#ficrecommendation

You gave him a small, lopsided smile. “Not to most people. But I’ve seen you when you’re... composed. And this isn’t it.”

His fingers curled loosely around the coffee cup, but he didn’t lift it right away. “You’re observant.”

“I run a café. People tell me things with their faces more than their words,” you said, watching him. 

Rintarou was silent for a moment. His gaze dropped to the steam curling up from his cup, and something unreadable passed over his face— almost weariness.

“I just… wanted to check,” you added gently, as if afraid you might have overstepped. “If there’s anything I can do. Or if you just want to talk. Or even if you don’t want to say anything at all—I’m here ‘till closing.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. And in his eyes, there was something raw beneath all that restraint. He gave a short, humorless breath through his nose. “No, I’m alright.” he said, then softer, “but thank you.”

There was something tender in his voice when he said that—like the act of offering had meant more than your words. He finally brought the coffee to his lips, sipping it slowly. You didn’t push, just stood there with him for a moment in comfortable silence.

That night, you sat alone in your quiet apartment, troubled by the image of him. Your ability was a rare one. You could enter and influence dreams, as long as you knew someone’s name. And Rintarou Mori—you knew his name. You had never used your ability without telling someone. But this felt... different. He looked like he needed rest more than anything else. You only wanted to help.

So you closed your eyes, whispered his name, and fell into sleep.

The dream was a suffocating void, alive with pain and regret.

You found yourself in a makeshift field hospital, the air thick with antiseptic and screams. Young Rintarou—his once-crisp white coat stained by sweat and mud—raced between bloodied stretchers. He’d been a war doctor first, stitching wounds and administering morphine under relentless shellfire. Here, his hands shook as he tried to save soldiers he’d never know again.

Then the scene blurred, shifting to a dingy back-alley clinic, flickering lanterns casting half-shadows. He’d worked there next, an underground doctor tending to the city’s worst and desperate. His coat hung heavier, the fabric threadbare, but his eyes burned with quiet determination as he patched bullet wounds by candlelight.

Finally, the memory twisted, hard and sharp, dragging you into the dim, echoing halls of the Port Mafia’s headquarters. The air was cold, still, and heavy with finality. There, in the shadows of power, Rintarou knelt beside a frail figure collapsed on a silk-draped bed—his predecessor, the old boss. The man’s hair was ghost-white, slick with sweat, his breath shallow and rattling like wind through cracked glass.

You watched, heart tight, as the old man’s eyes snapped open. His voice came in a fevered whisper, slurred and manic: “Kill them… kill them all…”

And Rintarou—his expression unreadable, his face like carved porcelain—leaned in close. With steady, surgical precision, he withdrew a blade. Not a weapon of war, but a surgeon’s knife—sterile, deliberate, clinical.

Without a word, he drew it across the old man’s throat.

The blood was quick and silent, soaking into the sheets like ink. There was no cruelty in the act. No pleasure. Only cold necessity—and a trace of sorrow so deeply buried it almost went unnoticed. The boss’s last breath rattled like a judge’s gavel.

You stepped forward, the memory still settling around him like ash. The air was heavy with blood and silence—too many silences. The soldiers he couldn’t save. The desperate voices from that backroom clinic. The soft, wet sound of a throat being opened by his own hand.

They flickered in and out of focus—ghosts circling him, bound not by malice, but by memory. And Rintarou knelt at the center of it all, unmoving. Not resisting. Just… enduring. Shoulders stiff. Eyes blank. A man who had learned to carry his sins in silence because he thought no one else should have to.

You knelt beside him, your presence a ripple in the stillness. One hand reached out, brushing his sleeve—just enough. Not to erase what had happened, but to offer something else.

With the faintest pulse of your ability, the scene around you began to bend and soften. The dark walls of the Mafia’s inner sanctum melted away, brick by brick, and were replaced by open sky. Cold stone gave way to soft grass. The air warmed. Light returned.

And yet… he didn’t move.

Even in the dawn you offered, Rintarou sat frozen—jaw tight, fists clenched in his lap, as if terrified that letting go of the past would dishonor the dead he carried with him.

You looked at him, truly looked. Not as a doctor. Not as a killer. But as a man who’d lived through more than anyone should—and survived it alone.

And for the first time, in the quiet hum of his dream, you whispered, “You don’t have to keep reliving it to prove you remember.”

He didn’t answer, but his breath hitched—just once. And in that stillness, you saw it:

He heard you.

The next morning, Rintarou arrived alone.

No Elise. No usual easy pretense. Just him—standing in the doorway of your café with shadows under his eyes and something heavier in the set of his shoulders. The morning sun lit the edges of his worn coat, and though his hair was still tousled and a faint stubble clung to his jaw, there was nothing unkempt about the look in his eyes.

Sharp. Direct. Measured.

You met him behind the counter, offering his coffee without a word. But he didn’t take it right away.

“You,” he said quietly, eyes never leaving yours, “were in my dream.”

You stilled.

His tone wasn’t angry. Not quite. But it carried a weight that settled in the space between you like a blade laid gently on a table.

“I don’t remember everything,” he continued, tone calm but direct, “but I know enough. You changed it. You saw it. You saw me.”

Your throat tightened. “I didn’t mean to invade your mind, I swear. I didn’t even know—at first—that it was that kind of dream. You looked so… tired. I just wanted to help.”

Rintarou studied you in silence, his expression unreadable.

“You went where no one’s ever been,” he said finally. “My memories. My regrets. You saw what I did. What I became.”

“I did,” you said. “And I’m still treating you the same. Still here. That should tell you everything.”

His jaw tightened, like he wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or ashamed. “You saw me kill him.”

You nodded. 

A pause.

A beat.

“My real name is Ougai Mori. Rintarou is just what Elise likes to call me.”

There it was. Clear. Direct. A confession offered not with pride, but with unflinching honesty.

The words hung between you like a blade suspended mid-air.

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to match this quiet man—this gentle regular with worn sleeves and a sweet tooth for Elise’s sake—to the shadowed title that made the underworld tremble. And yet... it wasn’t hard. Because you had already seen what others hadn’t: the surgeon’s precision, the commander’s burden, the man beneath the weight.

You exhaled slowly. “So that’s the name behind the nightmares.”

You stared at him, the words settling between you like smoke that didn’t quite sting. It should have frightened you. It should have driven you back. But instead, you stepped closer—barely noticeable, just a shift in breath, in presence.

“…I figured it was something like that,” you said softly, voice steady. “After everything I saw… the weight you carry, the things you’ve done—yes, I know who you are now. But it doesn’t change what I see when I look at you.”

You stepped around the counter and walked up to him. Close enough that you could see the worry he almost—almost—managed to hide.

“You didn’t become a monster,” you said, voice steady despite the storm inside you. “You became a man carrying more than anyone should have to. You made choices that no one else wanted to make. I’m not going anywhere.”

A long silence passed. He looked at you, really looked at you, with those dark eyes that had seen far too much. And for a moment, something softened in them—something fragile and human and achingly real.

“I should have walked away from this place the moment I realized what I was beginning to feel,” he said, voice low. “But I couldn’t. I told myself it was for Elise. For the quiet. The coffee.”

He smiled faintly. A sad, small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “But it was always you.”

Your breath caught.

“I stay because you make me forget,” he continued, “just for a little while… what I’ve done. What I am. You remind me that there’s still something gentle left in me.”

You reached out then, fingers brushing his coat sleeve before taking his hand completely. It was warm. Solid. Hesitant.

“I don’t want you to forget,” you whispered. “I want you to remember—and still believe there’s something worth holding onto. Something good. Something soft.”

His fingers curled around yours.

“…You make me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t deserve.”

“Then let yourself have them,” you said, voice a little shaky. “Let yourself have this.”

A silence fell again, but this time it wasn’t heavy. It was full of something softer. Something waiting.

And then, without another word, he leaned in—tentative, careful, like he was giving you every chance to step away.

You didn’t.

You closed the distance, pressing your forehead to his, your hand still wrapped in his. There was no rush. No urgency. Just the quiet bloom of something long overdue.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling—not the sharp, practiced smile you’d seen so many times, but something smaller. Warmer. Real.

“I’d like to stay,” he said, his voice barely above a breath. “If you’ll have me.”

You smiled, heart thudding in your chest.

“Always.”

He finally took his coffee.

And stayed all morning.

Leon S. Kennedy’s first day on the job wasn’t just hell—it was, frankly, stupid. Raccoon City had lost its mind. The police radio was all static, the sky glowed red with fire and sirens, and zombies moaned behind every door. The air stank of rot and fear. Most people would’ve found a closet, locked the door, and cried. Leon, unfortunately, was not most people. He was out of ammo, out of hope, and sprinting for his life down a dark alley that—thanks to fate and Umbrella’s questionable urban planning—led straight into a brick wall.

He spun around, expecting to see a slow, groaning corpse. Instead, he saw a mountain—a leather-clad behemoth stitched together like a kid’s failed sewing project. Shoulders as wide as a car. In one massive hand, it carried a rocket launcher like it was a baguette fresh from the bakery. The thing’s head swiveled, its mouth split open, and it exhaled in a guttural rumble: “STAAAAAARS…”

Leon’s hands shot up, badge raised like a cross to a vampire. “I’m not S.T.A.R.S.! I’m just a—rookie! Leon! Please?”

The monster’s red eyes flickered, scanning the badge, then Leon. It grunted, unimpressed. An awkward silence stretched between them. Leon’s brain short-circuited. Was he going to die? Be launched through a building? Or…?

Nemesis—because, obviously, it was Nemesis—looked past Leon at the growing herd of zombies behind them. With zero warning, he stomped forward, seized Leon by the collar, and flung him—remarkably gently, for an 8-foot death machine—behind a dumpster. Then Nemesis waded into the undead crowd with the subtlety of a bulldozer, scattering limbs and torsos like he was mowing the lawn. Leon watched in slack-jawed awe, heart hammering. Nemesis moved with brutal, monstrous grace. It was terrifying… but also, if Leon was honest, kind of impressive.

A minute later, Nemesis plodded back through the gore. He reached into his belt, produced a first-aid spray, and pressed it into Leon’s shaking hands. “Uh. Thanks?” Leon managed, blinking at the green canister. He was so confused.

Nemesis grunted, the sound vibrating in his chest. Leon was pretty sure that was Nemesis for “Don’t mention it.”

Their partnership was the stuff of fever dreams. Leon, half-dead and covered in grime, trailed after his massive new friend through the ruined city, mind spinning. Was this really happening? Was he honestly following a B.O.W. through zombie hell because it seemed safer than going it alone? The absurdity didn’t escape him, but every time he glanced at Nemesis, the monster just grunted, and Leon somehow felt a little less doomed. The rules became clear fast:

Don’t mention S.T.A.R.S.

Don’t touch the S.T.A.R.S. badge Nemesis kept on a chain like a childhood trophy.

Always accept healing items—even if it’s the weird blue herb that tastes like grass clippings.

Don’t ask questions about the rocket launcher.

If Leon tripped or lagged behind, Nemesis would grunt and gesture him forward. Once, when a flaming zombie staggered into their path, Nemesis simply picked it up by the head and yeeted it through a squad car window. The resulting explosion almost set Leon’s eyebrows on fire. Another time, Leon found a soda machine jammed and smacked it in frustration. Nemesis lumbered over, punched the machine once, and a cold can rolled out. Leon offered him the drink in gratitude. Nemesis stared at it, then crushed the can effortlessly, a faint look of confusion on his monstrous face. Leon tried not to laugh.

Between chaos, Leon sometimes attempted small talk, even as his mind reeled at the madness of it all:

Leon: “So, uh… do you have a name? Or just ‘Nemesis’?”

Nemesis: “…STARS.”

Leon: “Yeah, figured. That’s a no.”

Other times, he rambled just to fill the silence:

Leon: “You know, I thought my worst day would involve a parking ticket. Not, uh, bio-weapons and undead chihuahuas.”

Nemesis: (grunts, hurls a zombie dog into a dumpster)

Leon (nervous laugh): “Yeah, you get it.”

They crossed Raccoon City’s hellscape together: fighting through back alleys littered with bodies, ducking under burning debris, climbing over overturned buses. At one point, a group of zombie dogs cornered Leon. Before he could even draw his empty pistol, Nemesis stomped forward, roared, and sent the entire pack fleeing, tails between their legs. Leon had never been so grateful for unethical science in his life.

They even stumbled across an abandoned news van, radio blaring static. Leon fiddled with the dials, hoping for help. Nemesis watched, curious, until a faint voice crackled through: “…S.T.A.R.S. sighted near…” The radio was promptly crushed by a giant hand. Leon sighed and shrugged. “Not a radio guy, I get it.”

As the night dragged on, they took shelter in a ruined convenience store. Nemesis blocked the door with a shelf, then settled in the corner, ever-watchful. Leon sat on a crate, patched up his arm, and munched on a suspiciously unexpired protein bar. Occasionally, Nemesis would glance at the chain around his neck, the S.T.A.R.S. badge glinting in the firelight. Leon didn’t ask—he’d learned his lesson.

Leon glanced over, mustering a tired smile. “You know, for a bio-weapon, you’re not so bad. Kinda wish you were around during training.”

Nemesis let out a deep, thoughtful grunt.

Leon shifted, feeling awkward. “…Or not. Got it.”

By the time dawn crept over the carnage, Leon was limping, caked in mystery goo, but alive. Nemesis, apparently satisfied with his non-S.T.A.R.S. companion, got to his feet, gave Leon a last, solemn nod, and lumbered away into the smoldering city. At the alley’s end, he paused, turned, and flicked a spent first-aid spray can at Leon—a casual salute from one survivor to another.

“Good luck out there, big guy,” Leon called, genuinely meaning it. He watched Nemesis’s massive silhouette fade into the smoky light.

Somewhere in the ruins, Jill Valentine shivered, sensing a disturbance in the force—Nemesis was supposed to hunt S.T.A.R.S., not make friends with rookie cops.

Leon’s first day was still hell. But at least he had a story no one would ever believe. As sirens wailed in the distance and sunlight crept over the ruins, Leon took a deep breath and realized that surviving alongside Nemesis had changed him. Maybe, he thought, finding hope in this nightmare meant trusting even the unlikeliest of allies. Raccoon City wasn’t completely hopeless after all.

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