ShinigamiMailJeevas

“Tell me it’s not true.”

Recipient of the demanding tone has Leon S. Kennedy lifting his head abruptly from where he nurses a beer. Not one to turn down masochistic tendencies, he’d ordered the beverage an hour ago and not taken a single sip. The hoppy scent curls under nose, tickles the back of his throat with and itch that scratches the base of his brain with blunt nails. The urge to take a swig is a low, burring scream he’s managed to resist by pealing the label off the heavily sweating bottle. Not even hard liquor and his mouth salivates for it. He’s worse than a dog in heat. “Dunno, depends on what I’m being accused of. Could have done it.” The lazy smile he shoots one Chris Redfield—and isn’t this just the worst case of Deja Vu to have? Different bar and circumstances, yet feeling all too damn familiar. He’s not taken a sip and still feels the other mans disappointment settle over him heavily—is clearly unappreciated, given the immediate frown and aggressive boot stomps in his direction. 

“Oh boy, here we go.” Leon mutters, hand slipping from bottle to bar top, he spins in place to fully face whatever shitstorm is being brought his way. Should have noticed when the bartender stopped coming ‘round to scowl at him and tap the chipped wood finish, prompting Leon into sliding over bill after bill just to continue to sit and torture himself. Been a few minutes, at least. Fuck, I’m out of it.

Front door swinging open behind Chris reveals the unfairly muscled BSAA agents sister, expression a firestorm as colorful as her hair. 

Instantly Leon turns serious, “What’s going on?”