insertion," you admitted. "Mrs. Holloway noticed."

Leon stared ahead at the flickering television screen without really seeing it. "You shouldn't still be working."

"We've had this argument."

"You almost collapsed last week."

"And you came home coughing blood three days ago."

That silenced him immediately. The rain thickened harder against the windows. You shifted slightly beside him, curling your fingers carefully around his infected hand despite the ugly black veins webbing beneath the skin. Leon remembered the first time you'd seen them appear. He'd expected horror. Fear. Distance.

Instead, you'd taken his hand exactly like this and whispered, "Still you." It nearly ruined him then. It still did.

"We're running out of time, aren't we?" he asked quietly.

The question lingered between you like smoke. You didn't answer immediately. Leon knew you were choosing your words carefully, the same way you always did when trying not to hurt him.

"There are people who lasted longer," you said at last.

"That's not what I asked."

Your fingers tightened slightly around his. Leon finally looked at you then, really looked. At exhaustion you couldn't hide anymore. At the faint discoloration creeping beneath the collar of your sweater. At the fragile steadiness, you wore like armor because somebody in the apartment had to stay calm. You gave him a small smile that broke his heart on contact.

"You know what scares me the most?" you asked softly.

Leon frowned. "What?"

"That you keep looking at me like I'm already gone."

The words hollowed something inside his chest.

He turned toward you fully despite the ache pulling through his ribs, one hand rising to cup the side of your face. "Don't," he murmured immediately. "Don't say that."

"But you are."

"I'm trying to fix this."

"I know."

"No," Leon said, more fiercely this time. "I am. I'm close."

Your expression flickered then. Hope and grief colliding in equal measure. You believed him because you loved him, and that somehow made it worse.

Leon rested his forehead carefully against yours, breathing shallowly through the pressure tightening in his lungs. "I'm not losing you to this," he whispered.

"I don't want to lose you either."

Morning arrived gray and slow, the kind that barely deserved to be called morning at all. Rainwater still clung to the fire escape outside the apartment windows, dripping steadily beneath a sky the color of bruised steel. Somewhere below, traffic hissed across wet pavement while distant sirens blurred into the rhythm of the waking city. The television had long since shut itself off overnight, leaving the apartment wrapped in soft silence broken only by the uneven sound of Leon breathing beside you.

You woke first. Not because you were rested, you honestly couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rested. Your body ached before you'd even fully opened your eyes. Heat coiled beneath your skin in restless waves, feverish and familiar, while your joints protested the simple act of shifting beneath the blankets. For a moment, you stayed still, staring hazily at the dim light filtering through the curtains while your heartbeat thudded heavily behind your ribs.

Then Leon coughed. The sound tore violently through the quiet room. You pushed yourself upright immediately, the motion making dizziness swim unpleasantly through your vision. Beside you, Leon sat hunched forward at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against his chest while the other covered his mouth. His shoulders trembled beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Leon," you said softly, voice still rough with sleep.

He held up a hand without turning toward you, the universal signal for wait. Another cough wracked through him hard enough to make your stomach twist. By the time he finally lowered his hand, there was blood smeared faintly across his knuckles. Your chest tightened painfully.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand.

"I'm fine."

"You're coughing blood."

"It's not that much."

"That sentence stopped comforting me months ago."

Leon let out a tired breath through his nose as you handed him the tissues. Morning light spilled weakly across the side of his face now, illuminating the darkened veins stretching along his throat and disappearing beneath his collarbone. The discoloration had spread farther during the past few weeks. Neither of you mentioned it anymore.

You sat beside him carefully, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, while the coughing finally subsided into shallow breathing. His skin felt burning hot.

"You should stay home today," you murmured.

Leon gave you a look that could only be described as exhausted disbelief. "You said the exact same thing last night."

"And I meant it last night, too."

"I can't."

"You can barely breathe."

"I've been worse."

You closed your eyes briefly at that. The problem with Leon was that he genuinely meant it. Somewhere along the line, his definition of manageable had become horrifyingly distorted.

When you opened your eyes again, Leon was already trying to stand. The movement almost immediately betrayed him. His breath caught sharply, and he grabbed the edge of the dresser hard enough for his knuckles to whiten beneath the black veining spreading across his skin.

"Leon."

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"I said I'm okay."

The irritation in his voice wasn't directed at you. You knew that. It came from frustration. From humiliation. From the unbearable reality that his own body was becoming something unreliable. Still, silence settled heavily between you afterward. Leon stared at the floor for several long seconds before finally exhaling shakily and sinking back onto the edge of the bed. Some of the tension drained from his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I just hate this."

The honesty in his voice hurt more than the coughing had.

You moved closer until your shoulder brushed his. "I know."

"No, I really hate it." He laughed once under his breath, bitter and tired. "I used to go days without sleeping during missions. Now I get winded walking to the kitchen."

You watched him carefully. Leon rarely spoke about the fear directly. He covered it with sarcasm, deflection, stubbornness, anything that kept the terror from fully surfacing. Seeing it now, raw and exhausted in the dim morning light, made something ache deep inside your chest.

"You're still you," you said softly.

His jaw tightened immediately, "That's part of the problem. I don't think I will be for me much longer."

You looked down at your own hands resting in your lap. The faint tremor had returned sometime during the night. Tiny involuntary movements beneath skin that looked normal enough until someone paid close attention.

At the hospital last week, one of the newer nurses had asked if you were feeling alright after you'd nearly dropped a tray of syringes. You'd smiled. You'd lied. You were getting very good at lying. Leon noticed your hands before you could tuck them away.

His expression shifted instantly. "How long?"

You hated that question because he always sounded so afraid of asking it. "Just this morning," you answered carefully.

"That's not what I asked."

You swallowed. The truth sat heavily behind your teeth. "A few weeks."

Leon went still beside you. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows again.

"You should've told me," he said quietly.

"And what would that have changed?"

His silence answered for him. Everything. It would've changed everything.

Leon leaned forward suddenly, elbows braced against his knees, while one hand pressed hard against his mouth. You could practically see the guilt chewing through him in real time, relentless and familiar.

"This is my fault," he muttered.

Your head snapped toward him immediately. "Don't do that."

"If I'd gotten you out faster that night..."

"Leon."

"If I hadn't left you alone at the hospital..."

"Stop."

His voice roughened sharply. "You got infected because of me."

The words struck the room like shattered glass. Neither of you could move after those words left his mouth. You reached out for him after a moment, sliding your hand carefully against his jaw until he finally looked at you. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion, shadows buried heavily beneath them.

"You listened to me very carefully back in Raccoon City," you said softly. "So listen to me now."

Leon's breathing stayed uneven beneath your touch.

"You did not infect me," you continued. "You did not fail me. You did not ruin my life."

His expression cracked slightly at that, pain flickering openly across his face.

"You saved my life," you whispered. "I got years with you that I never should've had."

Leon looked away immediately like the words physically hurt him.

"That's not enough if one of us dies," he says hoarsely.

Your chest tightened. That was the tragedy of loving Leon Kennedy. No matter how much he gave, he still believed he should've found a way to give more.

The apartment was dark except for the kitchen light Leon had forgotten to turn off. A single yellow glow spilled weakly across the counter and into the living room, cutting through the early morning dark in tired slants. The digital clock on the microwave read 2:17 AM in harsh green numbers. Rain had finally stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city outside damp and quiet beneath a low blanket of fog.

You should've been asleep. Instead, you stood barefoot near the hallway entrance with one hand braced against the wall, trying to steady the dizziness rolling unpleasantly beneath your skin. Exhaustion clung heavily to your limbs after another twelve-hour shift at the hospital, but the silence in the apartment had dragged you awake the second you realized Leon wasn't beside you.

At first, you thought he might've gone outside to smoke again. He'd picked the habit back up months ago despite your endless arguments about it. Then you noticed the light, and the sound of paper shifting.

You moved quietly toward the kitchen, the cold hardwood floor creaking faintly beneath your steps. Leon sat hunched at the table still wearing yesterday's clothes, shoulders rigid beneath his gray sweatshirt while files and photographs lay scattered around him in uneven piles.

Medical reports, autopsy images, government seals.

Your stomach tightened immediately. Leon didn't notice you at first. His eyes stayed locked on the papers in front of him, jaw clenched hard enough to twitch beneath the dim light. One hand pressed against his mouth, while the other gripped a photograph so tightly the edges had bent beneath his fingers.

He coughed suddenly, the sound tearing violently through the quiet apartment. Leon turned sharply away from the table, coughing hard into his sleeve while his free hand braced against the countertop nearby. The force of it nearly doubled him over.

"Leon."

He froze instantly. For one terrible second, guilt flashed across his face before he smoothed it away too late for either of you to pretend you hadn't seen it.

"You should be sleeping," he said roughly.

You ignored the comment entirely, eyes drifting instead toward the files spread across the table. Photographs stared back at you. Five different faces. Five different civilians. Every single one labeled deceased. 

Cold unease curled through your stomach. "What is this?"

Leon went very still. The silence lasted long enough for dread to start settling into your bones.

Finally, he leaned back in the chair with a slow exhale, exhaustion hollowing out his features. "Cases connected to dormant viral exposure after Raccoon City."

Your pulse thudded unevenly. You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, gaze catching on dates and medical terminology scattered across the reports. Progressive organ failure. Neurological deterioration. Respiratory collapse. One victim had been only thirty-two. Another had survived nearly ten years before symptoms resurfaced.

You felt sick. Leon watched you carefully the entire time, like he was waiting for something to shatter.

"How long have you had these?" you asked quietly.

"A while."

"A while," you repeated softly. "Leon."

His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you seeing them."

"Why?"

The question came out sharper than you intended. Leon pushed a hand through his hair roughly before standing from the table. The motion looked unsteady, exhaustion dragging visibly at his body. He crossed toward the sink and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough for the tendons in his infected hand to stand out beneath the dark veins.

"Because none of them survived," he said flatly.

The walls felt like they were slowly closing in around you. You stared at his back in silence while the refrigerator hummed quietly nearby.

"Were they all infected the same way we were?"

"Similar strain."

"And you've just been reading this alone?"

Leon laughed once under his breath, bitter and exhausted. "What exactly was I supposed to say to you?" he asked. "'Hey, sweetheart, I found six years of autopsy reports proving this thing eventually kills civilians slower than it kills everybody else'?"

"You found five reports."

His shoulders stiffened immediately. The realization hit both of you at the same time. Five victims. You would be the sixth. Leon turned away sharply before you could fully see his expression, but not before grief cracked visibly across his face. That hurt more than the files did.

You crossed the kitchen slowly until you stood a few feet behind him. "Leon."

"I'm figuring it out."

"You don't know that."

"I said I'm figuring it out." His voice came harsher now, fraying at the edges beneath exhaustion and panic.

You watched him brace both hands against the counter, head lowered while his breathing turned uneven again. The dark veins stretching across the back of his hands looked almost black beneath the kitchen light now.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then your eyes drifted back toward the table. Toward the notes. Toward the highlighted sections and handwritten annotations covering nearly every page. Leon had memorized these people. Every symptom. Every timeline. Every death.

Your chest tightened painfully. "You're preparing for me to die," you said softly.

Leon's head snapped upward immediately. "No."

"You are."

"No, I'm not."

"You know all their timelines, Leon."

"Because I need to."

"You know how long they lasted after symptoms progressed."

"I need to know what we're dealing with."

"You organized them by stages."

"Because there's a pattern."

Your voice finally cracked. "Because you're trying to predict when I'll die."

Silence slammed into the room. Leon looked stricken like you'd reached into his chest and dragged something ugly into the light before he could hide it.

"That's not..." He stopped hard, swallowing visibly. "That's not what I'm doing."

"You're trying to figure out how much time we have left together."

His composure finally broke. "I'm trying to keep you alive!"

The words exploded out of him loud enough to echo through the apartment. You flinched slightly. Leon stared at you immediately afterward like he hated himself for it. His breathing turned ragged.

"I can't lose you," he said hoarsely, quieter this time. "I can't sit here and pretend this isn't happening while you get worse every week."

You felt tears burning painfully behind your eyes now. "I know."

"No, you don't." Leon dragged a shaking hand over his face. "You don't know what it's like watching you cough and wondering if that's the moment it starts getting bad. You don't know what it's like hearing you come home exhausted and thinking about those files every time you look tired."

His voice cracked hard on the last sentence. For a second, he looked less like a government agent and more like a man drowning slowly in anticipatory grief.

"You think I'm preparing for you to die?" he whispered. "I'm trying to find the point where I can still save you."

The raw desperation in his voice hollowed something inside your chest. You crossed the remaining distance between you carefully before resting your hands against his face. Leon's skin felt fever-warm beneath your palms. His eyes closed immediately.

"I'm still here," you whispered.

Leon's expression tightened sharply, grief flickering across it so fast it almost looked painful.

"That's what scares me," he admitted quietly. "Because they were too. Until they weren't."

After that night, every day after felt fragile in a way cracked glass still technically holds together until the exact wrong amount of pressure finally splinters in apart.

Gray daylight spilled weakly through the apartment windows while the coffee maker sputtered in the kitchen, filling the air with the bitter smell of burnt grounds. Leon stood at the counter in sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt, one hand braced against the edge of the sink while he waited for another coughing fit to pass.

You stood nearby pretending to butter toast while listening carefully to the uneven rasp dragging through his lungs. Every cough sounded painful now. Wet. Heavy. The kind of cough that settled deep in bone and refused to leave.

He finally spit blood into the sink.

You closed your eyes briefly, "Leon."

"I know," he muttered hoarsely.

"You can barely stand."

"I'm standing right now."

"You're leaning like a seventy-year-old chain smoker."

That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, though it disappeared quickly beneath exhaustion. He rinsed the sink carefully afterward, watching diluted pink swirl down the drain before gripping the counter again when dizziness hit him too fast.

"Sit down, Lee."

"I'm fine."

"You almost folded in half."

Leon exhaled sharply through his nose before finally relenting, dragging himself toward one of the kitchen chairs with the slow stiffness of someone twice his age. The movement alone seemed to drain him. By the time he sat down, his breathing had already turned shallow again.

You'd watched this man sprint through collapsing streets with barely a second thought for his own survival. Now, climbing out of bed looked like it cost him something.

You slid a plate toward him anyway. "Eat."

Leon looked down at the toast like it had personally offended him. "You made enough for an army."

"You need protein."

"This isn't protein."

"You're lucky I didn't make eggs."

"You almost burned water last week."

"That happened once."

"It absolutely did not happen once."

Despite yourself, a small laugh escaped you. Leon's expression softened immediately at the sound. There it is, his eyes seemed to say.

It almost felt normal again. Then your hand started shaking. The knife slipped slightly against the countertop with a sharp metallic scrape. Leon noticed instantly. The warmth vanished from his expression so quickly it physically hurt to watch. You curled your fingers inward automatically, but it was too late.

"How bad?"

You hated how quietly he asked that now. Like every symptom had become another brick added carefully to the wall of terror building inside him.

"It's fine."

"That's not an answer."

You set the knife down carefully before your trembling hand could drop it entirely. "Just tired."

Leon stared at you across the kitchen table. The silence stretched long enough to become unbearable. Finally, he pushed himself upright despite obvious effort and crossed toward you slowly. The dark veins creeping beneath the skin of his arms stood out starkly beneath the weak kitchen light.

"You're pale," he murmured.

"So are you."

"You're shaking."

"You coughed blood into our sink thirty seconds ago."

For one brief moment, frustration flashed across his face before exhaustion swallowed it whole again. Leon rested both hands carefully against the counter on either side of you, head lowering slightly.

"I got a call last night," he said quietly.

Your stomach tightened instantly.

"A mission?"

Leon nodded once.

Something cold slipped beneath your ribs.

He hadn't mentioned work in weeks unless absolutely necessary. The government had already reduced his field involvement after his symptoms worsened, but "reduced" still meant they dragged him back whenever things became dangerous enough.

"When?"

"Tomorrow night."

You looked down immediately. Not because you wanted to avoid his eyes. Because you already knew what his expression would look like. Guilt. Fear. Determination sharp enough to cut himself open on.

"What kind of mission?"

Leon hesitated. That terrified you more than the answer probably would have.

"There's a lab in Raccoon City," he said carefully. "They think they found something."

Your heartbeat stumbled unevenly. "What kind of something?"

Leon's jaw tightened faintly before he answered. "A cure."

"You're really going back there?"

"I have to."

The entire apartment suddenly felt suspended in place around that single word. Cure. Not a treatment, not a symptom management, a real cure.

"You're sure?" you whispered.

"They think so."

That was the dangerous thing about hope after years without it. Even the smallest amount hit like a flood.

"There's a facility connected to the original research," he continued softly. "That's where they're sending me."

Of course they were sending him. Because whenever something impossible needed surviving, the government always handed it to Leon Kennedy like they'd forgotten he was human years ago.

The thought settled heavily into your chest. Leon watched your expression carefully, and suddenly you saw it. Beneath the exhaustion. Beneath the coughing and the dark veins and the constant fear. Hope. Real hope. You hadn't seen it in him for months. Maybe years.

"This could work," he said quietly.

The words sounded almost fragile coming from him. Leon rarely allowed himself optimism anymore unless he absolutely believed it.

You swallowed hard. "For you?"

"For me," he agreed.

Then his eyes met yours.

"And for you."

The ache that followed nearly split your chest open. Because suddenly you could see it happening too. The fever gone. The coughing stopping. Leon finally sleeping through the night without waking breathless and shaking beside you. A future that didn't end in hospital reports and autopsy photos.

Leon stepped closer carefully, one hand brushing against your wrist. "They only confirmed enough doses for Sherry and me," he admitted quietly. "But if this works..."

You frowned slightly. "Leon."

"I'll bring one back for you."

His voice carried absolute certainty. Not hope. Not maybe. Certainty.

Your eyes burned immediately. "You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can."

"You don't even know what you're walking into yet."

"I don't care."

The answer came sharp enough to cut. Leon's fingers tightened slightly around your wrist while exhaustion and desperation flickered openly across his face.

"I don't care what that place looks like," he said roughly. "I don't care how bad it gets. If there's a cure in that facility, I'm bringing one home for you."

The conviction in his voice hurt. Because this wasn't just another mission to him anymore. This was the first time in years Leon genuinely believed he could save someone he loved before it was too late.

You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against the darkened skin along his neck. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His voice softened then, cracking slightly beneath the weight of everything sitting between you. "When this is over," he murmured, "you're gonna get better."

By the time Leon's departure day arrived, the apartment had settled into the kind of quiet that made every sound feel important. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Rain slid steadily down the glass in silver trails, distorting the city lights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. Somewhere several floors below, a car horn echoed briefly through the wet streets before disappearing again. Everything beyond the apartment kept moving normally, while inside, time felt painfully suspended.

Leon was in the bedroom packing. Or pretending to. You stood in the kitchen doorway, watching him fold the same black long-sleeved shirt for the third time in less than ten minutes, before setting it back into the duffel bag with visible frustration. His movements lacked their usual sharp efficiency tonight. Exhaustion dragged heavily at him now, dulling the careful precision he normally carried before missions. The veins stretching along the backs of his hands looked darker beneath the lamplight. You hated how often you noticed things like that now.

Leon finally glanced up after sensing you watching him. "What?" he asked quietly.

A faint smile tugged weakly at your mouth despite everything. "You packed that shirt already."

His eyes flickered downward toward the bag before he exhaled softly through his nose. "Right."

The answer sounded distracted. Tired. You crossed the room slowly, your body protesting every step with deep aches spreading through your chest and limbs. The fever simmering beneath your skin hadn't broken in almost two days now. Even walking across the apartment left you slightly breathless, though you'd spent the entire evening pretending otherwise. Leon noticed immediately anyway. He always noticed.

The second you stopped beside him, his expression tightened faintly. "You're overdoing it again."

"I walked across one room."

"You got winded doing it."

You rolled your eyes softly, though the motion lacked any real energy behind it. "You say that like you're not coughing up pieces of your lungs every morning."

"That's different."

"How?"

Leon opened his mouth before immediately seeming to realize he didn't actually have an answer. A tired breath escaped him instead.

You smiled faintly. "Exactly."

For a moment, silence settled between you again. Rain tapped steadily against the windows. Leon looked at you then. Really looked at you. His eyes lingered too long. On the shadows beneath your eyes. On the exhaustion you couldn't fully hide anymore. On the slight tremor in your hands where they rested against the bedroom dresser. Something fragile flickered across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He was memorizing you. The realization hollowed your chest.

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, hands settling carefully against the front of his shirt. Beneath your palms, you could feel the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His lungs had sounded worse all week.

"You're scared," you murmured softly.

Leon laughed once under his breath, tired and humorless. "That obvious?"

"You reorganized your bag four times."

That finally pulled a real smile from him. Small. Exhausted. But real.

God, you loved him. Even now. Even with sickness hollowing both of you out from the inside. Even with fear sitting heavy between every conversation and every quiet glance. You loved him so much that it sometimes physically hurt.

Leon's hands settled carefully at your waist.

"You should rest before I leave," he murmured. "You look exhausted."

"So do you."

"Occupational hazard."

"You already used that line this week." A weak laugh escaped you before fading again almost immediately.

The reality of the evening settled heavily back over the room. Tomorrow, Leon would be gone. Tomorrow, you'd wake up alone in this apartment with your worsening symptoms and too much silence. The thought sat sharply beneath your ribs.

"You know," you said quietly, "I used to hate when you left for missions."

Leon's brow furrowed slightly. "Used to?"

"Well," you murmured, "now I really hate it."

The fragile composure he'd been holding together all evening cracked slightly around the edges. Suddenly, Leon looked less like a broody, hardened man preparing for deployment and more like a man trying very hard not to fall apart in front of the person he loved. He stepped closer until barely any space remained between you.

"I'll come back," he said softly.

You looked up at him carefully.

He believed that.

Not because he thought the mission would be easy. Not because he underestimated whatever nightmare waited for him out there.

Leon believed he'd come back because he'd attached your survival to the outcome.

He wasn't going after a cure for himself anymore.

He was going after you.

Your throat tightened painfully.

"You better," you whispered.

Leon's hands slid upward slowly until they cupped your face with aching gentleness. His palms felt warm despite the infection darkening beneath his skin.

"You wait for me," he murmured.

The words nearly undid you. Not because of what he said. Because of how desperately he said it. Like he was trying to bargain with fate itself.

Your eyes burned sharply. "Leon..."

"I mean it." His forehead rested carefully against yours while his breathing turned shallow again. "You wait for me, and I'll come home with that cure."

Emotion climbed painfully into your throat. You wanted to promise him. God, you wanted to. But deep inside, beneath all the fear and hope and denial, your body already knew something the rest of you was still trying not to face. You were getting worse too quickly.

So instead of answering, you reached for him. Leon kissed you immediately. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just heartbreakingly familiar. One of his hands cradled the side of your face while the other settled against your back, pulling you gently against him like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you. The kiss tasted faintly of coffee and exhaustion and everything that had always been uniquely Leon. You melted into him despite the ache spreading through your chest.

For a few precious seconds, the world outside the apartment disappeared entirely. No infections. No missions. No looming grief waiting just beyond the horizon. Just Leon. Just the steady warmth of his hands and the careful way he kissed you like something precious.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead remained resting against yours. His eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, like he was gathering strength simply from being near you. Slowly, he lifted his head enough to look at you again.

The exhaustion in his face nearly broke your heart open. Dark circles bruised beneath his eyes. The infection staining his neck had spread farther over the past month, curling beneath the pale skin in ugly, blackened veins. Even breathing looked exhausting now.

And still, he was leaving tomorrow to walk directly into another nightmare because somewhere at the end of it waited the possibility of saving you. The realization hurt so badly you could barely breathe around it.

You reached up carefully, brushing trembling fingers against the side of his face. Leon leaned into your touch immediately, like it was instinct.

"I love you," you whispered.

The words filled the room softly. You can see how terrified he is beneath all the determination. His hand covered yours against his cheek.

"I love you too," he said quietly. "More than anything."

Tears burned painfully behind your eyes now. Leon kissed your forehead gently before pulling you into his arms again, holding you so tightly it almost hurt. You could hear the uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his chest. Fast. Unsteady. Afraid.

Your arms wrapped around him carefully while exhaustion settled heavier and heavier into your bones. You wondered briefly if he could feel how weak you'd become. If he noticed how hard it had become for you to hold onto him for long periods now. If he realized you were memorizing him, too.

It's rained for a week straight. The night Leon left, it finally stopped...ironic, right?

Clouds still hung low over the city in heavy gray sheets, but weak sunlight filtered through the apartment windows for the first time in days, washing everything in pale gold that made the quiet feel almost unreal. Dust drifted lazily through the light near the couch. Somewhere outside, water dripped steadily from fire escapes and rooftops onto the streets below.

You stood near the kitchen counter wrapped in one of Leon's old sweatshirts while he checked his weapons at the dining table. The sweatshirt smelled like him. Laundry detergent. Cigarettes. Faint traces of gunpowder that never seemed to fully leave his clothes anymore.

You'd stolen it from the bedroom sometime during the night, after another fever woke you, shivering so hard your teeth hurt. Leon noticed immediately when he came out of the shower earlier, but all he'd done was stare at you for a long moment before quietly saying, "Keep it on."

Now he sat across the apartment, slotting magazines into place with practiced movements while tension coiled visibly beneath his skin. His jaw stayed tight. His shoulders tighten. Every few seconds, he looked at you. Checking. Always checking. You pretended not to notice.

The truth was, standing upright already exhausted you. Your chest felt heavy this morning. Breathing took conscious effort in a way it hadn't before. Even the short walk from the bedroom to the kitchen had left your pulse hammering unevenly beneath your ribs.

"You should sit down," he said without looking away from the pistol in his hands.

"I'm fine."

"You almost tripped over absolutely nothing ten minutes ago."

"There was a rug."

"There has been a rug there for three years." A weak laugh escaped you despite yourself.

Leon's expression softened instantly at the sound, and for one brief moment, he looked less exhausted. Less haunted.

God, you wished you could keep him here. The thought arrived suddenly and sharply enough to hurt. You could ask. You knew you could.

If you looked Leon Kennedy in the eyes right now and said don't go, he wouldn't. The government could burn down outside the apartment windows, and he'd still stay beside you.

And that terrified you. Because if he stayed, there would be no cure. Not for him. Not for Sherry. Not for anyone. So instead, you tightened your fingers around the sleeve hanging over your hands and swallowed the fear clawing up your throat.

Leon finally stood from the table, though the movement immediately triggered another coughing fit. He turned away sharply, coughing hard into his fist while his shoulders tensed beneath his jacket.

By the time it stopped, Leon's breathing had gone shallow again.

"Jesus," you whispered softly.

"I'm okay."

Blood spotted faintly across his knuckles. You both saw it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Leon grabbed a rag from the counter and wiped his hand clean before you could move toward him. The dark veins stretching beneath the skin of his wrist looked almost black now, curling beneath pale flesh like fractures spreading through glass.

Then he looked back at you, and immediately frowned. You realized too late that your hand had drifted against the counter to steady yourself.

Leon crossed the apartment instantly. "Hey."

"I'm fine."

"You're pale."

"So are you."

"You're shaking again."

"I've been shaking for weeks, Leon."

Leon stopped directly in front of you, both hands settling carefully at your waist like he was afraid you might collapse if he let go. The awful thing was, you weren't entirely sure you wouldn't.

"You should be in a hospital," he murmured quietly.

You managed a faint smile. "I work in one. Does that count?"

"It's not funny."

"I know."

The apartment fell silent again. Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown before fading into the distance. Leon stared at you for several long seconds, and suddenly, you could see it happening in real time. The hesitation. The instinct screaming at him not to leave you like this. Your chest tightened painfully.

So you reached for him first. Your hands slid carefully beneath the collar of his jacket before pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. Leon exhaled shakily the second you touched him.

"Go," you whispered softly.

His eyes closed immediately. "You don't mean that."

"You're the only one who might be able to save us... to save Sherry. We need you."

You leaned upward carefully and kissed him. Leon made a soft sound against your mouth that almost broke you apart right there. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling you firmly against his chest while he kissed you back like he was trying to memorize every second of it. Every touch. Every breath. Every tiny detail he could carry with him into whatever nightmare waited ahead.

You could feel how fast his heart was beating beneath his jacket. Afraid. Leon was afraid. Not of the mission. Of losing you.

When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved far apart.

"I'm coming home to you," he whispered against your forehead.

The words lodged painfully beneath your ribs.

You swallowed hard before forcing a small smile. "Then I guess I'll have to wait for you."

Leon looked at you like he wanted to believe that more than anything in the world.

Then his phone vibrated. The sound shattered the moment instantly. Duty. Always duty. Leon closed his eyes briefly before pulling the phone from his pocket. You watched the exact second his expression hardened back into something operational. Controlled. Professional. It hurt watching him put the armor back on.

"They're downstairs," he said quietly.

Your chest constricted. Already? Leon stared at you for another long moment before reaching up to brush his thumb carefully beneath your eye. You hadn't even realized tears had started slipping down your face.

"Hey," he murmured softly.

You laughed weakly through the emotion catching in your throat. "I'm trying really hard not to cry right now."

"You don't have to do that for me."

"Yes, I do." Your voice cracked slightly. "Because if I start, you might not leave."

The honesty of it hit both of you at once. Leon's composure visibly faltered. For one terrible second, you genuinely thought he might stay. Then he cupped your face carefully and kissed you one final time. Slow. Tender. Devastated.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your throat tightened painfully. "I love you too."

Leon rested his forehead against yours for one last second before finally stepping away. The distance felt immediate. Wrong. You watched him grab his bag from beside the table while every instinct in your body screamed at you to stop him. To tell him not to go. To beg him to stay here, where you could still touch him.

Instead, you stood frozen in the middle of the apartment while Leon reached the front door. His hand settled against the knob. Then he looked back. That was the moment that would haunt him later. You standing there in his sweatshirt with exhausted eyes and trembling hands trying so hard to smile for him despite how sick you looked. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him.

Leon stared for half a heartbeat too long before finally opening the door and disappearing into the hallway. Then the apartment went silent. Completely silent. The emptiness hit instantly. Your knees nearly gave out beneath you.

At first, traces of him still lingered everywhere strongly enough that you could almost pretend he'd only gone downstairs for cigarettes or coffee. His mug still sat beside the sink from that morning, a faint ring of coffee staining the bottom. His jacket remained hooked over the chair near the dining table because he'd changed into tactical gear at the last minute. Even the bathroom mirror still carried the faded ghost of steam from his shower.

But as the days stretched onward, the silence changed shape. It deepened. By evening on the fourth day, the apartment no longer felt temporarily empty. It felt abandoned.

You sat curled beneath a blanket on the couch wearing Leon's sweatshirt while weak blue light from the television flickered across the room. You hadn't actually been watching anything for nearly an hour. The sounds blurred together beneath the pounding in your head and the fever simmering painfully beneath your skin.

Your breathing sounded wrong tonight. Too shallow. Every inhale dragged sharply through your chest like your lungs had become lined with broken glass. You coughed into the blanket again. Blood stained the fabric. For a long moment, you simply stared at it, then quietly folded that section beneath itself so you wouldn't have to keep looking at it.

The rain had only stopped for a few days before it seemed constant again. Tonight was no different. You closed your eyes. Leon was in Racoon City, fighting his way through creatures, trying to find a cure. You wonder if he's thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him... probably.

You imagined him moving through dark hallways with a gun in his hands and exhaustion carved deep into his bones. You imagined the infection tearing through his body harder every time he pushed himself too far. You imagined him fighting anyway because that's what Leon always did. He kept going. EVen when he was breaking apart, especially when something important was on the line.

A shaky breath escaped you before another coughing fit hit hard enough to bend you forward painfully against the couch cushions. This one lasted longer. By the end of it, black spots danced across your vision.

"Jesus Christ," you whispered weakly once it stopped.

Your voice sounded small in the empty apartment. You tried standing and it turned out to be a mistake. Dizziness slammed into you so fast the room tilted violently sideways. Your knees buckled before you even fully understood what was happening, and suddenly you were gripping the edge of the coffee table hard enough your fingers hurt while your pulse thundered wildly beneath your skin.

It took nearly a full minute before the apartment stopped spinning. You stayed crouched there breathing unevenly while fear crawled coldly through your chest. It was getting bad... quickly. Somewhere deep down, beneath all the denial you'd been clinging to for Leon's sake, you finally understood the truth.

You weren't going to make it long enough. There was no dramatics or sudden panic. It was certainty settling softly into your bones. Your eyes burned painfully.

"No..." you whispered immediately.

You forced yourself upright again eventually, moving slowly toward the kitchen for water. Every step exhausted you now. By the time you reached the sink, your breathing had already gone ragged.

The glass slipped from your trembling fingers before you could even fill it properly. It shattered against the floor. The sound rang violently through the apartment. You stared at the broken pieces for several seconds before tears suddenly blurred your vision without warning.

Leon wasn't here. If Leon had been here, he would've immediately crossed the room toward you with that worried crease between his brows. He would've checked your hands for cuts before even looking at the floor. He would've told you to sit down while he cleaned the mess himself. The apartment felt enormous without him. Lonely in a way that physically hurt.

You slid slowly down against the kitchen cabinets before you could stop yourself, exhausted enough that the cold tile beneath you actually felt comforting against your feverish skin. And suddenly, all you wanted was to hear his voice.

Your hand shook badly while pulling your phone from the pocket of the sweatshirt. Three missed calls from Leon. Two unread messages.

Made it to the checkpoint. You awake?

An hour later.

Miss you already. Love you.

Your chest cracked painfully around the words. A sob climbed abruptly into your throat before you swallowed it back down hard. You couldn't do this to him. Not now. Not while he was fighting through hell trying to bring salvation home in his bare hands.

Your gaze drifted slowly toward the kitchen table. Toward the notebook resting beside the fruit bowl. And something inside you quietly gave way. The walk back to the couch took nearly everything you had left.

By the time you lowered yourself carefully onto the cushions again, your entire body trembled with exhaustion. Rain whispered steadily against the windows while the city lights outside blurred softly through the fever haze clouding your vision.

You pulled the notebook into your lap and opened to the first blank page. For several long moments, you just stared at the blank page, tears slipping silently down your face. It's not easy to write a love letter that's also a goodbye letter.

You sat for a long time before slowly, carefully, you began to write.

By the time Leon finally returned, dawn had started bleeding weak gray light across the city skyline. The apartment door unlocked roughly.

"Hey," Leon called breathlessly as he stepped inside. "Hey, sweetheart?"

His voice sounded different. Lighter. Hopeful. For the first time in years. He shut the door quickly behind himself while rainwater dripped steadily from his jacket onto the floorboards. His breathing sounded clearer now. Stronger. The dark veins once curling beneath the skin of his neck had faded significantly.

In his hand, clutched tightly enough to hurt, sat two glasses vials. He'd done it. He'd actually done it.

"I got it," he said breathlessly, already moving further into the apartment. "I got enough for both of you. You should've seen the shit I had to..."

Then he saw you and the words died instantly. Silence crashed through the apartment. Leon stopped moving completely. For one horrible second, his expression didn't change at all. His brain physically could not understand what it was seeing.

You sat curled against the corner of the couch beneath the blanket, still wearing his sweatshirt. One hand rested loosely in your lap. The television cast pale flickering light across your still face. Waiting for him. Just like you promised.

"No," Leon whispered.

The vials slipped from his fingers onto the carpet. He crossed the room instantly.

"Hey," he breathed shakily, dropping hard to his knees beside the couch. "Hey, hey..."

His hands reached for you frantically, cupping your face, your shoulders, anywhere he could touch like enough contact might somehow undo reality itself.

Your skin was cold. Leon made a sound then. A sob, a swallowed scream, something broken.

"No, no, no..." His voice cracked apart violently while he pulled you against his chest. "Please. Please don't do this to me."

His entire body shook around the words. The cure sat forgotten on the floor beside him. Too late. Too fucking late.

Leon pressed his forehead desperately against yours while tears spilled uncontrollably down his face. "I came back," he choked out. "You said you'd wait for me."

His shaking hand brushed against something on the coffee table. Your notebook sat open where you tore the pages out. Leon froze. For several seconds, he simply stared at your handwriting on the folded paper before realizing what it was. Then his breathing broke all over again. His hands trembled violently while opening it.

My dear Leon,

If you're reading this, then you came home. I always believed you would. I'm sorry you had to find me this way, Lee. I need you to know this isn't your fault. You didn't fail me. 

You've spent years carrying the weight of Raccoon City. It's carved into your bones, and I know you're already preparing to carry this too. So before anything else, I need you to listen to me one last time.

This isn't your fault. Not the city. Not the infection. Not this.

Loving you is the easiest thing I ever did. Even at the end, especially at the end. I know you probably came home carrying a cure for me. That thought hurts more than dying does. I know you fought for me. I know you pushed yourself too hard trying to reach me in time. I know you probably didn't sleep and ignored every injury because that's who you are.

I want you to know I fought too, I fought so fucking hard to stay awake until you came home. You gave me years I never should've had. After Raccoon City, I thought my life was over. Then somehow, impossibly, I got mornings with you. Movie nights on the couch. Burnt coffee and late-night takeout and listening to you complain every time I made you eat vegetables. I got to love you long enough to call you my husband. How special is that?

When you read this, I need you to do something impossibly hard for me. Live. Really live. Don't just survive missions and carry those ghosts until they bury you.

I need you to sleep in sometimes. I need you to laugh. I need you to stop apologizing for surviving.

Thanks for coming back for me. I loved you until the very end, and wherever I am now, I love you still. Always have and always will.

By the time Leon reached the final line, he could barely see through the force of his own tears. A shattered sound escaped him as he folded forward against your shoulder, clutching the letter so tightly it crumpled in his hands. Then, still sobbing hard enough to shake, Leon pulled you closer against his chest and held you there like love alone might somehow still be enough to keep you warm.

Leon didn't know how long he stayed there holding you. Time stopped making sense almost immediately after he realized you were gone. The apartment had gone completely still around him. Morning light slowly crept across the floorboards in pale gray stripes while rainwater continued dripping softly from the hem of his jacket onto the carpet below. Somewhere nearby, the television kept talking in cheerful voices that sounded grotesque against the sound of Leon trying not to break apart.

Your body rested against his chest beneath the blanket, cold even through the sweatshirt you'd stolen from him days ago. Leon couldn't stop touching you. His hands kept moving without thinking, trembling fingers brushing through your hair, cradling your face, rubbing warmth uselessly back into your hands like if he just tried hard enough, your skin would stop feeling so cold beneath his own.

"I'm here now," he whispered hoarsely.

The words dissolved into another shaky breath. His chest no longer hurt when he breathed. That realization arrived suddenly and violently. Leon froze again.

No pressure in his lungs. No cough clawing up his throat. No burning weakness curling through his ribs every time he inhaled. The infection was gone because he was cured. And somehow that made everything worse. Because now he gets to live his normal life, and you're not here to do it with him. He survived. Sherry would survive. You should have too.

A broken sound escaped him before he folded forward against your shoulder again, clutching you tighter while grief tore violently through him. "No," he choked out. "No, no, no..."

His eyes drifted blindly across the apartment through tears he could no longer control. That was when he started noticing things. The blanket wrapped tightly around you despite how warm the apartment felt. A cup of tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. Tissues overflowing in the trash can beside the couch. Dark red staining several of them.

His stomach twisted violently. "No..."

His gazed landed on the kitchen. Broken glass still littered the floor near the sink. Had you fallen? Had you been too weak to hold up the glass? His breathing turned ragged again quickly.

Leon could suddenly picture it perfectly. Your trembling hands. Your fever. You trying to get water alone because he wasn't here to help you. Because he'd left you here.

His eyes darted frantically around the apartment now like every detail had become another wound opening inside his chest. Your medicine bottles remained untouched on the counter. One of the couch cushions had been dragged slightly crooked, like you'd struggled to get comfortable.

He noticed your phone, still resting beside you beneath the blanket. He grabbed it with shaking hands. It was open on the messages he sent you earlier.

"Oh, God..." His voice broke apart again completely.

You'd read them. You had to have read them. Which meant you'd been alive then. Alive and alone and getting worse while he crawled through hell believing he still had time.

Leon pressed a shaking hand hard over his mouth as sobs tore uncontrollably from his chest now. He buried his face briefly against the top of your head while guilt ripped through him with surgical precision.

"I would've come home," he choked out. "You should've called me. I would've come back."

But even while saying it, he knew you wouldn't have done that to him. Because you knew exactly who he was. You knew if he thought you were dying, he would've abandoned the mission without hesitation. And then nobody would've been saved. Even at the end, you'd still been protecting him.

He reread the letter again. And then again, and again, and again. By the fifth time, the paper had become damp and wrinkled from his shaking hands. 

Loving you was the easiest thing I ever did.

Leon squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to ache. "I loved you too," he whispered brokenly into the silence. "Jesus Christ, I loved you so fucking much."

His phone started vibrating somewhere nearby. Leon ignored it. Then it rang again. And again. Eventually, another sound joined it. Knocking. Hard and urgent against the apartment door. Leon barely reacted.

"Leon!" Sherry yelled from outside.

The sound of her voice cut faintly through the fog swallowing him whole. Another knock.

"Leon, open the door!"

He didn't remember standing. He only remembered the unbearable emptiness that hit the second he carefully lowered your body back against the couch cushions. Like some vital piece of himself had physically separated from him the moment he let go.

The walk to the door felt unreal. He opened the door looking less like the government agent he was trained to be and more like the hollow shell of the man he once was.

Sherry's expression changed instantly the second she saw him. Relief vanished when she saw his face. Then confusion washed over. Then fear.

"Leon, what happened? They said you stopped responding after debrief and I..." Her voice trailed off the moment she looked past him into the apartment, where she saw you on the couch, unmoving.

"Oh my god."

Leon couldn't speak. He tried, but nothing came out except a shattered breath. Sherry's eyes immediately filled with tears as she stepped slowly into the apartment. She understood instantly. Of course she did.

She saw the cure vials abandoned on the carpet. She saw your body curled beneath the blanket. She saw the letter crumpled tightly in Leon's shaking hand. And because Sherry Birkin knew grief intimately, she didn't fill the room with useless condolences. Instead, she walked quietly toward Leon and wrapped her arms around him.

"I was too late," he whispered hoarsely.

Sherry held him tighter.

"No," Leon choked out immediately after, like correcting her before she'd even spoken. "I had it. I actually had it."

Sherry started crying then too. Leon pressed the heel of his hand hard against his eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway. Endless. Exhausted. Years of horror finally collapsing inward all at once.

Behind them, the apartment sat painfully unchanged. The television still flickered softly. Rain still tapped against the windows. Your tea still sat untouched on the table. The world kept moving with unbearable indifference.

Hours later, people finally arrived. Voices filled the apartment in low careful murmurs. Medical personnel. Government contacts. Procedures that needed to be preformed. Leon hated every second of it. They spoke too softly around him. Looked at him too carefully.

When they finally approached the couch, Leon's expression hardened instantly.

"No."

One of the responders hesitated gently. "Agent Kennedy..."

"No." His voice cracked sharply. "I'll carry her."

Nobody argued after that. Leon crossed the apartment slowly before kneeling beside the couch one final time. His hands shook while brushing hair carefully back from your face. You looked peaceful. That almost destroyed him all over again.

For one terrible moment, Leon remembered kissing you goodbye in this exact apartment only days earlier. I'm coming home to you. The memory hollowed him out.

"I'm sorry," he whispered shakily.

Then, with unbearable gentleness, Leon slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully against his chest. The apartment blurred around him afterward. The elevator. The rain outside. People speaking softly nearby. None of it felt real. The only thing Leon truly registered was how light you felt in his arms. Much too light.

By the time he returned to the apartment alone later that night, silence had fully settled into every room. The couch sat empty now. The blanket folded neatly over one armrest. Your tea cup now in the kitchen. The glass in the trash. Leon stood motionless in the doorway for a long time before slowly crossing the apartment toward the couch. Then he sat down exactly where he'd found you that morning. Your letter, once again, clutched tightly in his hands. 

Nearby, the cure that had saved his life rested untouched on the table. Sherry took hers home. And now Leon was alive. Cured. And completely fucking alone.

"Hey."

You startled slightly, looking up to find him leaning against the edge of your desk like he belonged there. Like he always had.

Leon.

He offered you a small, familiar smile, softer than anything else in the room, and just like that, the noise dulled. It always did with him. He had a way of grounding you without even trying, like the world tilted a little less when he was nearby.

"You've been staring at that same line for, like, five minutes," he said, nodding toward your report. "You trying to intimidate it into finishing itself?"

You huffed quietly, glancing down before looking back up at him. "Maybe it deserves it."

"Yeah?" he teased. "What did it do to you?"

You hesitated, then shrugged lightly. "It knows what it did."

That earned you a soft laugh, the kind that didn't draw attention but still felt like it filled the space between you. He always did that, met you exactly where you were without making it feel like effort.

"C'mon," he added, lowering his voice just slightly. "You used to write whole pages faster than this."

You blinked at him. "Used to?"

"Yeah," he said easily. "Back when you weren't afraid of your own pen."

You nudged his arm lightly with yours, a small, instinctive protest. "I was never afraid."

"Please," he said, grinning now. "You used to make me read your stories out loud because you were too shy to do it yourself."

Your face warmed immediately. "You promised never to bring that up again."

"You promised you'd stop hiding behind me in class... You never did," he shot back.

"I did not hide behind you."

"You literally used me as a human shield during presentations."

"That was one time."

"It was every time."

Despite yourself, a quiet laugh slipped out, and for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed. Not the years, not the city, not the weight both of you carried now. Just you and Leon, trading the same easy back-and-forth you always had, like no time had passed at all.

The words slipped between you, casual, teasing, but they lingered a second too long. Your gaze dropped again, and Leon's smile softened, just a fraction, like he realized he'd stepped close to something real and didn't know how to walk it back.

Before either of you could say anything else, a different voice cut in. "Hey, mind if I borrow you for a second?"

You looked up again, shoulders instinctively drawing in as someone else stepped into your space. He was friendly enough, always had been. Easygoing. The kind of person who filled silence without asking permission. It made you nervous in a way you couldn't quite explain.

"Oh, uh—sure," you said, your voice quieter now, a reflex.

Leon straightened almost imperceptibly beside you.

"I just wanted to ask," the coworker continued, smiling at you in a way that felt a little too direct, "there's this place downtown, nothing fancy, but I figured maybe you'd want to come with me sometime?"

Your fingers tightened slightly around your pen.

"Oh. I—"

You hesitated and looked, just for a second, toward Leon. He was already looking at you, not smiling anymore. The ease had left his expression, replaced with something more difficult to read, something still and watchful. There was no interruption, no joke, no easy redirection the way there usually was. He simply looked at you, waiting in a silence that felt heavier than anything he could have said.

Your heart stumbled over itself because part of you had been waiting for that interruption, for him to step in, to say something that mattered in a way all his teasing never quite did. You had been waiting for him longer than you wanted to admit, holding onto something fragile and uncertain because you didn't know how to let it go.

But he said nothing. And the silence stretched just long enough to make the answer for you.

You turned back, forcing a small, polite smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, and agreed before you could stop yourself, the word leaving your mouth with a quiet finality that felt heavier than it should have. The moment it landed, something shifted in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like a thread had been pulled too tight and finally snapped.

Leon didn't say anything. When you risked a glance at him, he had already stepped back, his expression closed off in a way you had never seen directed at you before. He excused himself quickly, voice neutral, and then he was gone, leaving behind a space that felt noticeably colder without him in it.

The rest of the day unfolded in a strange, muted haze. You became acutely aware of his absence in a way that made everything else feel off-balance, like a rhythm had been disrupted and refused to settle back into place. He didn't come back to your desk, didn't linger nearby, didn't offer you those small, grounding moments you had come to rely on without realizing it. When you tried to catch his attention later, he brushed past you with a quick excuse, not unkind but distant enough to leave something hollow in its wake.

By the second day, the distance had hardened into something undeniable. It wasn't loud or dramatic, but it was constant, a quiet absence that followed you through the station no matter where you went. You caught him looking at you once or twice, but the moment your eyes met, he looked away like he had no right to be there, like the space between you had become something he didn't know how to cross anymore. It was too much. 

You found him in one of the quieter hallways, the noise of the station dulled behind thick walls and distance, leaving the space between you filled with something far more fragile. He paused when you called his name, but there was a hesitation in the way he turned, like he already knew what this was and didn't want to face it.

You frowned immediately. "Can you not do that?"

"Do what?"

"This," you said, gesturing between you. "Whatever this is. You're avoiding me."

"I'm not."

"Leon."

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "You said yes."

Your breath caught. "To what?"

"To that date with Brad," he said, his voice tightening.

You stared at him, confusion flickering into something softer, more fragile. "...Why do you care?"

The question landed harder than you meant it to. He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Wow. Okay."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means—" He stopped, pacing a step before turning back to you, frustration bleeding through now. "What do you want me to say? That I'm happy for you? That I don't care?"

"Leon, I didn't say that—"

"I've been right here," he cut in, his voice rising despite himself. "This whole time. And you still said yes to him."

Your heart pounded. "What are you talking about?"

He froze, like the words had slipped out before he could catch them. "I didn't think I had to spell it out," he muttered.

"Spell what out?" you pressed, stepping closer.

His gaze flickered, uncertainty breaking through the frustration. For a second, it looked like he might shut down, retreat back into something safer. He didn't.

"I've liked you," he said, the words rough and unpolished. "Since we were kids."

Leon swallowed, his voice dropping, quieter now but heavier. "Since you used to hide behind me on the playground because you thought everyone was staring at you. Since you'd hand me your notebook and make me read your stories because you were too nervous to do it yourself. I just—" He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "I thought you knew."

Your chest tightened painfully. "I didn't."

"I didn't want to ruin what we had," he admitted. "You're... you've always been my best friend. I didn't want to lose that."

You took another step closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "I thought you didn't feel that way about me. You never said anything. You just stayed the same."

"I know," he said quickly. "I know. That's on me."

The honesty in his voice left no room to hide.

"I said yes because I thought you were never going to ask," you confessed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I thought I made it up. All of this."

His head lifted sharply. "You didn't."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" you asked, your voice trembling now. "Why did you just let it sit there?"

"Because I was scared," he said, just as quickly. "Because if I said it out loud and you didn't feel the same, I'd lose you. And I couldn't..." He stopped, his voice catching slightly. "I couldn't handle that."

The space between you felt impossibly small now, charged with everything that had been building for years. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw it all there. Every unspoken moment. Every almost. Every missed chance.

"I didn't say yes because I wanted him," you said softly.

Leon's brows pulled together. "Then why?"

"Because I was tired of waiting for you."

You saw it in the way his expression shifted, something heavy settling in.

"Are you still going?" he asked after a moment, his voice quieter now, more careful.

You held his gaze, and then you shook your head. "No."

The relief that crossed his face was immediate, unguarded in a way that made your chest ache.

"Okay," he breathed.

Then, after a second, he let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. "God, we're idiots."

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. We really are."

He looked at you then, something softer settling in his expression, something steady.

"Hey," he said, more gently this time. "Can I... try again? But, you know. Not mess it up this time?"

Your heart fluttered, something warm and fragile blooming in your chest.

"I'd like that," you admitted.

The shift felt almost unreal at first, like the world had tilted just slightly off its axis and hadn't quite settled yet. The station still sounded the same, still moved the same, still pressed in around you with all its usual noise and urgency, but something between you and Leon had changed in a way that made everything else feel distant. It wasn't loud or obvious. It lived in smaller things. The way his shoulder brushed yours when he passed. The way his eyes lingered a second longer than before. The way neither of you seemed to know what to do with your hands when you were standing too close and suddenly very aware of it.

He found you near the end of your shift, hovering at the edge of your desk like he had earlier, except this time there was a different kind of tension in the way he stood there, like he'd rehearsed something in his head and was now trying not to forget it.

"Hey," he said, softer than usual.

You looked up and immediately felt that same flutter in your chest you hadn't quite gotten used to yet. "Hey."

He shifted his weight, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting your eyes again. "So... I meant what I said earlier."

You tilted your head slightly. "About being an idiot?"

A faint grin broke through, quick and familiar. "Okay, yeah, that too. But I meant about trying again."

Your fingers curled slightly against the edge of your desk. "You mean..."

"I mean," he said, taking a small step closer, cheeks red, "I want to take you out. On an actual date. Not whatever we've been doing for the past ten years."

That pulled a quiet laugh from you, soft and a little disbelieving. "We've had a lot of unofficial almost-dates."

"Yeah," he said, huffing lightly. "And I managed to mess up every single one by not realizing they were dates."

"You really did."

"Hey," he protested gently, though there was no real heat behind it. "I'm learning."

You studied him for a moment, the nerves still there but softer now, threaded through with something warmer. "Okay."

"Okay?" he echoed, like he needed to hear it again.

"Okay," you repeated, a little more certain this time.

The relief that crossed his face was immediate, and it did something to your chest you couldn't quite put into words.

"Good," he said, exhaling a breath he'd probably been holding all day. "Good. Uh... tonight?"

Your brows lifted slightly. "Tonight?"

"I mean, unless you want more time to mentally prepare yourself for my incredible charm."

You smiled, shaking your head faintly. "I think I've had years to prepare for that."

"Wow," he said. "And you still said yes? That's brave."

"Or questionable judgment."

"Hey."

You laughed again, quieter this time, and nodded. "Tonight is fine."

The air outside felt different from the station, cooler, quieter, like the city had softened around the edges once the doors closed behind you. Leon walked beside you, close but not quite touching, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he wasn't entirely sure what to do with them otherwise. It was strange to see him like this, nervous and careful. This was the same person who had stood between you and every uncomfortable moment growing up without hesitation, who had always filled space so easily when you couldn't. Now he kept glancing at you like you might disappear if he looked away for too long.

"So," he said after a minute, clearing his throat slightly. "Just to confirm. This is a date, right?"

You glanced at him, amused. "Leon."

"I'm serious," he insisted. "I need verbal confirmation. I've made this mistake before."

"You really have."

"Hey, I admitted that already."

You smiled softly, then nodded. "Yes. This is a date."

"Okay," he said, like he was committing it to memory. "Good. Just checking."

The restaurant he picked wasn't anything extravagant, but it was warm and quiet, tucked away just enough from the busier streets to feel a little more private. The lighting was soft, the kind that made everything feel calmer, and you immediately felt some of the lingering tension ease from your shoulders as you stepped inside.

"This is nice," you smiled up at him.

"I remembered you hate places that are too loud," he said, a little sheepish. "Figured this was safer."

Your chest tightened in the best way. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," he said, like it was obvious. It was, you supposed.

You slid into your seat, watching him as he sat across from you, the table between you feeling smaller than it should have. There was a moment where neither of you spoke, both of you adjusting to this new version of something that had always existed.

Then Leon leaned back slightly, exhaling. "Okay. I have to say this, or it's going to drive me crazy."

You blinked. "What?"

"This is weird," he admitted. "Not bad, weird. Just different."

You let out a small breath of laughter. "Yeah. It is."

"I mean, I've eaten with you a hundred times," he continued, gesturing lightly. "But now I'm suddenly aware of everything. Like—" He stopped himself, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know where to look."

Your smile softened, something fond settling in your chest. "You can look at me. That's usually a good place to start."

He huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. "Right. Yeah. That makes sense."

There was a pause, quieter this time, but not uncomfortable.

"Hey," he said after a moment, his voice gentler now. "You know you can still tell me if this gets to be too much, right? I don't want you feeling like you have to... I don't know. Keep up with something you're not comfortable with."

The concern in his voice was familiar. It had always been there, woven into everything he did for you, even before either of you knew what it meant.

"I know," you said softly. "But I think we both want this. Right?."

He studied you for a second, like he was making sure you meant it, then nodded. "Yeah," he said.

The conversation came easier after that, slipping into something that felt like you, just with a new undercurrent neither of you could ignore. You talked about work, about things that didn't matter, about things that did. He teased you, you pushed back in your quieter way, and somewhere along the line, the nerves softened into something warmer, something steadier.

At one point, he reached across the table without thinking, brushing his fingers lightly against yours as he emphasized something he was saying. Both of you froze.

His eyes flicked down, then back to your face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Lee, we're on a date right now." You said quickly. "Holding hands is okay."

The contact was light, barely there, but it felt like everything had narrowed down to that single point, like the rest of the world had faded into the background. Your heart picked up, steady and insistent, and you wondered if he could feel it through the small space between your fingers. He shifted slightly, just enough to let his hand rest more comfortably against yours instead of pulling away.

"Is this okay?" he asked quietly.

"Of course."

The walk back felt softer than the one before, like the world had taken a step back to give you both room to exist in whatever this was becoming. The night air carried a light chill, brushing against your skin without biting, and the city had quieted into something gentler, the sharp edges of the day worn down into distant sounds and dim streetlights. Leon stayed close at your side, not quite touching at first, but near enough that you could feel the warmth of him there, steady and grounding.

For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn't awkward. You just existed together this way. A quiet stretch of time where everything that needed to be said had already settled, and anything more would've felt like overfilling something already complete.

Then Leon glanced at you, his expression thoughtful in a way that made your chest tighten just a little.

"So," he said, his voice low, almost careful, "on a scale from 'total disaster' to 'surprisingly not terrible,' how'd I do?"

You looked at him, a small smile forming before you could stop it. "You want honesty?"

"Always."

You pretended to think about it, letting the silence stretch just enough to make him nervous. You could see it in the way his shoulders tensed slightly, the way his gaze flickered away and then back again.

"Best date I've been on."

He let out a quiet breath, relief softening his features. "I thought so too."

He looked over at you like he was trying to understand what that meant coming from you, like it mattered more than you probably intended it to. The silence returned, but it felt different now, charged with something quiet and growing.

As you reached the sidewalk outside your place, you slowed, your steps coming to a stop a little too soon. Leon noticed immediately, halting beside you, his posture shifting slightly like he wasn't sure what came next.

"Well," he said, glancing up at your door and then back at you. "This is... You know. The part where I try not to mess it up again."

A small laugh slipped out of you, softer this time. "You're very concerned about messing this up."

"Can you blame me?" he asked, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I've got a pretty bad track record."

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. "You're doing okay so far."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good," he said quietly.

Another pause settled between you, but this one felt heavier, like it was leading somewhere neither of you wanted to rush but couldn't quite avoid either. Leon shifted his weight, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides before one of them lifted slightly, like he was about to reach for you and then thought better of it.

"I had a really good time," he said after a moment, his voice softer now, more honest than anything he'd said all night.

Your chest tightened at the sincerity in it. "Me too."

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before flicking back up, quick and almost uncertain, like he hadn't meant for you to catch it. But you did. And suddenly, the air felt different, thicker.

Your heart picked up, the steady rhythm from earlier turning into something a little more erratic, a little more aware. You could feel the space between you now in a way you hadn't before, how small it was, how easily it could disappear. Leon noticed the shift. You saw it in the way his breath hitched slightly, the way his shoulders tensed, and then forced themselves to relax.

"Can I—" he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair in a gesture that felt almost boyish. "Sorry. I don't want to assume anything."

You swallowed, your voice quieter when you answered. "You can ask."

His gaze met yours again, steadier this time, even if the nerves hadn't completely faded.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

Your heart fluttered, something warm and fragile blooming in your chest as you nodded, the movement small but certain. "Yeah."

The word barely had time to settle before he stepped closer, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted to, careful in a way that made your chest ache. His hand hovered near your waist for a second before resting there lightly, like he was still asking permission even now.

The kiss was soft, like most first kisses tend to be. His lips were warm and smooth. It felt like something that had been building for years, finally finding its place, like a question that had lingered too long, finally being answered. His hand tightened just slightly at your side, and you felt yourself lean into him without thinking, your fingers brushing lightly against the front of his jacket as you steadied yourself in the moment.

When he pulled back, it was slow, like he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to let go yet. His forehead hovered close to yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"Okay," he murmured, almost to himself.

A quiet laugh escaped you, breathless and soft. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he said, a faint, disbelieving smile forming. "That was definitely not a disaster."

You smiled, something shy but real. "I'd rank it higher than 'not terrible.'"

"Wow," he said. "High praise."

You hesitated for a second, then added, a little more quietly, "I'd do it again."

He raised his eyebrows like he was surprised. 

"Yeah?" he asked, something hopeful breaking through in his voice.

"Yeah."

He let out a soft breath, something like relief and something like excitement mixing together in a way that made his smile linger.

"Good," he said. "Because I was kind of hoping this could be... You know. A regular thing."

You glanced at him, warmth settling deep in your chest now, steady and certain in a way it hadn't been before. "I'd like that," you said.

He nodded, like he was committing it to memory, like this was something he wasn't going to take for granted again.

"Okay," he repeated.

"Are you coming in?" you ask, gesturing toward the door.

Leon blinked, like the words hadn't processed the first time correctly. "Come in?"

"Yeah," you said, your voice softer now, a little more uncertain under his sudden attention. "You don't have to, I just—"

"No, I do," he said quickly, then paused, running a hand through his hair as if trying to gather his thoughts. "I mean—yeah. If you're sure."

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. "You've been to my place before."

"Yeah," he said, nodding, but there was something different in the way he said it now, something more careful. "I just haven't been to your place like this."

That made your breath catch just slightly. "Oh."

"Yeah," he added, letting out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. "This feels like a whole new level I didn't prepare for."

A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "You don't need to prepare."

"That's easy for you to say," he muttered, though there was no real complaint in it. Just nerves. Real ones.

You turned toward the door, pulling your keys from your pocket, aware of him just behind you now in a way that felt different from every other time he'd walked you home. The soft jingle of metal felt louder than it should have as you unlocked it, the familiar click echoing in the quiet space between you.

When you pushed the door open and stepped inside, you hesitated just a second before glancing back at him.

Leon stood in the doorway like it might be unfamiliar territory, even though it wasn't. His gaze flicked past you, taking in the space he'd already seen a dozen times before, but this time there was something hesitant in the way he stood there, like he wasn't entirely sure he had the right to step into it.

"You coming?" you asked gently.

He let out a breath, almost like he'd been holding it.

"Yeah," he said, stepping forward.

The door clicked shut behind him, softer this time, sealing the two of you into a space that suddenly felt smaller, quieter, more intimate than it ever had before.

Leon shifted slightly, his hands hovering at his sides again, that same uncertainty creeping back in now that there were no distractions left, no distance to hide behind. He glanced at you, then away, then back again, like he didn't quite know where to settle his focus.

"This is weird," he admitted, a little breathless.

You leaned lightly against the door, watching him with something warm and fond settling in your chest. "Weird bad?"

He shook his head immediately. "Oh, god... no. Just new." 

"Yeah," you said softly. "It is."

There was a pause, quieter than any before, but not uncomfortable. Just full. Full of everything that had changed and everything that hadn't. Leon looked at you again, really looked this time, like he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that this was real, that you were here, that he was here, that something had finally shifted after all this time.

"...Hi," he said, a little sheepish, like he didn't know what else to say.

"Hi, Lee." A soft laugh escaped you, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. He smiled a little at that, the nervous edge softening just enough for something more familiar to peek through.

"You can sit, you know," you added, gesturing lightly toward the couch. "You don't have to stand there like you're waiting for instructions."

"Right. Yeah. Sitting. I can do that."

He moved, a little awkward at first, like he was overthinking every step, before lowering himself onto the couch. The cushions dipped under his weight, familiar and unchanged, and for a second, it almost looked like he might relax completely.

Then he glanced up at you again, and the tension slipped back in, quieter this time but still there. You pushed yourself off the door and crossed the room, the distance between you closing in a way that felt more intentional now. When you sat beside him, it wasn't tentative the way it might have been before. It was closer. Easier. Your shoulder brushed his, and neither of you pulled away.

"That bad?" you asked gently.

He huffed out a small breath, shaking his head. "No. I just don't want to mess this up."

"You keep saying that," you murmured.

"Because I mean it," he said, glancing at you, something earnest and unguarded settling into his expression. "You matter too much to me to get this wrong."

The words landed softly, but they carried weight. You studied him for a moment, then reached out without thinking, your hand finding his where it rested against his knee. His fingers stilled under yours, like he hadn't expected the contact, before slowly turning to lace with yours, careful but certain.

"You're not messing it up," you said quietly. "You showed up. You told me the truth. You asked instead of assuming." Your thumb brushed lightly against his hand. "That's already more than enough."

"Okay," he said, softer now.

The tension eased after that, not all at once, but enough that the space between you felt natural again. Not the same as before, not quite, but better. Like something had grown instead of broken. You talked for a while, about nothing and everything, your voices low, the kind of conversation that didn't need structure because it had always existed between you.

At some point, without either of you really noticing when it happened, Leon leaned back into the couch a little more, his shoulder pressing more firmly against yours. Your head tilted just slightly toward him, resting there without hesitation. The contact felt easy, steady, like it had always been waiting for you to stop overthinking it.

"Hey," he said after a while, his voice quieter now.

"Yeah?"

"I think this is my favorite version of us."

Your chest tightened, warmth spreading slowly through you. "Mine too."

He shifted just enough to look at you, his expression softer than you'd ever seen it, free of the hesitation that had followed him for so long. There was still something careful in the way he held himself with you, but it wasn't fear anymore. It was intention.

"I'm not going to wait this time," he said. "If I feel something, I'm saying it."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Good."

"Good," he echoed, a faint smile of his own forming.

There was no rush after that. No pressure to turn the moment into something bigger than it needed to be. You stayed there, side by side, hands still loosely intertwined, the quiet settling back in around you like something warm instead of empty. And for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like you were standing on the edge of something uncertain, waiting for it to fall apart or slip through your fingers. It felt like you had finally arrived somewhere you were always meant to be.

-----

There's a quiet kind of anticipation sitting in his chest, steady and familiar. You'll probably be asleep by now, or pretending to be, maybe upset because he didn't text you.

He can already picture it, the faint glow of the lamp, the way you'd shift when he walked in, like you always knew it was him even before he said a word. Maybe you'd mumble something about how late it is, voice thick with sleep, but your arms would still find him anyway. That part never changed, even if you were upset.

Leon exhales, long and slow. He's tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes in a single night, but the kind that lingers in the muscles, in the back of the mind, in the quiet spaces between thoughts. The mission hadn't been catastrophic, nothing that would make headlines or stick with him for years, but it had been enough. Enough to leave his shoulders tight, his reflexes still a fraction too sharp, his awareness just slightly out of step with the calm around him. It takes time for that to fade. It always does.

But you help. Just being near you does something he can't name. Like his body remembers how to stand down, how to unclench, how to exist without scanning every shadow for movement. It's a rare thing; he doesn't take it for granted.

The houses sit quietly, windows dark, the world settled into that deep, unmoving stillness that only comes in the middle of the night. No movement, no noise, just the low hum of distant electricity and the soft crunch of tires against pavement.

Leon slows as he pulls into the driveway, engine idling for a second longer than necessary. The engine clicks as it cools, metal ticking softly in the quiet. His gaze drifts to the front door. Something in his chest tightens. The porch lights are off. He knows you better than that. You'd never shut the porch lights off before he's home.

He lingers for a moment longer than necessary, fingers still resting on the wheel, that feeling brushing again at the edges of his awareness. It would be easy to dismiss it, to chalk it up to fatigue or the remnants of adrenaline that haven't quite settled yet. That happens sometimes. The body takes longer than the mind to understand that it's safe.

"Get a grip," he mutters under his breath, voice low and rough in the confined space of the car.

The night air is cool when he steps out, sharp enough to cut through the lingering haze in his head. It grounds him, brings everything back into focus as he shuts the door and starts toward the house. The walk is short and familiar, each step guided by routine more than by conscious thought. He's done this hundreds of times, returning from missions at odd hours, slipping back into a life that exists in the spaces between everything else.

His keys slide easily into the lock. The mechanism turns with a soft, familiar click. The door opens, and something shifts. It isn't immediate, not something loud or obvious. There's no sign of forced entry, no overturned furniture, no visible disruption waiting to greet him. At a glance, everything is as it should be. The entryway is intact, your shoes still near the door, your jacket hanging in its usual place. The house looks lived in, normal, untouched.

Leon pauses just inside the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the door as it swings closed behind him. The silence presses in, thicker than it should be, carrying a weight he can't immediately explain. It isn't just quiet, it's still, the kind of stillness that feels unnatural in a space that's usually shared. His gaze moves automatically, sweeping the room with quiet precision. Every detail registers. Every shadow is accounted for. He doesn't think about it. He never has to.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice steady but low, carrying just enough to reach the next room. "I'm home."

The words settle into the silence and go unanswered. That, on its own, isn't unusual. You could be asleep, the house wrapped in the kind of quiet that comes with it. It wouldn't be the first time he's come back late enough to find you already resting, the world reduced to soft breathing and dim light.

Leon steps further inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seems louder than it should. The sound echoes faintly, swallowed quickly by the stillness. He shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair without looking, his attention already shifting past the entryway and into the rest of the house.

The living room is undisturbed. The couch sits as it always does, a blanket folded neatly over the arm, the pillows on either cushion are perfectly shaped in the corners, and the remote rests in its usual place on the table next to your book.

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly as he moves past, his focus narrowing toward the kitchen. There's a light on. It's a small detail, the kind most people wouldn't think twice about, but it stands out to him. You don't leave lights on when you go to bed. You never have. It's a habit, one of those small, consistent things that become part of a person without them realizing it.

Leon slows as he approaches, his steps quieter now, more deliberate. "You still up?" he calls again, softer this time, the words carrying less distance.

No answer.

He crosses the threshold into the kitchen and stops. At first, it doesn't fully register. His gaze catches on the shape, the disruption in the otherwise clean lines of the room, but his mind takes a fraction of a second longer to process what he's seeing.

A mug lies shattered on the floor. The pieces are scattered unevenly, some larger, some reduced to sharp fragments that catch the light at odd angles. A dark stain spreads beneath them, long since dried, its edges faintly dull against the tile. It's been there for a while.

Leon doesn't move. His attention fixes on it, sharp and unblinking, his mind beginning to assemble the details whether he wants it to or not. The position. The spread. The way the pieces fell. You dropped the mug. You didn't set it down or knock it over. You dropped it. His mind is already working, already assembling the sequence of events in the only way it knows how, reconstructing motion from stillness, cause from aftermath.

His gaze shifts, slow and deliberate, tracing the subtle disruption in the room. The chair. The scuff along the floor. The angle of it was just slightly off, like it had been forced back rather than pulled. There's no sign of a prolonged struggle, nothing overturned, nothing chaotic. Whatever happened here was quick. His realization settles somewhere deep, heavy, and unwelcome.

Leon exhales quietly, the sound barely audible, and steps further into the kitchen. His boots avoid the larger shards without thought, his path instinctively careful as his attention moves beyond the obvious, searching for what doesn't immediately stand out. That's where the truth usually hides.

His fingers brush lightly along the edge of the counter as he passes, grounding, steadying, before his gaze catches on something near the sink. At first, it doesn't register as anything unusual. Just another piece of the kitchen, another detail in a space he knows well enough to navigate in the dark. But something about it holds his attention a second longer than it should.

Leon steps closer, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly as the details come into focus. It's a casing. Metal, cylindrical, no larger than his thumb. Clean. Intact. Deliberately set, not dropped or discarded.

He doesn't touch it immediately. Instead, he studies it, his gaze narrowing as recognition begins to surface, slow and unwelcome. The design is subtle, almost unremarkable to anyone who doesn't know what they're looking for. No obvious markings, no bright identifiers.

But Leon knows better. He's seen something like this before. His hand moves then, precise and controlled, fingers closing around the casing with practiced care. It's lighter than it looks. His thumb turns it slightly, just enough for the faint etching along its side to catch the light. It's small. Nearly invisible unless you're looking for it. Not exactly Umbrella's symbol, but something newer, built from the debris.

Leon's jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek flickering once as the last piece slides into place. This wasn't random. It wasn't a break-in. It wasn't chance, or opportunity, or someone in the wrong place at the wrong time. This was deliberate, targeted, and whoever did it wanted him to know.

The air in the room feels different now, heavier, like the walls themselves are closing in around the realization. Leon's grip on the casing tightens just slightly before he forces it to ease, control reasserting itself with practiced precision. Emotion can come later.

Right now, he needs clarity. He sets the casing back down exactly where he found it, careful not to disturb its position any more than necessary, and reaches for his phone. The motion is smooth and efficient, his mind already several steps ahead, pulling threads together and mapping out what comes next.

There are only a handful of people in the world who would leave something like this behind. Fewer still would dare to use it as a message.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Leon's gaze drifts back to the shattered mug on the floor, to the silence that's settled into every corner of the house, and for a brief moment, something flickers beneath the surface. It's cold and dangerous, leaving no room for panic.

The line clicks, and he wastes no time. "I need everything you have on Victor Gideon."

THREE HOURS EARLIER

The quiet in the house isn't unsettling. It settles around you like something familiar, something earned after a long day, the kind of silence that doesn't press too heavily but instead exists in soft layers. The lamp in the living room casts a warm, golden glow that pools gently over the couch and the edges of the coffee table, leaving the rest of the house in a comfortable dimness. Outside, the night has already taken hold, the world reduced to distant sounds that barely reach you, a passing car, the faint whisper of wind brushing against the windows, nothing that demands your attention.

You sit curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, a book open in your hands. The pages shift slightly under your fingers as you read, though your focus drifts more than it settles. Your eyes move across the lines, but the words don't always stay with you, slipping away as your thoughts circle back to the same place they've been returning to all evening. You glance at the clock without fully meaning to, then back down at the page, then toward the door, a quiet, unconscious pattern that repeats itself before you even realize you're doing it.

Sometimes he doesn't have a chance to tell you he's going to be late. You knew that. You told yourself you wouldn't wait up this time. But here you are.

A small breath leaves you, something softer than a sigh, as you tilt your head back against the couch cushion. The book dips slightly in your hands, your thumb still marking your place even as your attention drifts completely away from it. It's not worry that keeps you awake, not exactly. You're used to this part of his life, the late nights, the unpredictability, the quiet spaces between when he leaves and when he comes back. It doesn't scare you the way it might have once. Not anymore. But that doesn't mean you don't feel it.

You sit up a little straighter after a moment, closing the book carefully and setting it aside on the table. The room feels just a touch too quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes you aware of your own breathing, your own movement, the small sounds that would normally go unnoticed. Your gaze drifts again, this time lingering on the front door, as if you could will it to open just by watching it long enough.

You push yourself up from the couch instead, the fabric shifting softly beneath you as your feet meet the cool floor. You fix the pillow in the corner of the couch, pushing it back and fluffing it up. The movement feels natural, easy, like slipping into a routine you didn't realize you'd already decided on. If you're going to stay up, you might as well make it count for something.

The kitchen light clicks on with a soft snap, brightening the space in an instant. The contrast from the dim living room is enough to pull you fully into the present, your surroundings sharpening into focus as you move further in. Everything is where it should be. Clean counters. Familiar shapes. The quiet hum of appliances that fill the silence just enough to keep it from feeling empty.

The coffee maker hums to life as you set it going, the low, steady sound filling the room in a way that makes it feel less still. You lean lightly against the counter while you wait, arms folding loosely as your gaze drifts again, unfocused now, pulled back into thought.

You wonder how the mission went. Whether it was one of the easier ones or something that left its mark in quieter ways. Leon never comes back unchanged, not really. Even on the good days, there's always something lingering beneath the surface, something in the way he holds himself, the way his eyes settle on things just a second longer than they should. You've learned to read those details over time, to understand them without needing him to explain.

Your expression softens without you realizing it. You'll see it the moment he walks through the door. You always do. And you'll meet him there, the way you always do. Sometimes with quiet, sometimes with warmth, sometimes with both. It's never something you plan out, never something you rehearse. It just happens, instinctively, the same way breathing does.

The coffee maker clicks softly as it finishes, the sound pulling you gently back into the present. You reach for the mug, wrapping your hands around it as the heat seeps into your skin, steady and grounding. For a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth settle into your palms, letting the quiet exist around you again.

Your gaze drifts toward the doorway, toward the darker stretch of the hallway beyond it, and a faint smile touches your lips, subtle enough that you barely notice it. "C'mon," you murmur under your breath, your voice soft in the stillness. "You're taking too long."

You hear a soft tick against the window, like maybe a branch in the wind tapping against the glass. You look over, a weird feeling pooling in your stomach. At first, it's just a feeling, a subtle shift that brushes against your awareness without fully forming into thought.

You straighten a little, your fingers tightening just slightly around the mug as your gaze moves across the kitchen. Everything looks the same. Nothing has changed. The counters are clean. The light is steady. The space is exactly as you left it. And yet, the feeling lingers.

You listen more closely this time, your attention sharpening as you try to pinpoint what caused it. For a moment, there's nothing. Just the quiet hum of the house, the faint buzz of electricity, the soft settling of something far away.

Another sound. It's faint. Quick. Easy to miss if you weren't already paying attention.

Your head turns toward it immediately, your brows knitting slightly as your pulse gives a small, unexpected jump. "Leon?" you call, the name leaving you instinctively, hope threading through it before you can stop it.

The silence that answers is immediate.

Your grip tightens around the mug, the heat suddenly too noticeable, too sharp against your skin as your awareness shifts, sharpening into something more alert. "Hello?" you try again, quieter now, your voice carrying less distance, less certainty.

No response. But the silence has changed. It isn't empty anymore. It feels occupied. Your breath slows, shallow without you meaning it to be, as your eyes move carefully across the room, tracking shadows, edges, the negative space between things. Your body has gone still, instinct taking over in a way your mind hasn't quite caught up with yet.

There's a presence here. You can't see it. But you can feel it. A subtle awareness presses at the back of your neck, a quiet, unmistakable certainty that settles in before you can rationalize it away. You're not alone.

The realization doesn't come all at once. It unfolds slowly, like something being revealed piece by piece, each second stretching just long enough to let it sink deeper. Your heart picks up, not racing yet, but faster, heavier, each beat more noticeable than the last.

You take a small step back without thinking, your fingers brushing against the edge of the counter as if anchoring yourself to something solid. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed, every angle unfamiliar in a way it never has before.

There's a shift behind you, closer this time, unmistakable. Your breath catches as you start to turn, instinct finally overriding hesitation. But you don't get to finish turning.

The movement behind you is faster than your body can react to, faster than your mind can process, a sudden shift in the air that collapses the space between awareness and action into nothing. One second you're standing there, breath caught somewhere between instinct and realization, and the next there's a hand on you, firm and unyielding.

It clamps around your arm and wrenches you backward with a force that steals the ground out from under your feet. The world tilts sharply, your balance gone before you can even try to recover it. The counter digs briefly into your hip as you're pulled away from it, your body twisting on instinct, a startled breath tearing from your chest before you can stop it.

The mug slips from your hand. You don't feel it leave your fingers so much as realize it's gone, the warmth vanishing in an instant as gravity takes over. There's a split second where it hangs in the air, suspended between what was and what's about to happen.

Then it shatters. The sound is sharp. Violent in the quiet. Ceramic breaking against tile in a way that feels far too loud, far too final, the pieces scattering outward in a jagged arc as dark liquid splashes and spreads across the floor. It happens in the background of everything else, but it sticks, imprinting itself in your mind even as everything around you spirals out of control.

Your hands come up instinctively, grabbing at the arm holding you, fingers digging in as you try to twist free, your breath coming faster now, sharper. "Hey!" The word breaks out of you, half-formed, more reflex than intention, your voice catching as your body fights to regain control.

It doesn't work. The grip on you tightens, not frantic, not rushed, but controlled in a way that's somehow worse. Whoever is behind you knows exactly what they're doing. There's no hesitation in the movement, no wasted motion, just precision.

Your shoulder is forced back, your balance shifting again as your heel catches against the tile. For a brief, disorienting second, your gaze catches on the floor, on the shattered remains of the mug, on the dark stain already beginning to spread outward between the pieces.

Your heart is pounding harder now, the rhythm uneven, loud in your ears as adrenaline begins to surge, your thoughts scrambling to catch up with what's happening. You're not confused anymore. This is real, and this is happening to you.

You try again to pull free, your other hand coming up, reaching back, searching for anything you can grab onto, anything you can use. Your fingers brush fabric, then something harder beneath it, but before you can react, before you can even see, something presses against your face.

A cloth, rough and sudden. Your breath catches as the smell hits you, sharp and chemical, unfamiliar and immediately wrong. You jerk back on instinct, your body reacting before your mind can fully understand it, but the hold on you doesn't falter; it tightens.

Your lungs burn as you try not to breathe it in, your head turning sharply to the side, your movements desperate now, less controlled. Your hands come up again, grabbing, pushing, nails digging into anything they can find as panic begins to break through the edges of your control.

"Stop—" The word comes out strained, uneven, your voice already weakening as the world tilts again, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.

The room starts to slip, the sharp lines of the kitchen softening, distorting at the edges as your strength begins to falter. Your movements slow, not by choice, but because your body is betraying you, your limbs growing heavier with each passing second.

Your gaze drops again, unfocused now, catching one last glimpse of the floor. The shattered mug. The spreading stain. A moment frozen in place, already turning into something that will be left behind.

Your chest tightens as you try to pull in one more clean breath, but it doesn't come the way it should. Everything feels distant, like you're being pulled away from it piece by piece, your awareness slipping no matter how hard you fight to hold onto it.

The last thing you feel is the grip on you shifting, steady, controlled, as your body gives in. The last thing you hear is the quiet sound of movement in the house that was never empty, and then nothing.

Consciousness doesn't return in a clean, merciful line. It comes apart and back together in fragments, thin slivers of awareness pushing through a heavy, resistant fog that clings to you no matter how hard your body tries to surface. At first, there's no sense of where you are, no clear thought to anchor to, only sensation. A dull, distant awareness of your own weight presses against something solid beneath you, your limbs feeling slow and unresponsive, as though they belong to someone else entirely. There's a strange disconnect between intention and movement, like the signal is there but the response is delayed, muffled.

Sound finds you next, seeping in gradually rather than arriving all at once. A low, mechanical hum settles into your awareness, steady and unwavering, its presence so constant it almost feels like part of you rather than something external. It doesn't fluctuate or shift in tone. It simply exists, filling the silence in a way that makes the space feel controlled, contained. Beneath it, there's something softer, less predictable, a faint, irregular noise that might be water or machinery or something else entirely. It's too distant to identify, but close enough to remind you that you're not in a place meant for comfort.

Your breathing deepens unevenly as your body begins to catch up, each inhale dragging in air that feels heavier than it should, as though it carries a weight your lungs don't quite know how to process. Your chest rises a little too quickly, then steadies, then falters again as your system struggles to find a rhythm that feels natural.

When your eyes finally open, the light doesn't welcome you. It hits too harshly at first, blurring your vision into indistinct shapes and washed-out edges that refuse to settle into anything recognizable. You blink slowly, your lashes dragging as if even that small movement requires more effort than it should. The second attempt is steadier, your vision beginning to sharpen in reluctant increments until the ceiling above you comes into focus.

It's all wrong. That realization settles almost immediately, cutting clean through the haze with a clarity that feels almost jarring. The surface above you is smooth and industrial, broken only by faint seams that run in measured lines across it. A light fixture is embedded neatly overhead, its glow sterile and uninviting, casting illumination that feels functional rather than warm. There is no softness to it, no variation. It simply exists to reveal.

Your stomach tightens. Memory doesn't return gently. It forces its way in, sharp and fragmented, each piece colliding with the next in a way that leaves no room for denial. The kitchen. The quiet. The shift in the air. The hand. The smell. The mug.

Your breath catches, the reaction immediate and involuntary as your body attempts to respond before your mind can fully process. You try to sit up, the movement sudden, instinctive, driven by a need to orient yourself, to do something. The world tilts in response, your equilibrium failing you for a split second as your muscles protest the motion. A wave of dizziness pulls at the edges of your vision, the room threatening to slip out of focus again as your body struggles to cooperate.

Something stops you. The resistance is immediate, firm enough to halt your movement without jerking you back. It takes a second for your mind to catch up, for your gaze to drop and register what your body has already begun to understand.

Your wrists are bound. The realization lands heavy and cold, your pulse spiking in response as your hands instinctively pull against the restraint. The movement is quick, uncoordinated, driven more by reflex than thought, but the result is immediate and unchanging. There's no give, they're tight, and hold you down exactly like they're supposed to.

You slow, not because you want to, but because you have to, your breathing sharpening as you force yourself to look more closely. The material is unfamiliar, smooth against your skin but unyielding beneath your grip. It is not rope, not anything improvised or hastily applied. It feels intentional and manufactured. Meant to hold without question.

Your fingers flex against it again, more deliberately this time, searching for a shift, for anything, any weakness in its structure. There are none.

A slow breath moves through you, deeper this time, though it still catches slightly at the end as your chest tightens. Panic presses at the edges of your awareness, sharp and insistent, but it doesn't overtake you. Not yet anyway. You hold it there, contained, forcing yourself to focus on what you can control instead of what you can't.

The room is small, but not claustrophobic. Contained in a way that feels deliberate rather than accidental. The walls match the ceiling, the same sterile material, seamless and uninterrupted. There are no windows, no variation in texture or color, nothing to suggest time or place. The space feels isolated, cut off from anything beyond it.

Across from you, a door is set into the wall. It's solid, featureless from your side, with no visible handle or mechanism to open it. It blends almost too well into its surroundings, as though it is meant to go unnoticed until it becomes relevant.

Your shoulders tense slightly as your gaze drops again, taking in your position more carefully now. Your arms are secured in front of you rather than behind, which feels intentional in a way you don't like. It allows for movement, but not freedom. It gives the illusion of control while ensuring you have none.

A slow, measured breath fills your lungs as you force your body to settle, your thoughts beginning to align despite the lingering fog. You swallow, your throat dry, the motion grounding in its simplicity.

"Think..." you whisper, barely audible.

You piece it together as best you can, working backward from what you know. You were at home. You were waiting. You were safe until you weren't. The shift from one to the other had been fast. Too fast to fully process, too controlled to have been random. Whoever took you knew what they were doing. There had been no hesitation and no fumbling.

Your chest tightens again, thinking of Leon. The thought of him lands heavier than anything else, threading through the fear and the confusion with a sharp, undeniable weight. He wasn't there. He didn't see it happen. He doesn't know where you are. But one thing is certain, he'll know something is wrong. He'll know it the second he sees the porch lights off and the shattered mug.

Your eyes close briefly, not in defeat, but in focus, as you draw in another slow breath. He'll see it and he'll understand. And when he does he'll come looking.

The thought isn't really hopeful in the way you might expect. It's not fragile or uncertain either. It's something you hold onto without question. He will come.

Your eyes open again, sharper now, your awareness settling into something more controlled, more deliberate. Your gaze moves across the room once more, but this time with purpose, taking in every detail, every possible variable: the walls, the door, the light, the sound.

You're not safe. But you're not helpless. And whoever brought you here? They made one simple mistake, and that was taking you away from Leon.

The kitchen doesn't change. Even as Leon steps back, even as he forces himself to take in the full space again from a distance, nothing shifts, nothing rearranges itself into something easier to accept. The shattered ceramic still litters the floor in the same uneven arc, the dried coffee staining the tile in a way that speaks too clearly of time passed. The chair remains slightly out of place, the scuff mark near its leg catching the light just enough to make it impossible to ignore.

Everything is exactly as it was. And that's the problem. Leon's gaze moves slowly, deliberately, retracing the scene with sharper focus now that the initial shock has burned away into something colder. He doesn't rush. He never does. Every detail matters, and he knows better than to miss something because he moved too fast. His eyes track the path of disruption, from the counter to the floor, from the chair to the empty space where you should be.

He reconstructs it without thinking.

You were standing here. The mug in your hand. The machine still warm, recently used. You hadn't been waiting long. Maybe you were thinking about him, maybe you were distracted, maybe you didn't hear the first movement behind you. That's when the contact must have happened.

The mug drops. Shatters. You don't get the chance to react properly before you're already being restrained. There's no sign of prolonged struggle, which means whoever took you didn't need one. They knew exactly how to handle it. How to end it before it could escalate. All signs point to Victor.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, the muscle flickering once as the image settles into place.

Staying won't give him anything new.

Finding you will.

He moves with purpose now, the transition so clean it almost feels like a switch has been flipped somewhere beneath the surface. The part of him that came home, the part that allowed himself to think about warmth, about rest, about you waiting on the couch, is gone. What's left is sharper, focused. Built for this, but wishing it wasn't you he was looking for.

"I need everything you have on Victor Gideon." Leon says, his tone even, stripped of anything unnecessary. There's no hesitation in it, no lead-in, no explanation offered before the request.

"That's not a name you drop casually," Hunnigan replies, quietly. "What happened?"

Leon steps out of the kitchen as he speaks, his gaze sweeping once through the living room, not searching anymore, just confirming. The space feels wrong now in a way that can't be fixed, the absence too loud to ignore.

"She's gone."

Hunnigan doesn't respond right away. He can hear it in the silence, the shift from listening to processing, the moment where this stops being a call and becomes a situation.

"When?" she asks.

"Within the last few hours," Leon answers, already moving toward the door. His free hand reaches for his jacket without looking, pulling it back on in one smooth motion. "It was a surprise attack."

"You're sure it's him."

Again, not a question.

Leon's expression doesn't change, but something in his posture tightens, something subtle that only shows if you know where to look. "I'm sure."

There's the faint sound of keys on the other end, fast and efficient, the rhythm of someone digging through things that aren't meant to be found easily. Leon steps outside as she works, the cool air hitting him again, sharper now, more grounding. The quiet of the neighborhood hasn't changed, but it feels different to him now, like a layer has been stripped back.

"Gideon's been buried for years," Hunnigan says after a moment, her voice threading through the line with a tighter edge. "Everything tied to Project Elpis was wiped or sealed. Official channels won't give us much."

"I don't need official," Leon replies, already moving toward his car. His steps are quick but controlled, each one placed with intent. "I need what slipped through."

"You'll have it," she says. There's no hesitation there, no pushback. She knows how this goes. "Give me a few minutes. I'll start with old Umbrella splinter data and see what overlaps."

Leon opens the car door but doesn't get in right away. His hand rests briefly against the frame, his gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of road ahead, his mind already moving beyond this moment, beyond this place.

"Leon," Hunnigan adds, her tone shifting just slightly. Not softer, but more deliberate. "If Gideon's involved, this isn't just leverage. He doesn't operate like that."

Leon's grip tightens almost imperceptibly against the door. "I know." Which means this isn't just about taking you. It's about using you.

The thought settles in without resistance, cold and immediate, but it doesn't derail him. It sharpens him further, narrows his focus into something that doesn't leave room for hesitation.

"I'll send you anything I find," Hunnigan continues. "Locations, contacts, even rumors. But Leon... don't disappear on me."

He exhales quietly, the sound barely audible over the line, more a release of breath than anything else. "I won't."

The line goes silent, an understanding quiet from Hunnigan as she works on her end. She'll dig, pull threads, and find what she can. Leon doesn't wait for it to be enough. He gets into the car, the engine turning over with a low, steady sound that cuts clean through the stillness. His hands settle on the wheel, familiar, steady, but there's a difference now in the way he holds it, a tension that wasn't there before, something coiled beneath the surface.

The car pulls out of the driveway, tires rolling over pavement with quiet intent as the house disappears behind him, shrinking into the dark like something already past. Somewhere out there, you're still breathing, and Leon is going to make sure it stays that way.

Time doesn't move the way it should in a place like this. It stretches, folds in on itself, becomes something difficult to measure without anything familiar to anchor it. The steady hum in the room never changes, never rises or falls, and without windows or shifting light, there is no natural rhythm to follow. You're left with your own breathing, your own thoughts, the subtle shifts in your body as the only markers that time is passing at all.

You've tried to count it. At first, it felt like something you could control, something to hold onto. Seconds stacking into minutes, minutes into something longer, a quiet attempt to impose order onto a place that clearly wasn't designed to have any. But the effort didn't last. Your focus slipped, your thoughts pulled elsewhere, and somewhere along the way, the numbers stopped meaning anything.

Now, you rely on smaller things. The way the air feels against your skin. The slight stiffness settling into your shoulders. The faint dryness in your throat that comes and goes in waves. They're not precise, but they're real, and right now that's enough.

You shift slightly where you sit, the movement careful, deliberate, testing the limits of what the restraints allow without drawing unnecessary strain. They haven't loosened. Not even slightly. Whatever they're made of, whatever mechanism holds them in place, it was designed with intention, with the expectation that resistance would come.

Your gaze drifts across the room again, slower now, more practiced. The walls haven't changed. The door remains closed, silent, offering nothing in the way of clues. There are no seams visible from this side, no indication of how or when it might open. The light overhead continues its steady, sterile glow, unchanging, indifferent.

It would be easy to let the stillness get to you. Easy to let your thoughts spiral, to fill the silence with fear, with everything you don't know, everything you can't control. The uncertainty presses at the edges, persistent, waiting for an opening.

Leon is still on your mind. But the thoughts come quieter than before. You picture him the way you last saw him, not physically, but in memory, in the small details that always stick. The way he moves when he's tired but trying not to show it. The way his voice softens just slightly when he's talking to you, even if he doesn't realize it. Surely he's on his way by now. He has to be looking for you already.

A sound breaks through your thoughts. It's subtle, like a door somewhere else in the building closing. Your body stills instinctively, your breathing slowing as your focus sharpens, every sense narrowing toward the source.

It's nearly silent, the kind of movement designed not to draw attention, but you feel it more than you hear it. A faint change in pressure, a slight adjustment in the air as the seam of the door separates just enough to allow it to open.

The light in the hallway beyond is dimmer, cooler, casting a muted contrast against the sterile brightness of the room. A figure steps through it, their movement unhurried and controlled, immediately setting the tone of the space. He's in no rush. And he probably doesn't need to be.

The door closes behind him with the same quiet precision, sealing the room again as if it had never opened at all. Your gaze lifts to meet him fully now, your posture tightening despite your effort to remain composed. Every instinct in your body sharpens at once, awareness spiking as you take him in.

There's nothing subtle about the wrongness of him. He stands just within the light, and it reveals too much all at once. His frame is tall but uneven in a way that isn't immediately obvious until you look closer, his posture held upright with deliberate control rather than natural ease. The long coat he wears hangs heavily from his shoulders, patterned and textured in a way that feels almost ornamental at a distance, but up close only adds to the sense that everything about him has been chosen with intention rather than comfort.

His skin is the first thing that truly settles in. It's pale, but not in any natural sense of the word. The color sits wrong, stretched thin across his face and neck with a texture that looks almost brittle, as if it might crack under pressure. Faint, branching lines run beneath the surface, subtle but visible, like fractures that were never meant to heal properly. They trace along his jaw, disappear beneath the collar of his coat, and reappear again near his mouth, where they pull slightly when he speaks, distorting the movement just enough to make it feel off.

Your focus shifts higher to his eyes. Or what's been done to them. Metal curves along his temple and cheek, anchoring multiple lenses over one eye, each one different in size, each catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to tell where he's actually looking. One lens glows faintly, a dull, artificial point of red that remains steady even as he moves, unblinking, unchanging.

"You're awake," he says finally.

Your jaw tightens slightly, but you don't respond immediately. You hold his gaze instead, steady despite the tension coiling beneath your ribs, refusing to give him anything more than what he can already see.

He takes a step closer. Then another. Each one is deliberate, controlled, the distance between you closing in a way that feels calculated rather than threatening. He stops just outside your reach, his attention never leaving you, his expression unchanged.

"Good," he continues, as if confirming something to himself rather than speaking to you directly. "That makes this easier."

Your fingers curl slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, as your mind begins to work again, piecing together what you can from what little you've been given.

"Where am I?" you ask, your voice steady despite the dryness in your throat.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, his gaze shifts briefly, taking in your position, the restraints, the room, as if reviewing something already familiar. When his attention returns to you, there's something faintly different in it now. Interest.

"That's not the question you should be asking," he replies. A small pause follows, just long enough to make the silence feel intentional. "You should be asking why."

Your stomach tightens, but your expression doesn't change. You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction, even as the weight of his words settles in. Because he's right. You know as well as he does that this was planned.

His head tilts slightly, studying you in a way that feels less like observation and more like evaluation, as though he's measuring something you can't see.

"Tell me," he says, his tone still calm, still clinical. "How long do you think it will take him to find you?"

Your breath steadies, your shoulders squaring just slightly as you meet his gaze without hesitation.

"...Not long," you answer.

For the first time, something shifts in his expression. It isn't a smile, but it's damn close.

"Good," he says quietly. "Maybe he will enjoy this show."

Even as every instinct in your body urges you to, even as the weight of his attention presses heavier with each passing second, you hold your gaze steady. There's something instinctive about it, something that refuses to give him more than he already has. If he's studying you, measuring you, the least you can do is make sure what he sees isn't fear.

His head tilts slightly, the movement small, almost thoughtful, as though he's adjusting his perspective rather than reacting to anything you've done. The lenses over his eye catch the light as he shifts, reflecting it in fractured pieces that make it impossible to track where his focus truly settles.

"Confidence," he says quietly, more to himself than to you. "Interesting."

The word doesn't sound like praise. It sounds like a note he says out loud.

Your fingers tighten slightly against the restraint, the motion subtle, controlled, your body grounding itself in something physical as your mind continues to work. Every word he says matters. Every reaction, every pause. You don't know what he's looking for yet, but you can feel the structure of it, the way this interaction isn't random. It's being observed.

"People tend to default to fear in unfamiliar environments," he continues, his tone calm, measured in a way that never rises or falls enough to offer you anything to read. "It's efficient. Predictable. Useful, in its own way."

He takes another step closer, closing what little distance remains between you. Not enough to invade your space completely, but enough that you can see the fine details more clearly now, the unnatural texture of his skin, the faint pull of those fractured lines when he speaks, the stillness of him that never quite resolves into something human.

"You didn't," he adds.

You don't respond immediately. Your throat is still dry, your body still adjusting, but your mind is sharper now than it was when you first woke up. You weigh your words before you let them go, not out of fear, but out of instinct.

"I don't know what you want yet," you say finally, your voice steady despite the tension coiled beneath it. "Seems like a waste to panic before I do."

There's a pause. It stretches just long enough to feel intentional, to make you aware of the silence again, of the hum threading through it, of the way his attention sharpens just slightly in response.

"Efficiency through restraint," he murmurs, almost thoughtfully. "You're already adapting."

Your chest tightens slightly at that, the implication settling in before you can stop it. This isn't just a conversation. It never was. Every response, every choice you make, is feeding into something larger, something you still can't fully see.

"You're trying to understand the situation before reacting to it," he says. "That's... uncommon, given the circumstances." Another small pause. "Encouraging."

Your jaw tightens, but you don't let it show beyond that. You don't give him the reaction he might be looking for, even as your mind starts connecting pieces you didn't want to consider.

Encouraging. Not for you. For him.

"For what?" you ask, the question leaving you before you can stop it, quieter than before but no less steady.

This time, he doesn't answer immediately. His gaze shifts, not away from you, but through you, as if he's considering how much to say, how much to reveal. When his focus settles again, there's that same faint edge of interest behind it, something clinical and precise.

"You're not here by accident," he says. "Of course, I'm sure you've noticed that already."

Your breath slows, just slightly, your body stilling in a way that has nothing to do with the restraints. He knows you knew that already. You felt it the moment you woke up, the moment everything about this place told you it had been planned.

"That still doesn't explain why." Another pause, longer this time.

He studies you in silence, the kind that feels less like hesitation and more like calibration, as though he's deciding how to frame something in a way that serves his purpose best. When he speaks again, his voice hasn't changed, but the weight behind it has.

"Your physiology is unusual," he says, the words chosen carefully, deliberately. "Your system doesn't respond the way it should. Exposure markers without degradation. Cellular stress without collapse. You maintain equilibrium where others don't."

Your stomach drops. You don't interrupt him, but your mind begins to run wild.

"You've been exposed before," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to feel more precise, more deliberate. "Not directly. Not in a controlled environment. But enough to register. Enough for your body to adapt."

"That's why you were viable," he continues, stepping just slightly closer again, close enough now that there's no distance left to soften the details of him. "Your body doesn't reject. It regulates. That makes you exceptionally useful."

"And Leon?" you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping through the cracks of your control, quieter now, edged with something you don't fully let surface.

His gaze sharpens just slightly. The reaction is immediate, though subtle, the kind you would miss if you weren't already watching for it. For the first time since he entered the room, his focus shifts in a way that feels more deliberate, more precise.

"Ah," he says softly. He's not surprised. "So that's where your thoughts go."

Your chest tightens, but you don't look away. You won't give him that. He watches you for another moment, that same quiet assessment settling back into place before he continues.

"He is not the reason you're here," he says. "He is the reason this works."

The distinction is small, but it changes everything. Your breath catches, just slightly, the meaning threading through his words before you can fully stop it. This isn't about leverage. Not in the way you expected. Not in the way it should be. This is something else.

"You're measuring him," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice quieter now, more focused. "Through me."

That almost-smile returns faintly.

"Not just him," he replies. "Both of you."

The room feels smaller now. Tighter, like the walls have shifted inward without actually moving.

"You are the constant," he continues, his tone returning to that same calm, clinical cadence. "He is the variable. Time, distance, stress. All measurable. All predictable to a degree."

Another pause.

"But what interests me," he adds, his gaze settling fully on you again, "is where those predictions fail."

The hum in the room seems louder now, but maybe you're just more aware of it, more aware of everything. Whatever this is, it didn't start when you woke up. It started without your knowledge, without Leon's knowledge, long before this kidnapping.

The road stretches forward in a long, unbroken line, disappearing into darkness that feels thicker the further it goes. The headlights carve a narrow path through it, illuminating just enough of what's ahead to keep moving, but never enough to feel certain about what comes next. It's the kind of drive Leon has made countless times before, late hours, empty roads, the quiet space between one mission and the next. Usually, it gives him time to think, to let the tension settle, to put distance between what happened and what comes after.

Tonight, though, it does none of that.

The engine hums steadily beneath his hands, the vibration traveling up through the steering wheel and settling into his arms, a constant, grounding presence that does little to ease the pressure building in his chest. His grip is firm, controlled, but tighter than it needs to be, the leather faintly creaking under his fingers before he forces it to relax again. His gaze stays locked on the road ahead, sharp and unwavering, but his mind isn't there.

It keeps going back to the house, the silence, the space you were supposed to be when he came through the door. He's already reconstructed it more times than he can count, every detail, every shift, every second leading up to the moment you were taken. Not because he doubts what happened, but because that's how he works. He breaks things down until there's nothing left to question, nothing left to guess.

But there's still something missing. A gap he can't quite fill yet. And until he does, everything feels slightly out of reach.

His phone cuts through the silence. The sound is sharp against the steady hum of the engine, immediate and unwelcome, and Leon answers it without hesitation, his thumb moving across the screen before the second ring can finish.

"Talk to me."

On the other end, Hunnigan wastes no time. There's a tightness in her voice that wasn't there before, something controlled but unmistakable, the kind of tone she uses when what she's about to say matters more than the way she says it.

"I found something," she says. "But you're not going to like it."

Leon's expression doesn't change, but his attention sharpens, narrowing further as his grip adjusts slightly on the wheel. "Start talking."

There's a faint pause, the quiet sound of keys in the background as she pulls something up, cross-checking even as she speaks.

"I went back through what's left of the Elpis records," she says. "Most of it's been scrubbed, but there are fragments, overlapping data sets that didn't get fully erased. Personnel logs, incident reports, civilian exposure lists."

Leon's jaw tightens just slightly. "Get to it."

"Your wife's name is in one of the files."

Leon doesn't respond immediately. His grip tightens without permission, the leather pressing back against his palm before he forces his hand to ease again.

"That's not possible," he says finally, his voice low and even, but there's something under it now. Not disbelief.

"It shouldn't be," Hunnigan replies. "But it is."

The silence that follows stretches just long enough to make it feel heavier than it should.

"There was an incident," she continues. "Years ago. Small-scale containment breach tied to an off-site Elpis facility. It never went public. No major outbreak, no media coverage. It was contained quickly and buried even faster."

Leon's eyes flick briefly to the side, catching his own reflection in the mirror for a fraction of a second before returning to the road. His focus splits, part of him still driving, the rest already moving through what she's saying, fitting it into something that makes sense.

"Location?" he says.

"I'm sending it," she replies. "But listen first."

He doesn't interrupt again.

"There was a civilian exposure list," she says. "People in proximity to the breach. Most of them showed standard symptoms. Some didn't survive. A handful were flagged for follow-up monitoring and she was on that list."

The confirmation settles into him slowly, like something sinking deeper the longer it stays there. It doesn't hit all at once. It builds, piece by piece, until there's no space left to ignore it.

"She never told me," Leon says.

The words are quiet, more to himself than to her, but they carry weight all the same.

Hunnigan exhales softly on the other end. "She might not have known the full extent of it," she says. "Or it was downplayed. Low-risk exposure, no visible symptoms, something they monitor quietly and then classify out of relevance."

Leon's jaw shifts, tension settling in his shoulders as he processes that. It doesn't sit right. None of it does. "Define monitored."

"Periodic evaluations," Hunnigan answers. "Bloodwork, cellular scans, long-term observation. Nothing invasive on record, but enough to track irregularities."

Irregularities.

"What kind?" Leon asks.

There's the sound of keys again, faster this time. "Adaptive response markers," she says. "Her system didn't react the way it should have. No degradation, no instability. It just stabilized. Balanced itself out."

Leon's grip tightens again before he reins it in, the motion controlled but deliberate. The road ahead blurs slightly at the edges, not from distraction, but from the weight of what's settling into place.

"She was exposed," he says, the words quieter now, more grounded.

"Yes."

"And he knows."

"That's the part we can't ignore," Hunnigan replies. "If Gideon has access to those records, or if he's been tracking survivors from that incident, then this wasn't random."

Leon doesn't need her to finish. He already understands.

"There's more," she says after a moment. "The facility tied to that breach... it was never fully decommissioned. Officially, it was abandoned. Unofficially, there are signs of recent activity. Power draws. Data pings. Someone's been using it."

Leon's focus sharpens instantly, something locking into place with quiet certainty. "Send everything."

"I just did."

The phone vibrates in his hand, the incoming data lighting the screen briefly. He glances at it just long enough to confirm coordinates, then looks back to the road, his path already adjusting in his mind before the turn even comes into view.

"If her biology is what we think it is, then she's not just leverage."

Leon cuts her off, his voice sharper this time, but not raised. "I know what she is."

There's a brief silence after that, not tense, just understood. Because to him, none of that changes the only thing that matters. You're still you.

"Be careful," Hunnigan says quietly.

Leon doesn't respond. Instead, his foot presses down on the accelerator, the car surging forward just slightly as the dark road stretches ahead, no longer empty, no longer uncertain. Now it leads somewhere. All that's left is direction. Somewhere at the end of it is you.

Gideon's hand doesn't move quickly. There is no rush in him, no sudden motion that might trigger instinct before thought. Everything he does is measured, deliberate, as if even the timing has already been calculated. His fingers close around your wrist with quiet precision, the contact firm enough to hold, but not forceful enough to bruise. It's control without struggle, restraint without effort.

Your shoulders tense, your muscles tightening instinctively as your other hand pulls once against the restraint before you force it still again. You don't give him more than that.

"Try to remain still," he says, his voice low, even, not unkind but entirely without comfort. "Movement interferes with consistency."

Instead, you focus on the pressure of his hand, on the grounding weight of it, on the way your breathing moves in and out of your chest as you force it to slow. You tell yourself to watch. To remember. If this is happening, then it matters how.

His other hand comes into view. A small device rests between his fingers, compact and precise, more clinical than threatening at first glance. The casing is metallic, clean, designed for efficiency rather than intimidation. A narrow chamber holds a clear substance that catches the light just enough to make it visible without revealing anything about what it actually is.

Your stomach tightens. "What is that?" you ask, the question quieter than you intend, but steady enough to hold.

Gideon doesn't look at the device. He's watching you.

"A variable," he says.

Your grip tightens slightly against the restraint, your breath slowing again as you brace yourself without meaning to. Your body knows before your mind fully accepts it. There's no time to argue, no space to negotiate. 

He adjusts your wrist, turning it just enough to expose the inside of your arm. A sharp, precise pressure breaks the surface of your skin. A quick, controlled intrusion that sends a reflexive jolt through your system before you can stop it. The substance pushed into your system with practiced ease before the device withdraws just as smoothly as it entered. Gideon releases your wrist immediately after, stepping back without hesitation.

You don't speak. You can't even really try. Any words dissolve somewhere between your chest and your throat as the sensation deepens, spreading through you in a way that is impossible to ignore now. What began as something subtle, something easy to question, shifts into something far more defined, far more present. Heat blooms beneath your skin, not sharp or burning, but insistent, like your body is trying to correct something it doesn't understand.

Your breathing falters, then steadies, then falters again as you try to regain control over it. Each inhale feels just slightly heavier than the last, your lungs working harder for something that should come naturally. Your shoulders tense, pulling inward without permission as your muscles react to the unfamiliar strain. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is wrong.

Your fingers curl against the restraint, tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb, each beat more noticeable than the last. You can feel it in your wrists, in your throat, in the space just behind your ribs, a steady, growing rhythm that feels just slightly out of sync with everything else.

You force a breath in slowly, deliberately, holding it for a second before letting it out through your nose, trying to anchor yourself to something familiar, something controlled. It works, for a moment. The sharp edge of the sensation dulls just slightly, enough to give you the illusion of stability.

Gideon watches all of it. He hasn't moved from where he stepped back, his posture unchanged, his gaze fixed on you with that same clinical precision. There's no urgency in him, no concern, only observation, as though everything happening is exactly as expected.

"Elevated response," he says quietly, almost to himself. "But contained."

The words settle into the space around you, detached and measured, like he's reading from something already written rather than reacting to what he sees.

You swallow again, your throat tightening as the heat shifts, pulling inward now, concentrating somewhere deeper in your chest. For a brief moment, it feels like your body is bracing for something worse, something sharper, something that hasn't fully arrived yet. Your shoulders draw back as you try to sit straighter, your body instinctively fighting the sensation, pushing against it rather than giving in. Your breath comes faster for a second, then you force it to slow again, dragging it back under control one piece at a time.

Another wave moves through you, stronger this time, your muscles tightening in response as the heat spreads again, this time more evenly, less chaotic. It rolls through your arms, your chest, your core, like something searching for imbalance and failing to find it.

Your brow furrows slightly.

That's new. The initial spike of discomfort doesn't escalate the way you expect it to. Instead of building into pain, it... evens out. The sharp edges smooth, the irregular rhythm of your pulse settling into something steadier, something controlled despite the foreign presence still threading through your system.

Gideon's head tilts slightly as he watches the shift happen, the lenses over his eye catching the light as he adjusts his angle just enough to follow the change more closely.

"There it is," he murmurs.

The words are quiet and they carry something like confirmation in them. You feel it too. The wrongness doesn't disappear, but it changes, becoming something your body can hold rather than something it's fighting. The heat lingers, but it no longer spikes unpredictably. Your pulse steadies, your muscles easing just slightly as the initial strain fades into something more controlled.

The realization settles in slowly, unwelcome but undeniable.

You draw in another breath, deeper this time, testing it, measuring it the same way he is. It comes easier now. Not normal, not entirely, but closer than it should be given what just happened.

"What did you do?" you ask again, your voice quieter now, steadier despite everything.

Gideon doesn't answer immediately. His gaze remains fixed on you, tracking every shift, every subtle adjustment in your posture, your breathing, your expression.

"A baseline disruptor," he says after a moment. "Something that should introduce instability."

Your jaw tightens.

"Should." His head tilts again, that same small, thoughtful motion.

"In most cases, it does," he replies. "The body rejects it. Overcompensates. Breaks equilibrium in an attempt to regain it."

His gaze sharpens just slightly. "Yours didn't."

You swallow again, your throat less dry now, your body still humming faintly with the aftereffects of whatever he introduced.

"You're watching for failure," you say, the realization forming as you speak it, your voice gaining a slight edge despite your control.

A faint shift crosses his expression again, not quite a smile, but something that acknowledges the accuracy of it. "Yes."

The answer is simple.

"And when you don't get it?" you press, your fingers tightening slightly against the restraint again, grounding yourself in something solid as your mind continues to move.

"Then I adjust," he says.

Your chest tightens again, but not from the lingering effects of whatever he gave you. This could be just the beginning. Gideon steps back slightly, creating distance again now that the immediate observation is complete. His attention doesn't leave you, but his posture shifts just enough to signal that this phase, whatever it was, has reached its conclusion.

"For now," he adds quietly, almost as an afterthought, "you stabilize."

The second time, there is no warning. You see it in the shift of his posture, in the way he reaches for the panel again with the same precision, but there's something different now. Not in his movement, or in his expression, but in the certainty that settles into the space around him.

He's no longer observing you. He's about to escalate this.

Your body tenses before he even turns back toward you, every muscle tightening instinctively as your pulse begins to climb again. The lingering effects of the first injection haven't fully faded. You can still feel it beneath your skin, that faint, controlled hum of something unfamiliar that your body has somehow contained.

Gideon steps back into your space, the device in his hand similar in shape to the first, but not identical. The chamber holds something darker this time, the liquid catching the light in a way that makes it impossible to mistake the difference.

"That one didn't break me," you say quietly, your voice steadier than you feel. "So now you're going to try harder."

He doesn't deny it. "Adjustment is necessary," he replies, his tone as calm as before. "The first response confirmed baseline stability. This will test the limits of it."

You close your eyes and think of anything else. Home. Leon. He'll be here soon, you know it. Your fingers curl against the restraints again. 

"He's still a variable." Gideon adds, almost absently.

"You mean me," you say.

"No, you're the constant."

Before you can respond, before you can push back against it, his hand closes around your wrist again, firm and controlled. This time, you don't pull away. Not because you don't want to, but because you already know it won't matter.

You brace. The injection comes faster. The pressure is sharper this time, the intrusion deeper, less subtle. Your breath catches immediately, your body reacting before you can suppress it, a sharp inhale breaking through your control as your muscles tense hard against the restraint. 

It hits hard. There's no delay this time, no gradual creep. The sensation floods through you all at once, a violent surge beneath your skin that feels like your body is being pulled in two different directions at the same time. Heat spikes instantly, sharper than before, not spreading evenly but crashing through your system in jagged waves that refuse to settle.

Your breath breaks. You don't mean to. You want to keep quiet, composed. But the sound tears out of you anyway, raw and uncontrolled as your back arches slightly against the chair, your muscles tightening in a way you can't stop. It hurts and it hurts deep. Your chest constricts, your lungs struggling to pull in air as your pulse spikes violently, each beat slamming harder than the last. The heat turns into something sharper, something that burns through your limbs and settles in your core, like your body is trying to reject something it can't.

You try to fight it instinctively. Your hands clench, your shoulders pulling tight as you try to force your breathing back under control, but it slips, stutters, breaks again as another wave hits. Another sound escapes, and you don't recognize it at first, then you realize it's you.

Leon continues moving in. There is no space for distraction, no room for anything beyond the task in front of him. His breathing is steady, his pulse controlled, his body moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of experience and instinct working in perfect alignment.

When he reaches the door, he waits, listens. At first he hears nothing and reaches for the handle. Just the faint hum of something internal, too low to identify clearly from outside, too consistent to ignore completely. It's the kind of sound that suggests machinery, containment, something running beneath the surface where it can't be seen. 

Then he hears it. Faint, distant, but unmistakable. A sound that doesn't belong to the building. His body stills instantly, every sense sharpening as his head tilts just slightly, his focus shifting inward, past the walls, past the structure, toward the source.

It comes again. Muffled and broken. Something in him snaps. He knows that sound, even distorted beneath layers of concrete and distance. He knows your voice, and you're not speaking this time, you're in pain.

Leon's hand closes around the handle, the controlled precision changing into something sharper, something faster as his entire focus locks onto one singular point. You're here. And you're close enough to hear.

Inside, the pain doesn't fade. It only builds. Another wave crashes through you, harder than the last, tearing through whatever control you managed to hold onto as your body fights something it doesn't understand. Your breath fractures again, your chest tightening painfully as you try to pull in air that won't come fast enough. Your vision blurs at the edges, the room tilting slightly as your muscles strain, your entire body reacting in ways you can't stop.

Gideon just stands there watching. Unphased by your struggle. Focused on whatever it is he's trying to figure out now.

"Instability present," he murmurs, his voice distant against the rush of sensation flooding your system. "But not catastrophic."

Your hands clench harder, your body trembling now, caught between resisting and adapting, between breaking and holding. Another scream tears from you, louder this time, less controlled. Somewhere beyond the walls, Leon is moving as fast he as can, getting closer with every second.

The door doesn't creak. It opens easily. Leon notices as he slips inside, his movement controlled and immediate, his body already adjusting to the change in the environment before the door fully closes behind him. The night are disappears in an instant, replaced by something cooler, denser, the faint sterile scent of filtered air layered over something metallic and difficult to place.

The darkness inside isn't complete. Low-level lighting runs along the edges of the corridor ahead, thin strips embedded into the walls that cast a dim, clinical glow across smooth surfaces. It isn't enough to illuminate everything, but it doesn't need to. It's designed for navigation, not comfort.

Leon pauses just inside the threshold out of instinct. His gaze moves quickly, but not carelessly, tracking the length of the corridor, the corners, the ceiling, the floor. Every surface is too clean, too controlled, the kind of space that isn't meant to be lived in, only used. There are no visible cameras, no obvious surveillance, but that doesn't mean he isn't being watched.

Leon steps forward. His footfalls are silent against the smooth flooring, his weight shifting with practiced precision as he moves deeper into the corridor. The hum he heard outside is louder now, no longer distant, but integrated into the structure itself. It vibrates faintly through the walls, through the floor, through the air.

Every doorway he passes is closed, seamless against the walls, giving nothing away about what might be behind them. There are no signs, no labels, nothing to indicate function or direction. The only thing that keeps him directionally bound is the sound of your pained screams.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly as he continues forward, his mind mapping the space as he goes, committing every turn, every distance, every possible exit to memory. If something goes wrong, he needs a way out. He needs a way to you. The thought sharpens his focus further.

Another scream escapes you. Leon stops. Not abruptly, but enough that his entire body stills, his head turning just slightly as he isolates it. The corridor stretches ahead in two directions at the next intersection, identical in structure, identical in lighting, offering no immediate indication of which path leads where.

Something shifts in Leon instantly, something deeper than instinct, something that bypasses thought entirely. His chest tightens hard, his breath shortening for a fraction of a second before it steadies again, forced back under control through sheer discipline.

He moves faster now, but not reckless, his steps still placed with precision as he turns down the corridor where the sound came from. The distance closes quickly, the hum of the facility growing louder as he goes, layered now with something else.

Every second stretches. Every step matters. He passes another door, then another, his gaze flicking briefly toward each one, searching for anything that stands out, anything that breaks the pattern. Then he sees a difference.

One of the doors ahead is slightly recessed compared to the others, its surface broken by a narrow panel along the side, faintly illuminated in a way that suggests active use. It isn't obvious. It isn't meant to be.

Leon slows as he approaches, his body lowering just slightly, his hand moving instinctively toward his weapon as he positions himself beside the frame rather than directly in front of it. His breathing steadies again, controlled, measured, his focus narrowing to a single point.

Another pained sound escapes your throat and Leon knows that you're in the other side. For a brief moment, everything compresses, the space, the sound, the distance between where he is and where you're collapsing into something immediate and undeniable.

He reaches for the panel. His fingers hover for half a second, assessing, calculating. Locked, most likely. Secured in a way that won't respond to a simple override. So he doesn't try. Instead, he shifts his stance slightly, his weight settling, his grip tightening as he prepares to force it. Inside, the sound rises again. Sharper. More raw. And that's all it takes.

Leon moves. The impact is controlled, precise, his force directed at the weakest point of the frame rather than the center. The panel cracks first, a sharp fracture that breaks the seal just enough to compromise the structure. He doesn't stop there. A second, stronger hit. The mechanism gives. The door buckles inward with a dull, heavy sound, the controlled quiet of the facility breaking for the first time since he entered. Leon doesn't wait for it to settle. He pushes through.

Inside, the world doesn't make sense all at once. It comes in fragments. The dim lights are too bright. The air is too cold. The sound of your own breathing breaking apart as another wave crashes through you, your body no longer able to hold the same control it did before. The heat has turned into something sharper, something that burns through your system in uneven pulses that refuse to stabilize.

Your hands are clenched tight enough to ache, fingernails cutting through your palm, your muscles trembling under the strain as your chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.

The door breaks. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Violent. Wrong.

Your head jerks instinctively toward it, your vision struggling to focus, the edges still blurred, the room tilting just slightly as your body tries to keep up with everything happening at once. For a split second, you don't understand what you're seeing. A familiar shape, quick movements. Another yell rips through you, the pain washing through your entire body again.

Gideon turns slightly, a full smirk playing on his lips as he recognizes who came through the door. He doesn't startle and doesn't retreat. He wanted this moment, he waited for this moment.

Leon.

The room seems to hold itself in suspension, the harsh overhead light cutting everything into sharp, unforgiving clarity. There is no shadow deep enough to hide in here, no corner untouched by the sterile brightness that reveals every detail whether it should be seen or not. The hum of the facility continues beneath it all, steady and mechanical, a constant reminder that this place was built for function, not for the moment unfolding inside it. The only sound to be heard now is your panicked breathing between screams.

Leon stands just inside the broken doorway, his body angled slightly forward, not quite advancing, not quite holding back. His breathing is controlled, but not calm, each inhale measured, each exhale tight, like something is being forced into place rather than settling naturally.

His gaze doesn't go to Gideon first. It goes to you. It finds you immediately, as if there was never any question where you would be, as if every step he took through the facility had already narrowed down to this exact point. His eyes move over you quickly at first, instinctively checking, assessing, searching for what's been done, what's still happening, what he might already be too late to stop.

He sees the tension in your body, the way your hands are clenched too tightly against the restraints, the uneven rise and fall of your chest as your breathing struggles to keep pace with something inside you that hasn't settled. The faint tremor running through your muscles isn't subtle enough to miss, not to him.

His jaw tightens. Something shifts behind his eyes, something darker, sharper, but it doesn't break through his control. Not yet.

"Leon—" Your voice doesn't come out the way you expect it to. It catches halfway, thinner than it should be, pulled tight by everything still moving through your system. Even saying his name takes more effort than it should, your breath hitching slightly as you try to push past it. But he hears it.

"I've got you," he says, his voice low, steady in a way that feels deliberate, like he's anchoring both of you at the same time. There's no hesitation in it, no question, just certainty, even if the situation in front of him doesn't offer any.

Gideon moves, turning with the same measured precision he's carried through every moment so far, his posture unchanged, his attention shifting from you to Leon as though the interruption is simply another variable entering the equation.

He studies Leon in silence for a moment, his head tilting slightly as if adjusting to a new data point rather than reacting to a threat.

"Earlier than projected," he says, his words calm. Observational.

Leon's attention shifts then, just enough to acknowledge him, but not enough to lose sight of you. His body remains angled between you and Gideon, instinctively placing himself in that space, that line, even before he's fully closed the distance.

"You picked the wrong person," Leon says, his tone controlled but edged now, something tight beneath it that doesn't quite surface but doesn't hide either.

Gideon doesn't react to the threat. If anything, his focus sharpens.

"No," he replies. "I selected precisely the right one."

Leon's gaze flickers back to you, just for a second, taking in the way your shoulders tense again as another wave moves through you, the way your breathing stutters despite your effort to keep it steady. Grunts of pain escape your lips.

"What did you do to her?" he asks.

There's no softness in his voice. Gideon doesn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifts between the two of you, not weighing, not comparing, but observing, as if this moment itself is something worth studying.

"A controlled introduction," he says finally. "A stressor designed to disrupt equilibrium."

Your fingers tighten again as another pulse moves through you, your body reacting despite your efforts to contain it. You try to steady your breathing, to keep yourself grounded, but the sensation hasn't fully faded. It lingers beneath your skin, quieter than before, but still present, still wrong.

"And?" he presses, his voice lower now, more dangerous.

Gideon's expression doesn't change. "She stabilized. Handling it quite well actually."

The words hang in the air. Leon's jaw tightens harder, his focus snapping fully to Gideon now, the meaning settling in faster than it should.

"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says.

Gideon's head tilts again, that same small, deliberate motion.

"Not typically," he agrees. "But she is not a typical subject."

Your chest rises sharply again as another smaller wave moves through you, your body still adjusting, still reacting in ways you can't fully control. You grit your teeth against it, forcing yourself to stay present, to stay aware, because Leon is here now, and that changes everything.

Leon takes a step forward slowly. His attention splits again, half on Gideon, half on you, calculating distance, timing, risk. Every movement is deliberate, every shift controlled, but there's something coiled beneath it now, something that's getting harder to keep contained the longer he stands there.

"You're done," Leon says.

Gideon doesn't move to stop him. Doesn't reach for anything. Doesn't even step back.

"If that were true," he says quietly, "you wouldn't have made it this far."

Leon moves again, faster this time. He closes the distance between you in a matter of seconds, his focus narrowing completely as he reaches your side. His hands come to the restraints immediately, his touch careful despite the urgency behind it, his fingers checking the mechanism, the material, the way it's secured.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping just enough to reach you through everything else. "Stay with me, alright?"

Your head tilts slightly toward him, your vision still not fully steady, but clearer now than it was before. Being this close to him, hearing him, it cuts through some of the noise, some of the disorientation.

"I'm—" You try to answer, but the words falter as your breath catches again, your body still not fully cooperating.

"I know," he says quietly. "Just breathe."

Behind him, Gideon watches. Unmoved. Uninterrupted.

"Observe," he says softly. The word is almost lost beneath the sound of your breathing, but Leon hears it.

"I'm not part of your experiment," Leon says.

Gideon's gaze doesn't waver. "You already are."

Leon's grip tightens slightly against the restraint before he forces it to ease, his focus snapping back to you, back to what matters. The mechanism gives slightly under his touch, not completely, but it gives you some relief.

"Almost there," he murmurs, his voice low, steady, meant for you alone.

Your breathing hasn't fully settled, but it's better than it was. The violent spikes have dulled into something more contained, your body still reacting, still adjusting, but no longer overwhelming you completely. You hold onto his voice, onto the presence of him beside you, grounding yourself in something real while everything else still feels just slightly out of place.

"Leon..." Your voice is quieter now, strained but clearer, your fingers twitching faintly against the restraint as you try to steady yourself.

He glances at you briefly, just enough to confirm you're still with him, still holding on. "I've got you," he says again. And for a second, you believe it.

His hands still against the restraint, his body pauses just long enough to register the change before his head lifts, his attention snapping back toward Gideon. "You should have left when you had the opportunity, Leon."

Leon's jaw tightens, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly as he angles himself more fully between you and Gideon, his body placing itself there without thought, without hesitation.

"You're done," he says, quieter now, but edged with something harder, something less controlled.

Gideon's head tilts slightly. And then he moves. There's no warning, no buildup. One moment, he stands across the room, the next, he's there, the space between them collapsing in an instant. Leon reacts on instinct, his body turning, his arm coming up to intercept. But Gideon doesn't strike. He grips Leon's shoulder, then the force hits.

Leon's footing breaks as he's yanked sideways with a strength that doesn't belong to anything natural. The world shifts violently, the ground slamming into his back with a force that knocks the breath from his lungs before he can brace against it.

The impact echoes through the room, sharp and final.

"Leon!" The sound leaves you before you can stop it, your voice breaking through the space with a sharp edge of fear you can't contain this time.

Even as the air rushes back into his lungs in a strained inhale, his body rolls with the impact, momentum carrying him through the motion as he pushes himself back up. There's no pause, no recovery beyond what's absolutely necessary. His focus snaps back immediately, locking onto Gideon with a precision that overrides everything else.

Something in Gideon begins to change. A tension that wasn't there before, something coiling inward rather than expanding outward. His posture tightens, his shoulders drawing slightly as though containing something that no longer fits cleanly within him. The fractured lines beneath his skin darken, spreading in faint, branching patterns that pulse subtly with something alive.

You gasp because you can see it now. Something moving under his skin.

"Adaptation requires progression," Gideon says, his voice lower now, heavier, as though it's being pulled from somewhere deeper.

The mechanical apparatus over his eye flickers, the lenses shifting rapidly, adjusting in small, precise movements as if recalibrating to match whatever is happening inside him.

Leon's stance lowers instinctively, his weight settling, his body aligning for impact as his gaze tracks every shift, every unnatural movement.

"Yeah," he mutters under his breath, quieter, sharper. "Saw that coming."

A sound comes next. It's wet and wrong. A tearing pressure beneath the surface that builds for just a second too long before it breaks. His arm jerks slightly, not in pain, but in adjustment, his fingers flexing once, twice, before something forces its way through. The fabric of his sleeve splits as dark, sinewy appendages push outward, emerging from beneath the skin with a violent, organic motion that defies anything natural.

They unfurl rapidly, extending outward with unsettling control, each one moving with a purpose that suggests awareness rather than randomness. 

Leon doesn't wait. He moves first.

The moment the tendrils fully extend, he closes the distance, fast and direct, his movement cutting through the space before Gideon can fully settle into whatever he's becoming. His strike is precise, aimed to disrupt, to interrupt the transformation before it completes.

But one of the tendrils reacts faster. It lashes out, snapping forward with unnatural speed, wrapping tightly around Leon's arm mid-motion. The grip is immediate, constricting hard enough to halt him completely, the pressure sharp and unyielding. Leon's jaw tightens as he tries to pull free, his muscles straining against it.

You see it before it happens, faint arcs of electricity flickering along the length of the appendage, gathering, intensifying, the air around it crackling with something volatile. You try to call to Leon but another wave of pain rushes through you, head to toe, halting everything and stealing your voice, your breath, your mind.

The discharge hits. It tears through Leon in a sharp, violent burst, his body locking for a split second under the force of it before the sound breaks from him, low and strained, forced out despite his control. The tendril releases him just as quickly. He's thrown back, his body hitting the ground hard enough to echo again, the impact reverberating through the room.

Leon lies unmoving on the floor and it's the most helpless you've ever been. Restrained with no way to help your husband, who is only here to save you.

His hand presses against the floor, his body pushing up again, slower this time, but no less determined. His breathing is heavier now, sharper, each inhale drawn in with effort, but his focus hasn't shifted a single time.

Across from him, Gideon stands taller. The human shape is still there, but it's no longer dominant. The tendrils move slowly behind him, shifting, adjusting, as if testing their range, their strength, their control. The air around him feels charged now, faint arcs of energy flickering intermittently, unstable but contained.

"This is where it becomes meaningful," Gideon says, his voice steady despite everything else.

The room doesn't hold its shape for long. It gives in stages, like something under pressure, finally reaching the point where it can no longer hold.

At first, it's only the sound. A low, strained groan somewhere deep within the structure, metal bending where it was never meant to, the clean lines of the facility distorting under the weight of what Gideon is becoming. The sterile hum that once filled the space flickers, falters, then surges unevenly, as if the systems built to sustain control are now struggling to contain it.

Gideon stands at the center of it, no longer still in the way he had been before, but not uncontrolled either. The transformation does not make him wild. It makes him larger, more present, more impossible to ignore. The tendrils extending from his body shift with a purpose that's no longer exploratory. They coil and stretch in slow, deliberate motions, each movement accompanied by faint arcs of electricity that crackle through the air and dissipate against the walls in sharp, fleeting bursts of light.

Leon watches him without retreating. His breathing is heavier now, his chest rising and falling with effort, but there's no hesitation in the way he holds his ground. His body adjusts in small, precise ways, weight shifting, stance lowering, every muscle aligning with instinct and experience. He's already recalculating, already adapting to something that should not exist, because that is what survival has always required of him.

Gideon tilts his head, the mechanical lenses over his eye flickering rapidly as they track Leon's movement. "You continue to respond within projected thresholds," he says, his voice altered now, layered faintly with something deeper that resonates beneath the words. "Even under escalating conditions."

Leon doesn't answer. There's no space for it, no value in it. The moment Gideon's tendrils shift inward, drawing close to his body as the electricity along them intensifies, Leon understands what's coming. The air sharpens, the faint scent of ozone thickening as the energy builds, no longer scattered but concentrated, focused into something far more dangerous.

He moves before it releases. The discharge tears through the space where he stood a fraction of a second before, a violent arc of electricity that slams into the far wall with enough force to fracture the surface, the impact flashing white-hot before fading into smoke and sparks. The light burns briefly across Leon's vision, but he doesn't slow. He uses the opening created by the attack, the brief window where Gideon's focus shifts to recalibrate, and closes the distance instead of retreating.

The first strike lands cleanly. It snaps Gideon's head to the side, not with enough force to drop him, but enough to confirm what Leon needs to know. The thing in front of him can still be hit. It can still be interrupted. It can still be fought.

The response is immediate. The tendrils lash outward with far less restraint than before, their movements sharper, more aggressive, each strike aimed not just to stop Leon but to overwhelm him. He pivots through the first, deflects the second, the impact sending a jolt up his arm that he absorbs without breaking rhythm. The third comes from behind, forcing him to drop low, the appendage slicing through the air just above him before slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it further.

The room is coming apart now. Panels loosen and fall, fragments of the controlled environment scattering across the floor as the fight pushes beyond anything it was designed to contain. The hum of the facility distorts into something uneven, lights flickering in brief, erratic pulses that cast the entire space in shifting brightness.

It's all too much for your body as you fight whatever is coursing through your veins. The flashing lights, the pain bursting in waves. Darkness creeps at the edges of your vision as you watch Leon try to take down Gideon.

Gideon steps forward into the chaos, his movement heavier now, less human in its weight but no less precise. "Damage acknowledged," he says, the words strained slightly as the transformation continues to push through him. "Adaptation required."

The tendrils retract again, but not in retreat. They coil tightly around him, drawing inward as the electricity intensifies along their length, brighter now, more volatile. Leon recognizes the shift immediately, his posture tightening as his focus sharpens further. This is not another strike. This is an escalation.

Gideon's body convulses with sudden force, the remaining structure of his human form breaking further as the mutation surges forward. The tendrils expand again, thicker, longer, their movement more erratic as the transformation accelerates. His frame distorts, growing beyond its original shape, the balance of control giving way to something far more aggressive, far less contained.

The walls crack under the pressure. Metal groans and bends as the space struggles to hold him, the controlled environment collapsing into something unstable and dangerous.

He moves through the chaos, faster now, more direct, his path cutting between the snapping tendrils and crackling arcs of energy with a precision that leaves no room for hesitation. One shot strikes his shoulder as he passes, the impact heavy enough to stagger him a step, but he doesn't stop. He can't. Another slams into the ground beside him, sending debris upward in a sharp burst that grazes his side, but he pushes through it, closing the distance before Gideon can fully adjust.

This time, Leon commits. There's no testing strike, no probing movement. Everything aligns into a single, decisive action as he drives forward, his focus narrowing to a singular point. The moment opens, brief and dangerous, and he takes it.

The shot lands. The sound cuts through the chaos, sharp and final, the impact hitting with enough force to break through what remains of Gideon's structure. For a fraction of a second, everything seems to hold, the movement, the sound, the space itself pausing as the effect settles in.

Gideon collapses. The tendrils recoil violently, the electricity along them snapping out in erratic bursts before dying completely. Gideon's form distorts further, not expanding now but breaking down, the structure of it failing in on itself as the mutation loses cohesion. The surface of him shifts, softens, destabilizes, the defined shape melting into something unrecognizable. He doesn't fall, but dissolves.

The mass that was Gideon collapses inward, losing form, losing structure, the remnants of his transformation breaking apart into something viscous, unstable, spreading across the fractured floor in uneven, darkened pools. The last of the energy dissipates into the air, leaving behind only the fading hum of a facility no longer fully functioning.

The silence that follows doesn't feel real. It settles too suddenly, too completely, pressing in around the room like something waiting to be acknowledged. Moments ago, everything had been noise and motion and impact, the air alive with electricity and strain, the structure itself fighting to hold together under the weight of what had been happening inside it. Now, all of that is gone, leaving behind only the faint, uneven hum of failing systems and the quiet drip of something cooling against the fractured floor.

Leon doesn't move right away. His chest rises and falls with heavier breaths than he'd allow himself under normal circumstances, each inhale dragging in air that still smells faintly of ozone and heat. The tension hasn't left his body yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers flex once at his side like they're still expecting resistance.

His gaze remains fixed for a second longer on what's left of Gideon, the dark, formless remains spread across the floor where something controlled and deliberate once stood. There's no movement there now, no sign of reformation, no indication that anything is coming back from it. Just the aftermath of something that pushed too far and lost its shape completely.

Only when that certainty settles does Leon turn. Everything that had been held tight during the fight, all that focus, all that precision, redirects in an instant, snapping back to you with a force that feels almost physical. His eyes find you quickly, already expecting to see you where he left you, restrained, struggling, still fighting through whatever Gideon put into your system.

You're there. You're upright. The restraints still hold you in place, your body angled slightly forward where you'd been straining against them earlier. But the tension is gone. The movement is gone.

Leon's chest tightens sharply.

"Hey..." The word leaves him before he's even fully crossed the distance, his steps closing the space between you faster now, no longer measured, no longer cautious. The control he held onto through the fight slips just enough to let urgency through.

He reaches you in seconds, hands coming up to your cheeks. "Hey, hey—" His voice drops, softer but edged now, the words coming quicker than before as he leans closer, his gaze scanning your face, searching for any sign of response. "Come on, stay with me."

Your skin is warm beneath his hand, warmer than it should be, the heat lingering from whatever Gideon forced into your system. Your pulse is there too, faint but steady against his fingers, a rhythm that reassures him just enough to keep moving, to keep focused. But your eyes don't open.

Leon exhales through his nose, the breath sharper than he intends as he shifts his grip, his hand sliding more securely along your arm as he checks you over with quick, practiced movements. There are no visible wounds beyond the restraint, no obvious signs of physical damage from the outside, but that doesn't mean anything here.

"What did he do to you..." he mutters under his breath, the question not meant for an answer, just something that slips out as his mind tries to piece together what he's seeing with what he already knows.

He adjusts his position, moving closer, his hands returning to the mechanism with more urgency than before, but not less care. His fingers find the weakened point he'd started working earlier, the subtle give in the structure that hadn't been enough then but might be now.

"Alright," he murmurs, quieter again, as if you can hear him even like this. "I've got you, sweetheart. Just hold on."

His grip tightens slightly as he applies pressure, shifting his angle and forcing the mechanism in a way that strains against it rather than working with it. The material resists at first, holding firm like it was designed to, but Leon doesn't stop. He adjusts again, changes direction, increases force just enough to push it past its limit without snapping it in a way that could hurt you.

Finally, the first wrist comes loose. Leon doesn't hesitate. He works the opening immediately, pulling it wider, freeing your other wrist carefully but quickly, his hand catching yours the second it's loose, steadying it before it can fall.

"Got it," he breathes, more to himself than anything else.

For a second, he doesn't move you.

He just stays there, one hand still around yours, the other hovering near your shoulder like he's bracing for something, like he's expecting you to wake up, to react, to do something. When you don't, the tension shifts again. Softer this time. More careful.

Leon slides his arm behind your back, supporting your weight as he eases you forward, out of the position the restraints held you in. Your body doesn't resist. It leans into him instead, unsteady, the lack of awareness making the movement feel heavier than it should.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now, the words closer to a promise than anything else.

He adjusts his hold, one arm secure around you, the other steadying your head as he lowers you just enough to get a better look at you. His thumb brushes lightly along your cheek without thinking, grounding himself in the contact as much as he's checking you.

Leon's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't let it spiral. Not now. Not when you're right here, when you're breathing, when he can still do something about it.

"Come on," he murmurs, his voice low and steady again as he shifts his grip, preparing to move. "You're not staying here."

The facility groans faintly around them, a reminder that whatever stability it had before is gone now, systems failing slowly in the aftermath of Gideon's collapse. The lights flicker once, then again, the hum dipping unevenly as something deeper in the structure begins to shut down.

Leon doesn't wait to see how far it goes. He gathers you more securely against him, lifting you carefully, mindful of your condition, of the way your body still hasn't fully recovered from whatever was done to it. His movements are controlled again, but the urgency is back, sharper now, focused entirely on getting you out.

As he turns toward the broken doorway, his grip tightens just slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make sure you're there.

The facility doesn't sound the same on the way out. What had once been a steady, controlled hum has fractured into something uneven, strained, like the structure itself is struggling to keep up with systems that are failing faster than they can compensate. The lights flicker overhead in irregular pulses, casting the corridor in shifting bands of brightness and shadow that make the space feel unstable, unfamiliar, even though Leon had just moved through it minutes before with absolute clarity.

Your weight is secure against him, one arm braced firmly around your back, the other supporting you beneath your legs as he moves through the corridor with controlled urgency. Every step is precise despite the pace, his body adjusting instinctively to keep you steady, to minimize the jarring motion that might make things worse.

Your head rests against his shoulder, your breathing warm against his neck, uneven but present. He keeps track of it without thinking, each inhale and exhale a quiet reassurance that cuts through everything else.

"Almost out," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, his voice low and steady even as the world around him shifts.

The door he forced open earlier hangs unevenly now, the frame warped just enough to leave it partially ajar. Cool night air seeps through the opening, cutting through the sterile atmosphere behind him and bringing with it the scent of damp earth and open space.

Freedom.

Leon doesn't hesitate. He pushes through, stepping out into the night in one smooth motion, the shift in environment immediate and grounding. The air is colder here, cleaner, and for the first time since he entered the facility, his lungs pull in a breath that doesn't feel heavy.

The car is exactly where he left it, partially obscured by the treeline, its dark silhouette blending into the surroundings. He heads straight for it, his pace steady but urgent, every second outside the facility a step further away from everything that just happened.

Your body shifts slightly in his arms. At first, it's subtle. A change in weight. A small, uncoordinated movement that could easily be dismissed as nothing. But Leon feels it immediately. His grip tightens just slightly, enough to steady you as his gaze drops briefly, searching your face for confirmation.

Your brows furrow faintly as your breathing changes.

"Hey," he says, softer now, his voice dropping instinctively as he adjusts his hold just enough to support you better. "Easy. You're alright."

"...Leon?" The word comes out quiet, rough around the edges, like your voice hasn't fully returned yet.

He hears it immediately.

"I'm here," he answers without hesitation, his voice closer now, steadier, like he's anchoring you through the haze. "I've got you."

Your eyes open slowly, the night sky above you blurred at first, shifting slightly with each step he takes. It takes a second for things to settle, for your vision to catch up enough to focus, and when it does, you see him again. Up close and real, not the image you forced yourself to see while Gideon was tormenting you.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his jacket, the movement small but intentional as you try to ground yourself in something you recognize.

"I told... told him you'd save me." You barely get out. "You're... okay?"

"I'm fine," he says, though it's not the point. "You're the one I'm worried about."

You let out a faint breath, something that might almost be a laugh if your body had the strength for it. It fades quickly as a dull ache rolls through you again, your muscles tightening instinctively before easing.

"Feel like... a million bucks..." you murmur.

Leon reaches the car quickly, shifting his hold just enough to open the passenger door without setting you down, his movements efficient despite the care behind them. He lowers you into the seat gently, one hand steadying your back as the other guides your legs in, making sure you're settled before pulling back.

For a moment, he doesn't close the door. His hand lingers briefly against your shoulder, his gaze scanning your face again, checking, confirming, making sure you're still with him.

"I'm right here," he says quietly, reaching up to caress your cheek.

You nod faintly, your head resting back against the seat, your body still heavy, still not fully your own, but more present than before.

Leon closes the door and rounds the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine without hesitation. The headlights cut through the darkness ahead, illuminating the path back in a way that feels far more real than anything inside that facility ever did.

As the car pulls away, the building disappears behind them, swallowed by the trees and the night as if it was never meant to be found. For a few minutes, there's only the sound of the road under the tires.

Leon taps a few buttons on his infotainment screen. The dial tone sounds in the car.

"Leon?" Hunnigan's voice comes through, alert immediately.

"I found her," he says.

There's a pause. Then relief, quiet but unmistakable. "Is she—"

"She's alive," he cuts in, glancing briefly toward you before returning his focus forward. "But Gideon got to her first. He injected something. I don't know what."

Your eyes shift toward him slightly at that, your focus hazy but present enough to follow the conversation. There's a brief sound of typing on the other end.

"If it's Elpis-related, it's not going to be simple," Hunnigan says. "You need to get her checked out as soon as possible. I can pull what I have on Gideon's compounds, but if he refined anything—"

"Bringing her now," Leon says, his tone firm, leaving no room for argument.

There's a pause.

"Understood," Hunnigan replies, quieter now. "Monitor her until then. Watch for instability, changes in heart rate, neurological response, anything abnormal."

Leon's grip tightens slightly on the wheel. "Yeah," he says. "Already am."

"I'll send you everything I find," she adds. "Leon, you did well."

He doesn't respond to that. He ends the call a second later, the quiet of the car settling in again as the road stretches ahead.

Your head turns slightly toward him, your voice softer now, more grounded despite the lingering exhaustion. "...You always do that," you murmur.

He glances at you briefly. "Do what?"

"Act like... you weren't worried," you say, your words slower now, but clearer.

Something in his expression softens, just slightly. "I was," he admits.

The answer is simple. Honest. And it sits between you in a way that doesn't need anything added.

The road carries you forward, the distance between where you were and where you're going growing with every second. It still feels longer on the way back. The distance hasn't changed, but every second now carries weight Leon didn't have time to feel before. The urgency hasn't left him. It's just changed shape, sharpened into something quieter, more focused, more dangerous in its own way.

He doesn't take the direct route home. He turns off sooner than expected, the car shifting onto a narrower road that disappears deeper into the trees. The headlights carve through the darkness in long, steady beams, illuminating a path that doesn't look like it leads anywhere permanent.

You notice the change, even through the lingering haze. Your head shifts slightly against the seat, your eyes half-lidded but tracking the unfamiliar surroundings as best you can.

"This isn't home," you murmur, your voice still softer than usual, weighed down by exhaustion and something else you can't quite place.

Leon glances at you briefly, just long enough to confirm you're still with him.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

The road narrows further before it opens into something unexpected, a structure set back from the tree line, low and unmarked, its exterior deliberately unremarkable in the same way the facility had been, but cleaner, maintained. A single light glows near the entrance, steady and controlled. Safe. Or as close as it gets.

Leon pulls up without slowing more than necessary, the engine cutting the moment the car stops. He's out of the vehicle in seconds, moving around to your side, the door opening before you fully register the shift.

"I've got you," he says again, quieter now as he reaches in, one arm sliding behind your back, the other beneath your legs as he lifts you carefully from the seat.

Your body responds this time. Weakly. Your hand finds his jacket again, fingers curling into the fabric without thinking, holding on as the ground shifts beneath you.

"Leon..." you breathe, your voice unsteady but present.

"I know," he murmurs. "Just trust me."

The door to the building opens before he reaches it. Hunnigan stands inside, already moving and prepared. There's no surprise in her expression, no wasted time on relief, just immediate focus as her eyes take you in, assessing faster than words could keep up.

"This way," she says, stepping aside.

Leon doesn't stop. The interior is brighter, cleaner, the air carrying that same clinical sharpness, but without the wrongness that clung to Gideon's facility. This feels controlled in a different way. Not experimental. It's protective.

He follows her down a short corridor and into a room already set up, equipment active, monitors ready, everything positioned with intention.

"Set her here," Hunnigan directs.

Leon lowers you onto the table with care, his hands lingering just a second longer than necessary as he makes sure you're stable before pulling back. He doesn't step far and doesn't look away.

A nurse comes over immediately, her hands steady as she begins checking vitals, attaching sensors, her focus sharp and efficient.

"Heart rate elevated but stable," she murmurs, more to herself than to either of you. "Temperature's up, not unexpected."

You flinch slightly at the contact, your body still sensitive, still not fully under your control as the lingering effects of the injection continue to hum beneath your skin.

"What did he give her?" Leon asks, his voice low, controlled, but tighter than before.

She doesn't answer right away. She moves quickly, pulling a sample, running it through a portable analyzer already humming to life on the counter beside her.

"Give me a second," she says.

The machine processes faster than anything standard, its quiet mechanical sounds filling the space between your uneven breathing and the tension settling heavier in the room.

Leon's attention doesn't leave you. Your eyes drift toward him, unfocused at first, then clearer as your body fights its way back toward something resembling normal.

"I'm okay," you try, your voice softer now, but he doesn't buy it.

"I know," he says, but it doesn't sound like agreement.

It sounds like reassurance for himself more than anyone.

The machine beeps. Hunnigan's attention snaps to it immediately, her eyes scanning the results as they populate across the screen. Her expression tightens, just slightly, something small but enough for Leon to catch it.

"What is it?" he asks.

She exhales quietly. "It's a modified Elpis compound," she says. "Derivative strain. Designed to destabilize cellular response and force rapid adaptation."

"And?"

The nurse looks at you, then at the screen, chiming in. "It should've caused systemic failure," she says. "Organ stress, neurological breakdown... worst case, full collapse."

Your stomach drops faintly, even through the haze.

"But it didn't," Leon says.

"No," Hunnigan replies. "It didn't."

She taps the screen lightly, pulling up another set of data.

"Her system compensated," she continues. "Regulated instead of rejecting. It's stabilizing the compound instead of letting it spread."

"What does that mean?" you ask.

"It means you're not in immediate danger," the nurse says. "But it also means whatever he put into you isn't gone."

Your fingers curl slightly against the surface beneath you, your breathing steadying more now as the worst of the earlier effects fade into something duller, more manageable.

"...so I'm not dying tonight?" you ask, your voice quiet, but clearer now.

Hunnigan looks at you directly.

"No," she says. "You're not."

Leon exhales, probably louder than he intended. It's the first real release of tension since he found you. Hunnigan's gaze shifts back to the screen.

"But we're going to need to monitor you," she adds. "Closely."

The house is quiet when the door opens. Not the heavy, suffocating quiet Leon had walked into earlier, the kind that had pressed in on him with something wrong beneath it. This is different. Softer. The kind of quiet that belongs to a place waiting to be filled again, not one that’s already been emptied. Still, when he steps inside with you in his arms, something in him tightens.

For a split second, the image overlaps, the broken stillness from before, the absence, the space where you should have been. It flickers through him before he can stop it. Then you shift against him.

Leon exhales slowly, the breath quieter this time, less controlled, as he nudges the door closed behind him with his foot. The soft click of it sealing shut sounds louder than it should, final in a way that settles something deep in his chest. You're here, and that's what matters.

“I can walk,” you murmur against him, your voice still a little worn, a little softer than usual, but stronger than it was before.

He doesn’t answer right away. His grip doesn’t loosen either.

“I know,” he says after a second, glancing down at you briefly. “You don’t have to.”

You huff a faint breath that turns into a smile, your hand shifting slightly where it rests against his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric like you’re reminding yourself he’s real, too.

“You’re stubborn,” you mumble.

“Yeah,” he replies. “You married me anyway.”

You break out into a sleepy grin. He carries you further into the house, his steps slower now, no urgency pushing him forward anymore, just care. The rest of the house comes into view, familiar in a way that almost feels surreal after everything that came before it.

Then he stumbles upon the kitchen. The light is left on, the chair is still slid out, and the broken mug is still there. Ceramic shards scattered across the tile, the dark stain long since dried where coffee had spilled and been left behind, frozen in the moment everything went wrong.

You follow his gaze, your brow knitting faintly as your eyes settle on it, memory catching up in pieces, the last normal moment before everything had been ripped away.

“And that was my favorite one too,” you murmur quietly.

Leon exhales, something in his chest shifting again, not sharp this time, not panic or urgency, just something quieter, something closer to relief tangled up with the remnants of everything else.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he says.

He carries you past the kitchen, leaving the broken pieces where they are for now. It can wait. None of that matters in this moment, not compared to the weight in his arms, the warmth of you against him, the quiet proof that he didn’t lose you.

When he reaches the couch, he finally lowers you carefully, his movements slow and deliberate as he eases you down into the cushions. This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately. His hands linger on your, one at your back and the other at your arm. He's not ready to let go just yet.

Instead, your hand finds his wrist again, your fingers curling lightly around it before he can step back, holding him there in a way that’s gentle but unmistakable.

“Stay,” you murmur.

He shifts instead, sitting beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch, his body angled toward yours without thinking. For a second, neither of you says anything, the quiet settling in around you again, but this time it feels different. It's safe and full.

Your head tips slightly toward him, your body leaning just enough that he reacts without hesitation, his arm coming around you instinctively, pulling you closer, steadying you against his side. You melt into him naturally, more dramatically than usual.

His hand moves slowly along your back, his thumb brushing lightly in absent, repetitive motions that feel more like habit than thought.

"When you weren't home, I thought..." his words drop quietly. They don't come easily.

You tilt your head slightly, your cheek brushing his shoulder as you glance up at him. “I know,” you say softly.

You don’t make him finish it. You don’t need to. His jaw tightens faintly, his arm around you pulling just a little closer, like the thought alone is enough to make him hold on tighter. You shift slightly, turning more toward him despite the lingering heaviness in your body, your hand sliding up from his wrist to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric there as you steady yourself.

“I’m here,” you murmur.

This time, it’s for him. His gaze drops to you, something in it softer now, less guarded, the edges worn down by everything that’s already passed.

“I know,” he says.

You study him for a second longer, then lean in, closing the small space between you. The kiss is gentle, slow, less about reassurance and more about presence. Your hand stays against his chest, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath it as his hand comes up to your jaw, holding you there with quiet care. There's no urgency; it's just warmth and you.

He leans into it fully this time, the tension finally easing from his shoulders as he lets himself settle into something that doesn’t require fighting, doesn’t require thinking, doesn’t require anything except being here with you.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath steadying in a way it hasn’t since before any of this started.

“Next time,” you murmur softly, a faint hint of teasing threading through the exhaustion, “I’m making tea instead.”

That almost makes him laugh. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Safer choice.”

The quiet stretches around you, soft and steady, the kind that doesn’t press in or demand anything. It just exists, wrapping around the two of you like something familiar, something earned.

You don’t realize how heavy your body feels until you try to move again. It’s subtle at first, a shift against him, your muscles protesting just enough to remind you that you’re still recovering, still not fully back to yourself. The exhaustion settles deeper now that everything else has quieted, pulling at you in a way that’s harder to ignore.

"We have to get cleaned up, sweetheart," he says, kissing your head.

"Okay," you reply, half asleep.

Before you can argue, before you can insist on anything else, his arm shifts around you, steady and sure as he moves to stand. The motion is smooth, practiced, like he’s done this before, like taking care of you has always come this naturally. Your arm slides around his shoulders without hesitation, your body settling against him with a quiet acceptance that feels as natural as breathing.

“You’re really not going to let me walk, are you?” you murmur, your voice softer now, edged with tired amusement.

“No,” he replies simply.

The two of you move together down the hall, slowly, quietly. The bathroom light flicks on, warm and soft, filling the space in a way that feels almost jarring after everything else. It’s normal, ordinary, safe. He sets you down on the closed toilet lid. Leon moves ahead just enough to start the water, adjusting it carefully, testing the temperature with his hand before letting it run. Steam begins to rise slowly, curling into the air and softening the edges of the room.

You lean lightly against the counter, watching him through the haze of exhaustion, the small, familiar movements grounding you in a way nothing else quite has yet.

“You do this a lot,” you murmur faintly.

He glances back at you, brow lifting just slightly. “Take care of you?” he asks.

You nod once. Something in his expression softens, just a fraction.

“I always will,” he says quietly.

He steps back toward you then, slower now, his hands gentler as they come to rest at your arms, steadying you again. His gaze flickers briefly over your face, checking, making sure you’re still with him, still present.

“Can you stand?” he asks.

You nod. “I think so.”

He doesn’t completely take your word for it. He stays close anyway. Careful and patient. There’s no rush in what comes next. Just a quiet understanding between you as he helps you out of your clothes, his movements respectful, unhurried, like this isn’t something to get through, but something to do right. His hands are steady, never lingering where they shouldn’t, never pulling away too quickly either.

When you step into the bath, the warmth surrounds you immediately, sinking into your muscles in a way that makes your breath catch softly in your chest. You lower yourself slowly, the water rising around you, easing tension you didn’t even realize you were still holding. It’s not just relief, it’s release.

Your shoulders drop, your head tipping back slightly against the edge as your eyes close for a second, letting yourself settle into it. Leon stays close. Not in the water yet, but right there beside the tub, one hand resting lightly along the edge, his attention still entirely on you.

“Too hot?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head, your voice softer now. "Perfect."

He nods once, then reaches for the shampoo, his movements slower, more deliberate as he shifts closer. His hand brushes lightly against your shoulder first, a silent check, a pause to make sure you’re with him.

You tilt your head slightly in response, and that's all he needs. His fingers move through your hair gently, working the shampoo in with care that feels like heaven. There’s no rush, no distraction, just the steady rhythm of his hands, the quiet presence of him there with you. The tension leaves you in pieces. 

Your head leans back a little more, your eyes slipping closed again as you let yourself relax into it, into the warmth of him.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, your voice barely above the sound of the water.

When he rinses your hair, one hand steadies at the back of your neck, careful, protective, making sure the water doesn’t hit too hard, doesn’t pull you out of the quiet you’ve finally found. You lean into that touch without thinking.

By the time he's done, the air feels different. You feel lighter, cleaner, safer. He lingers for a second, his hand still resting lightly along the edge of the tub as he watches you settle deeper into the water. The tension that had been sitting in your shoulders has eased; your breathing is slower now, your body finally beginning to let go of everything it had been holding on to.

His gaze shifts, thoughtful. “You sure you’re steady?” he asks quietly.

You open your eyes just enough to look at him, the faintest hint of a smile returning. “I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur.

He exhales softly, then moves, slower this time. There’s no hesitation in it, just a quiet decision as he steps back, shedding the last of his own clothes with the same unhurried care he showed you. It’s simple, practical, like this is just the next step.

Then he steps into the bath behind you. The water shifts around him, rising slightly, warmth settling over both of you as he lowers himself carefully, mindful of your space, of your balance, of everything you’ve just been through. His movements are controlled, even here, even now, but there’s something softer in them too, something that isn’t about precision anymore.

You feel the warmth of his chest against your back. His arm comes around you almost immediately, instinctively, resting lightly across your middle, not pulling you in too tightly, just enough to steady you, to keep you anchored there with him.

You exhale, slow and quiet. “That’s better,” you murmur.

A faint breath leaves him, something just short of a laugh. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, it is.”

The water laps gently against the sides of the tub, the only sound in the room aside from your breathing, which has finally evened out into something calm, something steady. The warmth sinks deeper now, loosening what little tension remains, dulling the last edges of pain into something manageable.

Leon’s hand shifts slightly against you, his thumb brushing absent, slow patterns along your arm. It’s not deliberate, not something he’s thinking about. It’s just there, familiar, grounding, something he’s done a hundred times before in quieter moments.

“You still with me?” he asks after a while, his voice low, close to your ear.

You nod faintly, your head tipping back just enough to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just tired.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens just a fraction, then eases again, like he’s reminding himself you’re here, that he doesn’t have to hold on so tightly anymore.

You reach back slightly, your fingers finding his arm where it rests around you, tracing lightly over his skin without thinking. It’s a small movement, but it’s enough to pull his attention fully to you again.

“You okay?” you ask, softer now.

There’s a pause. “I am now,” he admits.

You tilt your head just enough to look up at him, your gaze meeting his in the soft, warm light of the room. For a second, neither of you moves, the space between you close but unhurried.

Then you lean in. The kiss is gentle, slower than before, your hand coming up to rest lightly against his jaw as your lips meet his. There’s no urgency in it, no need to prove anything, just quiet reassurance, the simple fact that you’re both here, both real, both okay.

He responds just as softly, his hand shifting from your arm to your side, holding you there with a steady, careful touch as he leans into it. It lingers just long enough to mean something, to settle into something real, before he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours.

"I was scared," he murmurs.

"I know," you whisper. "Me too."

His eyes close briefly at that, his breath steadying as he leans into your touch for just a second. The water cools slowly around you, but neither of you moves right away. There’s no rush to leave this moment, no urgency pulling you forward. Just warmth, and quiet, and the steady presence of each other. Eventually, though, he shifts.

“Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Let’s get dried off and get to bed.”

Leon reaches for a towel immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders before you can even think about it, his hands moving with that same practiced gentleness as he draws you closer, drying your hair first, slow and careful, working through it like he had in the water.

Another towel follows, this one warmer, softer as he drapes it around you and guides you to sit on the edge of the tub for a second, making sure you’re steady before stepping back just enough to grab fresh clothes.

He helps you again, keeping you steady as he eases the fabric over your arms, adjusts it at your shoulders, and makes sure you're comfortable before moving on. By the time you're both dressed, the whole world has softened. The sharp edges from before have faded into something else.

Leon’s hand finds yours without thinking as he leads you back toward the bedroom, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as you walk. You don’t pull away. If anything, your grip tightens slightly, grounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the steady presence that hasn’t left your side since he found you.

When you reach the bed, he slows, turning slightly toward you instead of immediately guiding you down. For a second, you just stand there.

"Thank you, Leon," you say quietly, looking at his tired eyes.

The words are simple, but they carry everything behind them, everything you don’t need to explain because he already knows. Leon’s expression softens in that small, almost imperceptible way it does when something gets past his guard. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his free hand comes up, resting gently at your jaw as he leans in just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

“I love you, okay?” he murmurs against you, his voice low, steady, like he needs you to hear it, to hold onto it.

Your breath catches just slightly, something warm settling in your chest as you meet his gaze.

“I love you too,” you reply, just as soft.

He leans his forehead briefly against yours, then shifts, guiding you gently down onto the bed, his hand never quite leaving you as he settles beside you moments later.

You turn toward him instinctively. He meets you there. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your body fitting against his like it always has, like it always will. The exhaustion is heavier now, pulling at you in a way that’s impossible to fight, but it doesn’t feel overwhelming anymore.

Your hands come up to rest against his chest, and you listen to the steady sound of his heart where your head lies near his chest. Leon’s hand moves once along your back, then stills, holding you there as the quiet settles in fully around you.

When sleep finally comes, it's gentle and safe. And this time, home finally feels like home again.

-----

My requests are open! <3 I would love to hear from you!

Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.

You.

He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.

"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.

"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.

His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."

"Very."

He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.

Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.

Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.

"Don't," you breathe.

Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.

Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.

"Persistent," you mutter.

"Understatement."

It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack. 

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.

"You okay?" he asks without turning.

"Fine."

He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.

"Your heart rate's up."

"So is yours."

"Occupational hazard."

You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

"I adjusted my stance."

You snort. "Sure you did, hero."

His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.

"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.

"You hate sand."

"I could learn."

"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."

"It started it."

He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."

"Coward."

They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.

Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.

Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."

"And our worst bet for everything else."

"Probably."

He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.

You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."

"I am standing back."

"Further."

He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.

"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.

"Try not to worry so loudly."

"I don't worry."

You glance up. "Leon."

"...I worry a normal amount."

You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."

You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.

"You can let go," he says gently.

You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.

"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."

"Very."

But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.

Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.

Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.

"Help," he croaks.

Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"

The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."

His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner.  Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.

"Careful," he murmurs.

"I know."

His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.

The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."

Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.

"Jackpot," you whisper.

Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.

Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."

You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.

Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.

"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."

"I'm here."

"Good."

"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"

The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.

The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.

"Back!" Leon snaps.

You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.

One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision. 

More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.

"Too many," you shout.

"Move!"

You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.

A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.

The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.

"Leon!"

He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.

Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.

Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.

He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.

"You hurt?" he asks.

You shake your head, throat tight. "No."

"Good."

His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.

"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."

You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.

Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.

The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.

Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.

"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."

He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."

"You got a call."

"We both got a call."

"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."

"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."

"That's not a crime."

"It should be."

You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."

"I'll buy you dessert."

"You said that last time."

"I meant it last time, too."

His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."

You glance at him. "You're serious."

"Dead serious."

A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."

"I'd last three."

"Two and a half."

He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."

The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.

Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.

"Hold."

You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.

He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."

"Could be."

He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"

"Always."

One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.

You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."

"Switch packs with me."

"I'm fine."

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"It wasn't an order either."

For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.

"Tension," he says softly.

"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."

"Comes with the badge."

"You don't even carry a badge."

"Metaphorical badge."

You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.

"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.

"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.

He gives you a look. You give him one right back.

"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."

"Yes, dear."

His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."

"Yes, sir," you salute.

Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.

"Stand clear," you say.

He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.

For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.

"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."

He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.

"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."

Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.

"On you."

You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.

Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.

All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.

Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.

"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.

You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.

"Stay close," he murmurs.

You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.

"Always do," you whisper back.

The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.

Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.

A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.

"Probably just settling," you whisper.

Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.

Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.

"Leon—!"

He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.

You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat. 

Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.

"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.

Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.

The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.

"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."

You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."

His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.

The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.

You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.

"Oh," you say softly.

Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.

"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.

He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.

"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."

You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.

"Good news," you murmur.

His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."

The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.

"This won't stop it," you say quietly.

"I know."

He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.

"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.

"No."

"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"

"No, Leon."

He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.

"Hey," you say softly.

His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.

"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."

You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.

He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.

He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.

"Stay with me," he murmurs.

Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.

"Always," you whisper.

Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.

"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.

"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.

"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.

He glances at you immediately. "What?"

"Nothing. Thought I heard something."

He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.

The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.

"Hey," Leon says quietly.

You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."

He stops anyway.

"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."

Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down. 

When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.

You shake your head. "We don't have time."

"Sit."

There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.

The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.

His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.

His brows draw together. "You're burning up."

"Shock," you say weakly.

"You know that's not true."

His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.

"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.

A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.

"Look at me," he says softly.

You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.

"We're going to fix this," he says.

"You don't know that."

"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."

Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.

"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."

His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"

"No."

"Dizziness?"

"...Maybe."

"Confusion?"

You hesitate.

His expression darkens. "How long?"

"Ten minutes."

He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.

"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."

"I'm right here."

His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.

"Leon."

"Yeah."

"If I start to..."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."

"You need to be ready."

"I am ready."

"That's not what I mean."

His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.

"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."

Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.

"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."

"Maybe," you echo.

He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.

Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.

You blink. "Leon—"

"Save your strength."

"I can walk."

"I know."

And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.

"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.

You nod weakly. "Yeah."

"Good."

He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.

Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."

"I'm trying."

"Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything."

You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.

"...Dessert," you mumble finally.

A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.

"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.

His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.

Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.

Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.

"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"

A pause. "...Yeah."

The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.

The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.

Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.

"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."

A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."

He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.

"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."

You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.

"It's... dark," you mumble.

His chest tightens. The lights are still on.

"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."

Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.

"...Leon."

Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."

Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.

"You look... tired."

He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.

Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.

"You should sleep," you whisper.

The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.

"Soon, sweetheart," he says.

Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.

Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"

The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.

Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.

"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."

Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.

"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."

His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice. 

Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."

Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.

"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."

You stir weakly. "...'m tired."

"I know."

"So tired."

His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.

"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.

Your eyes open a sliver.

"...Promise?"

The question is so small it barely exists.

He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.

"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."

He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.

He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.

"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.

"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.

He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.

"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."

He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.

"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."

The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.

Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.

A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.

"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."

He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.

"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."

Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.

"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.

Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.

"Where are we?" you murmur.

"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."

Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."

His throat tightens.

"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.

He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.

He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.

He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.

A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.

Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.

"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.

He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.

Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.

Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.

He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.

"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.

From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.

Behind him, the ward remains still.

Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"

He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.

"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."

You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."

"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."

Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.

The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.

"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."

Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.

The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.

Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.

Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.

He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.

"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."

He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.

His pulse hammers harder.

Not here. Not here. Not here.

"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.

He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.

"Don't do this to me," he whispers.

Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.

Mutation rates. Transmission vectors. Failure rates. 

Failure rates.

His jaw tightens.

A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.

He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.

ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE

He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.

Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.

Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.

"Damn it," he breathes.

The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.

Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.

For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.

He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.

"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."

His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.

His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.

He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.

Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.

Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:

ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN

For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.

"Okay," he whispers, voice breaking anyway. "Okay. We're good. We're... we're good."

He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.

"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."

Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.

"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."

No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.

A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.

"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."

Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.

"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."

His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.

"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."

Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.

"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."

His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.

"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."

He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.

"You hear me? We've got plans."

Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."

He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.

"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."

He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.

"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."

The needle presses into your skin.

He hesitates.

Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.

"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."

He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.

"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."

He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.

Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.

"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."

He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.

"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."

Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.

"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.

Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.

He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.

"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."

He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.

"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."

Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.

There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.

"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."

Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.

"That's it," he says urgently. "That's something. That's good. Keep going."

Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.

"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."

Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.

"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."

Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.

"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."

He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.

Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.

His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.

"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."

Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.

Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."

Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.

Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.

Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.

Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.

The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.

Leon.

He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.

Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"

He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.

For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.

"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."

You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."

Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."

"Was I... gone?"

His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."

You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.

"You scared me," he says quietly.

Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."

His head snaps slightly. "Don't."

The word is sharp, then softens immediately.

"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."

You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.

"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."

He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."

He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.

"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"

"Everything hurts."

He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."

Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.

"...You found it," you whisper.

He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.

Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."

You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.

"You were crying," you say softly.

Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.

"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."

A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.

"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.

Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.

"I'm here," you whisper.

He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."

He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in. 

"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."

You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.

"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."

He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.

"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.

A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."

He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.

Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.

Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.

Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.

"You're staring," you murmur.

"Monitoring," he corrects.

"You blink?"

"Sometimes."

You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.

"I'm okay," you assure him.

He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.

"You hungry?" he asks.

"Always."

He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.

When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.

"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.

Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.

You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.

"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."

Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.

Your chest tightens.

"You remembered," you whisper.

He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."

You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.

An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.

Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.

For a long moment, you can't speak.

"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."

"Leon..."

He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.

"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"

You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.

"Thank you," you say softly.

Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."

You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.

"Worth it?" he asks.

You nod. "Absolutely."

You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before. 

You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.

"I love you," you whisper.

His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."

Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."

You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."

"Still."

His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.

Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.

"Two weeks," you murmur.

"Yeah."

"You think you can handle boring?"

He huffs softly. "I'll manage."

You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3