SLEEP WELL

leon kennedy is a good man.

he goes to work, saves the world, and keeps in touch with his friends. he makes promises and does his best to keep them. he works on himself to get better just like a good man should.

he's gotten awards, made friends with people he saved, and the world continues to get better— all because of his involvement.

but a good man does not get nightmares of the people— if he can even call them that— who were killed by his hands.

he thinks about it sometimes; when he misses the burn of whiskey against his throat, and the tang of iron lingers in his mouth days after his body heals.

he thinks about what lives they could've led before the viruses took over their bodies. before they became things they never should've been.

he remembers having to put down a civilian girl, no younger than 18, all because of a leaked virus. he remembers having to axe down an undead mother from eating her own child, and he doesn't know how to feel about the look of hurt and betrayal that little boy had in his eyes as leon towered over the stench of decaying matter and rotting flesh.

he knows he did the right thing, just like a good man should, so why does it hurt so much?

he tries not to let his mind linger in things that'll only lead him to no good. he's learned many years ago from when he was still in the police academy that although empathy was a good thing, it was important to detach and move on.

but sometimes, he can't help it. even at his old age.

he remembers kendo; the helplessness he felt knowing he couldn't do jackshit as a police officer— but even now, as a seasoned veteran agent of the DSO, can he really say he's made a difference?

he remembers luis; the smell of smoke and his laughter filling his senses in dreams he wished he had more often— the faint feeling of a reality where he could've treated him to a nice pack of cigs makes his stomach sick in a way he can't linger on too long.

and god, he remembers sherry. for the little kid he saved, and for the woman he needs to save again. the black veins on his hands are a reminder of how far he's gone, but it's also a reminder of how much he lacks.

it's painful to know and remember, but it feels wrong for leon to just... move on and forget.

maybe he deserves it— these sick, twisted nightmares and thoughts are here to remind him of what he lacks and what he could've done.

because if leon kennedy was truly a good man, he wouldn't be plagued by the past.

can he really say he is a good man?

he goes to slave away at the hands of the people who ripped away his freedom, he saves the world at the cost of his own, and the only reason why he even has his friends is because they keep him grounded and aware— that he shouldn't relapse, he shouldn't try to die, and he shouldn't do things that hurt himself (or others). he makes promises he knows he can't keep, and yet he tries his best to keep them, even if he's basically betting on losing dogs. he wants to say he hasn't been drinking, but he knows that a good man doesn't lie.

he thinks about it sometimes. the thought of a bullet in his head— but of course, good men never think about things like that; and he's learned to push it down and move forward, because it's all he can do.

the identity of a good man who saves the world is the only thing he can cling onto now.

with that thought in mind, leon is stuck in a cycle of nightmares that continue to break away at his mind when the need of alcohol is too much to ignore and the weight of sobriety is on the verge of breaking him apart.

but it's okay. he'll forget all about these thoughts and nightmares when he's on another mission. they'll be tucked away at the farthest part of his mind— only to resurface when things get too much again. and that's fine with him.

YOU LOVE LIKE IT IS A DESPERATION, a need, a wanting, & you are almost afraid you will choke on this heavy desire, but you succumb to the feeling, drown in the waves. lower and lower and lower you go, mind sinking until everything has consumed you and all you know is the feeling of him inside you.

"leon--" your voice is so fragile in this moment, the longing so prominent in the way it breaks, "i need you so bad--"

it's not enough-- god, this isn't enough. the distance you have shared all these months has weighed too much on the heart, the pressure so hideously insufferable, and even with him beneath you now, your palms resting on his chest as your hips move on instinct, it's still--

god, you can't even think straight, gasps harsh and haphazard, frustration pooling between your legs no matter how much you touch him. you need him more than he needs you, but if you ever dared tell him that, you're almost sure he would spend the day desperately fucking you in means to prove you wrong. your back arches at the pleasure that rushes up your spine, but you can't chase it, thighs trembling as you sink down onto him, feel his cock hit all the right angles.

"please, i--" and you just sound so pitiful ; the whimper that escapes drips with such need that you almost sound love drunk, and maybe he'll tease you, make you do all the work, but you swallow your pride anyway because damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"easy there," he tells you, hands on your waist, voice far more gentler than the way his hips thrust up into you, "you've already got me, baby. hope you didn't forget that while i was gone."

and the way he looks at you-- there is something so excruciatingly tender in his gaze, the corner of his lips slightly raised in a knowing smile. there is something about this all that makes the tears surface before you can even realize you're crying ; maybe it's the way his hands are on you or the recognition that he's home safe and sound, or maybe it's the way you are still left wondering when he has to leave again. you swallow that lump in your throat, imagine that you can rid of that sorrow and selfishness and bite your lip so hard that the taste of rust threatens to come. but leon notices all too quickly, a faint flicker of concern on his visage as he pulls you forward until he's kissing you. it's that muddled mess of love and heartache and familiarity that binds you together, and you both wonder how you have survived this loneliness.

"you've got me." he mumbles against your lips, smiling when your body rocks against his once more at the mere words of comfort. "i'm not going anywhere, so be a good girl and show me how much you missed me."

you shudder at the way his hands fall back to your waist, lips peppering kisses along your jaw, voice low and heavy with want. you inhale, shaky, nod aimlessly as you straighten your posture, nails gently trailing down his chest as you sit up. your hand rests over his heart for a brief moment and you almost think you feel that wild beat beneath it all, remind yourself of the humanity that lies under the greatness and kindness and devastation of it all. he trembles at the feeling, laughing softly at that little spark of surprise that lights up in your eyes at his reaction. his thumbs trace lazy circles into your hips as he lightly guides your movements, allows you to take control as you find your rhythm. it's slow and agonizing and tantalizing, this dance between lovers, but leon has always been patient, watching your expressions with adoration as you find the motions, head lulled back and eyes shut as you surrender modesty and humility in sacrifice for euphoria.

patience soon turns to pleasure, dwindling self-control quickly spiraling beyond recover. leon's grip tightens as he tests the waters, resolve thinning and weakening at the sight of his forever taking all of him so well. when he slams your hips down on his, he cannot tell what he loves more: the feeling of you tightening around him or the flustered cry that he drags out of you with each thrust.

"you--" you gasp when he goes faster, feel your face heat up with shame and exhilaration at the noises that fill the bedroom. "i thought you wanted me to prove how much i--" the words die down into yet another whimper at the sound of his groans beneath you. his movements become more aggressive, needy, and he shows no sign that he's willing to be merciful. "--fuck, leon-- you wanted me to prove how much i missed you, not the other way around."

heartbeat to heartbeat, skin against skin, leon knows damn well what his request was, but you are entirely too captivating that he can't help give into his senses, urged with the need to see you come undone.

"sorry," he says, breathless, grinning when you grab his hand as if it could anchor the sanity that gets lost in the flux and flow, "i'll make up for it, angel."

with one hand holding yours, the other releases its grasp on your hip, slides up your waist, frantic touch dancing across your bare skin as it grazes your stomach, pressing firmly as you jolt in response. the sound you make causes your body to burn in embarrassment, but the way leon looks up at you almost resembles something of worship, gentle reverence in blue hues. there's something so incredibly warm in his eyes that draws you in, lures you like sirens in the seas, but before you can even think to lean down and kiss him, he wets his thumb with his saliva and brings it to your clit, the dreadfully slow drawl of the circular motions making you lose your senses entirely.

you're biting your lip again, unable to silence yourself at the newfound high that sends tingles through your body, makes your skin feel like it's on fire.

"you're doing it again." leon tells you, and somewhere in the softness and concern in his voice is an underlying command to relax and give in.

you want to blame him, tell him that your first thought was to cover your mouth, silence all those filthy noises you didn't know you could make. it's his fault, you decide, because he knew exactly what you would do and held your hand tighter because he wanted to hear you. it takes you a little too long to regain your composure, but the moment you think to speak, he's picking up the paces again. you feel him so much, feel the way he fills you up as he thrusts in and out at a sickening sweet pace.

now you're the one squeezing his hand like your life depends on it and it takes everything for you to not move away, because it's all an overload on your senses-- the fullness of it all and the way his thumb applies just the slightest bit more pressure on your clit, movements quickening.

you're so close, so close so close -- and he knows this, intends to be the reason for your undoing and ruin, so he tells you it's okay, that you can let go and that you're doing so well for him, taking him so good just like he knew you would. he tells you that he misses you, misses the feeling of you, and maybe those declarations are what pushes you over the edge when you finally come, throat ravaged and raw from all the moans and pleas that spill from your lips. it's the way you clench around him, body twitching as you ride that high out, feel him follow you soon after in desperation.

his movements slow, eventually come to a stop. the silence in the bedroom is deafening -- a significant contrast to what it was minutes before, save for the labored breaths that fill the air.

something snarky lingers on the tip of your tongue, but when you open your eyes and look down at him, he's looking at you like that again -- like he's learning what love is again, like he's realizing all over again that you're his happiness, his end game, his ever after, and your mind goes blank, the haze of euphoria all too powerful. so instead, you let out a shaky exhale, smile blithely as you lean down and kiss him.

it's careful, cautious-- quiet, reverent, wanting. it's love, you think, and he tastes like safety and divinity and all you've ever wanted. you lie on top of him for god knows how long, fatigue settling in as his hand wanders up and down your back, slowly lulls you to the edge of slumber.

"i missed you, leon."

he presses a kiss against your temple, tells you he reciprocates the feeling tenfold, pulls the blanket over your bodies to shield you from the cold air.

"...love you." you mumble, body relaxing against his in the surrendering to exhaustion. "might fall asleep on top of you, sorry."

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!

Making your way down a hallway lit only by flourescent light panels on the ground, you and Leon hastened over to a set of heavy automatic doors, which Ada's Level 1 wristband took care of. As you headed in, you took in the sterile finishings, the brilliant red against stark white of Umbrella's logo by the reception desk.

"Welcome to NEST. Enjoy your visit."

It was identical to the reception desk you'd walked past just the morning of the 23rd, seemingly a lifetime ago. That thought only made you grip your weapon tighter. Leon, ever-observant, immediately clocked the tension in your shoulders.

"Something wrong?"

"I... was here." rushing to clarify, you added. "Not here, here, but — I was at the Umbrella sales offices this morning. That's what the reception looked like."

He frowned. "What for? Do you... work there?"

You shook your head furiously. "God, no, nothing like that. The ad agency I work for sent me there to pitch ideas for a campaign. That's it, really."

Leon didn't seem quite so convinced, however. "So... you've got nothing to do with them?"

You shook your head again. "No. They've used my agency a few times, but that's really it. Promise."

He seemed satisfied with that, and his hand squeezed yours comfortingly, which had blood rushing to your cheeks. "Alright. I believe you."

Of course, your objective of finding the G-Virus couldn't stop for a moment between the both of you, and so the search resumed, with Leon heading behind the reception desk.

"OK... I wonder where the G-Virus is?"

After scrounging some supplies from the security room, your search eventually led you through an unassuming door down a very ominous dark corridor, with only the light of your flashlights to illuminate the way.

"The G-Virus," you began hesitantly. "Is that... what you and Ada came down here for?"

Leon nodded, casting a light along the grey-and-white walls of the facility. After the filth, blood, and muck you'd waded through, the clean sterility of NEST seemed far more unsettling than any monster you'd encountered tonight.

"Ada told me this was all Annette Birkin's doing," he explained. "She's the one responsible for creating the G-Virus."

"And the outbreak?" you probed further. "Was that also the G-Virus?"

You could just barely make out the frown on his face in the scant light of the flashlights. "Err... she said Umbrella was responsible."

It didn't take long until you came across a wall splattered with blood. You only wish you were more shocked at the sight that greeted you in what appeared to be some kind of worker's break room, now crawling with zombies in lab coats.

"Our menu is designed for your nutritional needs based on our latest biological research," said a cool, robotic female voice over the intercoms as Leon started blasting zombie heads with his shotgun.

"Well, sure is awkward the place's crawling with flesh-eating zombies now," you quipped half-heartedly, wincing as a zombie's head was reduced into a pile of goop with the shotgun Claire loaned you.

"Please enjoy our tasty selection of healthy foods."

Leon huffed softly. "You got that right. Bet they never expected this sort of thing to happen."

With the last zombie head popped, he began scouring the room once again, like all the other rooms before, picking up a few more supplies, including a heavy cannister he somehow managed to fit into his inventory.

"Err... what's that for?"

"Fuel," he answered. "for the flamethrower."

You nodded, your eyes landing on the flamethrower the two of you had casually picked up on the way to rescue Ada — now happily strapped to his back.

"After you, officer."

That got a small chuckle out of him. "Haven't been much of one tonight, have I? I'll bet no other rookie's had nearly this bad of a first day."

Leaving the cafeteria, Leon spotted a ladder at the end of the hallway. Injured arm be damned, he began scaling it, and you couldn't help but sneak a peek at his well-defined arms and backside through the material of his uniform trousers before snapping yourself out of it and following suit.

He helpfully held out an arm to help you up, and you found yourselves standing in the middle of a massive air vent, lined with steel pipes and long, aluminum tubes. Reaching a grate at the end, he leapt down into the space below, gesturing for you to follow.

You, marginally less athletic and also far less willing to risk your joints, peered down the hole. "Is there really no ladder?"

Leon got his bearings, landing into a crouch and easing himself back up. He held out his arms. "It's okay. I've got you."

"But your arm —"

Leon glanced down at his bandaged shoulder, shaking his head. "I'll be fine. I just need to get you down safely."

You weren't fully convinced, but neither of you had to luxury to stall, with more zombies lurking beyond this room, and Ada still waiting back on the tram. Hesitantly, you sank into a crouch over the hole, dangling your legs through the ceiling before letting yourself drop, straight into his outstretched arms like a knight in... soiled police uniform.

Jeez, snap out of it already.

It seemed you'd landed right in the middle of the facility's kitchen. Seemed breakfast was on the menu when the zombie outbreak occured, judging by the now-cold pancakes and scrambled eggs on the griddle. Leon, ever-mission oriented, wasted no time gathering up all the ammo, gunpowder, and even the odd hand grenade he could find (who keeps munitions in the kitchen?).

Just your luck, you encountered a zombie in tactical uniform standing right outside the exit, but a few shots to the head took care of that.

Hanging a right down the blood-spattered hallway, you managed to find one of those card reader chips inside someplace called the 'NAP ROOM'.

"Wish I had a 'Nap Room' at my work," you muttered, looking around at the desolate, empty space, containing only a sofa and a desk, and a very conspicuous zombie arm clamped in the shutters with something in its hand.

Leon reached out to take it, and you managed to get a better look at the thing through the glow of his flashlight, a small blue chip with two bars in the middle, one short, one long. "Isn't that...?"

He nodded, switching out the chips on Ada's wristband. "This... might come in handy."

Poking around further, the two of you found yet another strange object — this one something that looked like an air pump fixed to the top of a fire hydrant wheel connected by a tube. You'd never seen anything like it, but Leon, unfazed, somehow knew to affix to his personal flamethrower, like this was something he did on the regular.

"Come on, let's head back," he gestured towards the door, right in the direction of where you both had come from. "Stay behind me."

"Don't need to tell me twice," you replied, immediately assuming a position right at his back, keeping an eye out for any zombies that you'd somehow missed during the initial onslaught.

Retracing your steps through the dark hallways, you had to squint as Leon opened the door back to the flourescent lights of the reception area. Of course, neither of you seemed to be alone, if the robotic female voice requesting for someone named Dr. Li to go to the East Area was any indication.

Morbidly, you wondered if Dr. Li happened to be any of the lab coat zombies from the cafeteria earlier.

With the level 2 chip inserted into Ada's wristband, the both of you headed for a door with a glowing blue panel labelled 'MAIN SHAFT'. Not that you were in a hurry to find out what that entailed.

The main shaft, as it were, turned out to be a massive gaping maw at the centre of the facility with a ledge between you and a long drop into the abyss below. If Leon felt any type of way about it, he was certainly doing his damndest not to let it show.

Of course, right by the corner of the railing, there was a dead body in tactical gear, slumped against it in a pool of blood. You just hoped it wouldn't come back to life. Leon, ever the fearless rookie, immediately approached the thing, recovering another one of those recorders.

The tape played, and soon you had a good idea of just where the G-Virus was located.

"G-Virus is in the West Area," Leon breathed as the recording stopped. "Got it."

You weren't sure if you were supposed to feel any sense of jubliation at that information. More than anything, you just wanted to go home and pretend this was just one long, overly convoluted nightmare.

And maybe Leon could be there as well, as just an adorable rookie cop doing nothing more dangerous than stopping the odd robbery or helping old ladies cross the street. You could dream.

Not for long, however, as with a quiet beep from the wristband, a long walkway extended over the giant abyss across what looked like a giant glass cylinder. Leon beckoned you over, and you followed, gun still in your hand, its weight feeling more at home now. You didn't want to think of the implications for that.

Strangely, you did not board the glass cylinder, running around it to another one of those scanning machines, where the wristband once again came in handy.

"Come on," Leon murmured, stowing the wristband away in his hip pouch. "Stay close to me."

"Like you need to tell me twice," you muttered back, glad it was dark enough he couldn't see the heat rushing to your cheeks.

Sure enough, another bridge opened across to another ominous looking set of sliding doors. You wondered how anyone managed to get to work on time with a commute this convoluted, assuming they didn't just fall into the abyss instead.

Making your way across the bridge, you hoped the G-Virus made itself easy to locate. Although, considering the nonsense you'd already seen, that was about as unlikely as asking Leon on a date while you were still covered in dried sewer muck.

Behind the sliding door, you were met with an absolute mess on the inside. Collapsed ceiling panels, debris swirling in a funnel of air being expelled from a ventilation pipe.

"What the hell do you think happened in here?" you asked no one in particular.

Leon looked over at the mess, his brows furrowing in way you should definitely not be finding adorable during a time like this. "Dunno. Can't be anything good, though. Come on."

You didn't spare any more commentary on the dilapidated state of the entryway, following Leon through the before you labelled 'LOBBY'. Funny, you'd think a lobby would the at the very front of the facility. As always, the door slid open without much resistance.

It was dark as hell in the lobby.

Save for the one lit area behind the reception desk, the rest of the room was shrouded in pitch-black. You'd never been one to be scared of the dark, especially at your grown age, but you'd be lying if some of the darker corners of the room weren't making your hairs prickle up.

However, none of that compared even in the slightest to the next room.

Right as you walked in, there was another dead body. Thankfully, it was wedged against a glass panel and probably wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon, and holding a Level 3 access chip, glowing purple through the vines it was enveloped in. Unfortunately, it also meant you'd have to navigate through whatever fresh hell Umbrella had cooked up to get him there.

Leon stopped before the glass, grimacing. "Jesus... what happened here?"

It was a true testament to Leon's training, considering the borderline supernatural stamina the man had for fighting all the horrors you'd encountered throughout the night and then some. You, on the other hand, were being powered by sheer will and those little herbal sachets Leon mixed up with the random potted plants he keeps collecting all over the place. Were those even legal? You certainly weren't about to question anything under these abnormal circumstances.

A side door opened, the usually smooth sliding mechanism jamming from the unholy number of green vines choking the entrance. Leon cleared a few with his knife, flamethrower in hand as he weaved through the thicket. All of a sudden, even the shotgun Claire had given you seemed like a children's toy.

The entire lab had turned into an overgrown jungle, pretty much. Masses of green vines blanketed what used to be neat, orderly cabinets and empty shelves.

You also found out in record time why that flamethrower was very, very important.

In no time at all, you'd encountered what was possibly the hundredth fucked-up thing tonight — a cluster of vines twisted into the shambling, bipedal form of a human. Plant zombies. Surely, you'd seen it all.

Your scream ripped through the air as flames erupted from Leon's flamethrower, torching the plant zombie until it ceased its struggling. With the thing reduced to a pile of char on the floor, he turned back.

"You okay?"

Too overwhelmed to form human words, you simply gave him a thumbs-up. Through the darkness of the overgrown, mutated jungle the two of you were standing in, you thought a relieved look crossed his face.

"That's good."

Reaching for your arm, he brought you closer to his side, until you could feel the warmth of his body (and the flamethrower) through your clothes. "I won't let anything happen to you, okay? You trust me, right?"

Somehow, you managed to get your voice working again. "Y-yeah. I do."

His hand found yours again, giving it a quick squeeze before returning to mission-mode, gripping the flamethrower like a prized posession — which, under these circumstances, may very well be.

No more plant zombies were seen as you entered what looked like a control room, with another door marked 'GREENHOUSE'. You suspected that was where your vegetative greeter might've have emerged out of. Leon did his usual scope of the place, collecting munitions and even peeking into the greenhouse before deciding a large screen displaying a map of the facility was more worthy of his attention.

Below it was a keypad panel. Instead of numbers or letters, however, it was a series of strange-looking symbols. Above you, lock symbols glowed red over the drug testing lab.

"You know how to crack it?"

Leon cracked his knuckles, standing before the keypad. "I think so."

Typing in a few codes, the screen lit up, the red locks changing to green. Over by the glass window overlooking the greenhouse, a small blinking light caught your attention, attatched to some sort of strange, box-shaped device with a small opening in front. Out of curiosity, you pushed a random button.

"Dispensing solution now."

The voice echoed through the entire control room, and a small cartridge emerged out of what you now realised was a specialised dispenser. You grabbed it, tilting it to test its weight. Empty.

Leon made his way over, peering at the cartridge. "Maybe we're supposed to put something in it. C'mon."

Tucking it into your own hip pouch, the two of you descended into the greenhouse. Somehow, you got the feeling you wouldn't be coming away with cute succulents to take home and raise with Leon.

If you thought the initial lab you'd walked into looked like an overgrown jungle, the greenhouse was practically a jungle walk, dark vines curled around the handlebars and grilles over your heads, weaving themselves into a cage above your heads. There were thankfully no plant zombies jumping out of the woodwork, something you didn't want to chance in the cramped corridor leading to the drug testing lab.

In the farthest corner of the room, you spotted some kind of lab equipment — three tubes of mysterious green liquid in a white box with three buttons — red, green, and blue. Most importantly, there was a slot for the cartridge you retrieved from the control room.

"Leon, over here."

Leon, who'd just finished his munitions sweep of the place (you'd long since stopped questioning the weird places he kept finding spare ammo and gunpowder in), made his way over, watching as you slotted the cartridge in.

"Manual mode activated. Adjust amount of solution to match cartridge capacity."

You fiddled uncertainly with the buttons, which you soon discovered were for switching the tubes around and adjusting the levels of green liquid. Once the liquid touched the red light, a yellow indicator appeared, beeping softly above the cartridge slot as it was emptied. The cartridge was ejected, and you pulled it out, staring at the green liquid inside, which looked practically radioactive.

"Well, that's something. No chance this is the G-Virus, right?"

Leon scoffed. "No way. They wouldn't make it this easy."

Heading back out into the greenhouse, you barely made it two minutes along the jungle walkway when you caught one of those plant zombies in your line of vision. Leon's flamethrower made quick work of it, but it was still a gristly sight — a tangled mass of vines writhing over the floor as it was burned black.

You let out yet an undignified yelp as another one dropped out of seemingly nowhere, and Leon immediately changed targets, a steady plume of flames washing over the plant zombie. You'd never thought about what roasted plant smelled like, but whether it was because of Umbrella's experiments or the species of plant they were spliced with, you were strangely reminded of burning rubber.

Walking past the charred remains of the plant zombies, you found yourselves climbing down a long ladder, and a door leading down yet another dark, blood spattered hallway, and rooms that looked as if a hurricane had been through them. Several more zombies playing dead on the ground were dispatched by Leon's gun, and you got in on the action yourself, blasting a few zombie faces to smithereens when they got too close to the business end of your shotgun.

At the beginning of the night, you couldn't even bear to so much as look at the gore. Now, seeing buckshot tear through muscle, splinter bone, and pulverise flesh barely registered.

Is this what it meant to be a survivor?

You didn't spare much time dwelling on that thought. A cry of alarm from Leon alerted you to something skittering across the floor, just a few feet ahead. Your blood ran cold.

God, not these things again.

Blind, skinless, climbing on all fours over walls and ceilings to get the jump on anybody who wasn't paying attention to their surroundings. A note you'd found in the RPD called them 'lickers', and it wasn't difficult to see why. Their long tongues were practically a deadly assault weapon all on their own.

However, Leon was experienced in dealing with these freaks by now, unloading round after round into the licker until it slumped to the ground, motionless.

The both of you contined along, down another hallway and up several flights of stairs, until you got to the low-temp testing room, scavenging supplies, and mowing down the occasional zombie along the way.

"Welcome back, Dr. Li. You have [5] new messages."

You were really starting to wonder who the hell this Dr. Li was. Sure seemed like an important figure. Although, wasn't the person Ada mentioned named Annette — something? Claire also mentioned Sherry's mother being named Annette as well.

And her father — you shuddered, recalling the grotesquery of sinews, teeth and bone, decked with far too many yellowish eyeballs. Things had been quiet so far, or at least as quiet as a zombie infested lab owned by an evil pharmaceutical corporation could be, but no blue man, no eyeball monster.

Somehow, that only unsettled you further.

Leon, however, was casually checking Dr. Li's email. The intial messages weren't much to write home about, mostly complaints about a shitty boss and said shitty boss making everyone's day more shit as a result. You almost had to snort at the mundanity of it all — remove the Umbrella association, and those emails could easily have been from your own inbox.

What was somewhat less mundane, however, was the sudden turn things took from petty office politics to killer plants and death. One message had stopped you in your tracks, however.

Sender: Rick Mendoza Subject: (None) Do you remember Suzie, the cheerleader? What a great gal. We were both into her. Of course, she wasn't into nerds... I still have to give you back those comics and games I borrowed. But you might have to wait a while.

You scanned every line of that email, feeling your chest tightening up. In the end, these scientists were only human. Tears stung at the corners of your eyes at the thought, and you felt Leon's hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay."

You hastily dabbed the corners of your eyes with a sleeve. "No, it's really stupid —"

"It's not," he said firmly. "These people were complicit in a lot of horrible things, but they were victims of Umbrella, too."

Once you'd gotten your blubbering over with, he extended a hand. "Come on. Let's go put an end to this."

Of course, you couldn't have possibly anticipated in your heart of hearts you'd be walking into a refrigerator, if Leon's smart little quip was anything to go by.

"Brrr! Who left the freezer open?"

"You, Leon," you snorted.

He looked back, grinning for what felt like the first time tonight. "Yeah, sure did, huh?"

You pointed to a glass tank with a console in the middle of the room, filled with about a dozen chambers about the size of the cartridge you were carrying in your hip pouch. "Over there."

Producing the cartridge of green liquid you collected, you stuck it into the slot next to the console's screen. A message flashed across in green, blocky letters: STANDING BY...

With the cartridge fully loaded, a robotic arm grabbed it by the top, slotting it into one of the cooling chambers with a mechanical whirr.

"Cooling sequence in progress... Cooling complete."

The glass of the cartridge felt like ice against your skin as you extracted it out of the chamber it emerged from, and you and Leon exchanged knowing looks. You had an idea exactly where to use this.

Fuelling up on munitions and flamethrower fuel in the server room of all places (they just kept getting weirder and weirder), the two of you set off once again for the greenhouse, armed to the teeth. You'd almost be glad to see some green in this place, if not for what was lurking in it.

Time for Plant Zombies: Round 2.

While you didn't manage to snag your own personal flamethrower on the way back, you did manage to at least slow down the things enough with grenades and your shotgun enough for Leon to finish them off with a proper fire-roasting.

By the time you got back to the greenhouse's control room, you knew what to do. The cartridge went in, and the two of you watched as the herbicide rained down on the entire greenhouse, withering everything into shrivelled brown mulch. From some distance away, you thought you heard a clang, like something had fallen onto the grilles.

"That did the trick," Leon remarked, picking up his weapons again.

As the two of you headed back into the greenhouse, the robot voice returned to spoil the fun, like an irate headmistress as Leon collected the spoils of this entire excursion: the level 3 access chip.

"Warning: you have dispersed a dangerous solution without authorization. Your actions have been logged and you may be subject to disciplinary measures."

Yeah well, good luck trying that when the entire facility's dead. Dodging another plant zombie getting its stretches in the corner, you and Leon hustled back to the lobby, down dark hallways choked with vines, and over to a small station where you were, once again, staring down at somebody's inbox. It was one long thing this time, from someone named William Birkin.

Birkin. Where had you heard the name before?

The contents were much more... interesting than just petty workplace complaints this time. Something about spies in NEST — not quite your problem, but the second part of the email was by far more concerning.

'G' — by now, you were certain that could only refer to the G-Virus.

After a brief stop at the lobby for some rest, you headed back out to the bridge connecting the East Area to the central port, all the way back to the level 3 access panel that got you on this wild goose chase to begin with.

As the bridge to the West Area extended over to the platform the both of you were standing on, you heard Leon murmur, "Hopefully the G sample's up here."

For both your sakes, you hoped so too.

Doubling back for supplies, you eventually found an answer to the fate of Dr. Li — scribbling delusions of grandeur as his colleagues were gunned down around him, the black-haired zombie you found the note with unceremoniously dispatched by Leon's shotgun.

Rest in peace, Dr. Li, you thought as you headed back towards the main shaft, passing by a pink level 4 panel that immediately flashed ACCESS DENIED across its screen as you two passed. That was probably going to be important later.

Making your way across the bridge to the building marked 'WEST AREA' you had a feelings things were only about to get rougher from here.

***

As soon as Leon got the lights back on with the signal modulator, you could finally take stock of your surroundings.

Where the East Area contained some semblance of hospitality, however cold, sterile, and corporate, the West Area was all bare-bones clinical efficiency, the walls of the first office you walked into plastered with notes in indecipherable handwriting, looking out into a room that would've looked like a dentist's office if not for the strange contraption above it, like mechanical arms with needles at the end.

Leon had gotten a tape recording off another dead body in tactical gear, this one for a video. Your eyes remained glued to the screen as you watched the grainy bodycam footage, dated 22nd of September, 1998.

It was glitchy, possibly from its carrier getting shot, but you could see the distinct figure of a man in a white lab coat getting something out of a freezer, a test tube. The audio immediately confirmed your speculations.

"Dr. Birkin, you'll come with us quietly."

With a creeping dread, you realised this was the same audio Leon found off that initial dead body by the main shaft. The man in the lab coat, then, had to be William Birkin.

Birkin, holding a large black briefcase to his chest, appeared to be reaching for something in his coat. "You think I didn't know you were coming? This is my life's work! I'm not handing over anything!"

"We have our orders, Dr. Birkin. I'll ask you one more time..."

In response, Birkin's hand emerged out of his coat, allowing you to catch the silhouette of a gun. The squad immediately opened fire, spraying red into the air.

The order to hold their fire came too late. One of them went to check Birkin's pulse, while another, presumably the leader of the whole operation in a black gas mask and helmet, got in the frame.

"What the fuck were you thinking? Our orders were to bring him in alive!"

Another soldier (?) spoke into an intercom, updating some kind of central command. "We're in, sir, but we had a snafu. Target resisted, so we had to take him out."

"... Roger that. Just the samples, then. Let's move!"

The video ended, ejecting the tape from the player as you and Leon were left to ruminate on. "So those were G samples?"

You frowned. "Seems like it. But if they've been taken away, how are we supposed to —"

"Maybe there's still some left. Ada wouldn't risk her life to come down here otherwise," Leon reasoned.

Going through Birkin's emails painted an ominous picture. Cut funding, suspension, Birkin selling the virus to some shady company, and someone named Richard Kessler asking for 'data', another email reprimanding Birkin for breach of contract.

"What a mess," you muttered.

Leon shut off the computer, pistol in hand. "Well, seems like we're on the right track, at least."

Entering the lab proper, you noted the crooked shape of the doorway, bent and crumpled as if something had forced its way through. Something large. You were reminded for a moment of the hulking blue humanoid creature in its black trenchcoat, pulling iron grills apart like they were nothing.

Somehow, that felt like a lifetime ago. You wondered how Claire was doing, if Sherry was safe, if Ada was still at the tram where you left her, waiting.

It was all procedure by this point — stepping through a decontamination tunnel in your soiled clothes, feeling the blast of sterile air leading out onto yet another walkway over the yawning abyss, through another door that slid seamlessly open with a beep of the wristband.

Further in, you'd stumbled across research notes — you struggled to get through the scientific jargon, but the account of a test subject taking their own life during an experiment had a chill going down your spine at how offhanded it had been, left in parenthesis as if the loss of a life was a mere footnote. Yet another document described how the virus was implanted into two subjects who had a close relationship. You didn't even want to know.

"Sick bastards," Leon seethed. You couldn't agree more.

Heading further in, you recognised this place as where Birkin got gunned down by the firing squad. Leon reached for a vial in one of the slots, staring at it in his open palm.

"Huh. That was easy..."

Somehow, after everything, after fighting your way through the city's sewers, battling through all of Umbrella's monstrous creations, going through all that trouble just to infiltrate NEST, the G-Virus was just sitting there, mere feet away from where the scientist who'd created it had gone to such lengths to keep it out of even his own employer's hands?

Yeah, it was too easy.

"Alright, now back to Ada."

"Leon —" you started. "You really trust her?"

He tucked the vial into his pouch, looking back at you, mildly perturbed. "Should we not? She's done nothing but help us so far."

Something about the earnestness in his eyes, the way they were so wide and blue and luminous even in this lifeless place made you stop short, just slightly.

"I... don't know. Some things don't add up. The G-Virus, Ada's mission... Leon, do you really know what she wants it for? Did she ever tell you?"

His jaw clenched, avoiding your gaze. Already, you could tell a seed had been planted. "She's doing this to stop Annette. To bring down Umbrella."

"If that was the case, half the stuff we've been looking at would be evidence enough to prove their crimes. I asked her why she needed the G-Virus specifically. She never actually answered me."

"Well, maybe she's just trying to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands," Leon justified weakly.

You bit your tongue, knowing you had to choose your next words carefully. "I'm just saying, maybe... we shouldn't be taking everything she says at face value. I'm serious, Leon."

He reached over, squeezing your shoulder. "Well, when we make it back, we can talk to her. Set things straight."

You nodded uneasily, your footsteps mere paces behind his as you made your way back out of the lab.

"Unauthorized removal of a [Level 4] virus detected. Facility lockdown initiated. Self-destruct sequence will begin once lockdown is complete."

"Uh, Leon —" you warned.

"Don't worry about that right now," he reassured. "Let's get back to Ada first. I won't let anything happen to you, okay?"

Retracing your steps back out over the bridge, you'd just about made it to the other side when the ceiling split open, a large misshapen mass of muscle and sinew, with tiny human legs and an engorged right shoulder topped with a bulging yellow eyeball. On closer inspection, the thing appeared to have two heads — one skull-like and much too small for its body, the other a man's face, contorted in agony over where a normal human's heart would be.

Of course it wouldn't actually be that easy.

Leon raised his gun. "You again."

You raised your own firearm as well, before noticing a blonde woman in a white lab coat limping over.

"Move! He's mine. This has to end."

Holding up what looked like a small pistol, she fired it. Instead of bullets, a spurt of acid landed on the monster's exposed flesh, melting it and eliciting a groan of agony.

Leon looked over at the lady, gun still raised. "What the hell's going on?"

You didn't lower your own gun either. "Who are you?"

Instead of answering either of your questions, the lady instead limped towards the monster, raising her acid gun again. "Sorry, William. You left me no choice."

Another blast of acid hit the monster, and it finally slumped to the ground, seemingly dead. Keeping you close behind, Leon approached its smouldering body, gun aiming for its head in case it came back to life. Once he was certain it wasn't, he knelt by the body. You, on the other hand, preferred to stand.

"You called this thing 'William'. Why?"

You hadn't given it much thought between the monster falling from the ceiling and the lady with her acid gun, but looking down at the body and thinking back to all the emails and documents you'd read previously... no, that can't be right. It sounded like something out of a cheap B-horror movie.

The woman, on the other hand, was still staring ahead at the monster's body, shaking her head as if she was in a trance. "It shouldn't have been like this..."

She gritted her teeth, fists clenched. "It's Umbrella's fault, this whole mess."

"You're Umbrella, too," Leon pointed out. "You're telling me you weren't involved in this?"

"Yes..." she replied. "But we never meant for this to happen!"

A bit too little, too late for that, lady. But you kept your mouth shut. You certainly didn't want to risk her aiming that acid gun at you next. Leon got up, assuming authorative police officer mode — a very attractive mode of his, you might add (stop.) — standing before the woman with a determined look upon his face.

"Then tell me everything — right from the start."

The woman, who turned out to be the Annette Birkin Leon and Ada had been after, had watched as William Birkin, her husband inject himself with the G-Virus after being gunned down.

Leon's expression was grim. "So you made this monster?"

Annette Birkin rushed to cover her tracks. "We made the G-Virus, but we never intended this to —"

"You can spin it any way you want," Leon said matter-of-factly. "You're still responsible."

Meanwhile, the yellow eyeball on the mutated William Birkin's arm was rotating, just behind him. You tugged on Leon's sleeve. "Uh, guys —"

Before either of you could react, however, the monster's claws had grabbed Annette by her midsection, and all you could do was watch as she struggled hopelessly in its grasp before getting thrown bodily against a wall.

As if that couldn't make matters worse, the monster sprouted three new arms, each tipped with long talons. Immediately, it took a swipe at you and Leon, and you scrambled to get away before you got turned into mincemeat.

"The hell?"

Another set of talons came down, crumpling metal like paper where he used to be. "Shit!"

"Leon, watch out!" you shouted, a few feet from the entrance where you came from. Like that needed saying.

"Stay back! It's too dangerous!" he yelled back before turning to the monster. "

Annette, whose spine had miraculously remained intact despite getting thrown against a metal wall, managed to struggle to her feet, pressing a button. Emergency lights flooded the room with a red glow, and the platform began to sink.

"What're you doing?" Leon called out to Annette.

"We can't let him get away!"

Sparing a second to weigh his options, Leon vaulted the railing, landing on the platform below to face of against the G-Virus monster. AKA William Birkin. AKA — fucking hell, it was all making your head hurt.

You didn't relish the idea of Leon facing that thing alone, but the chances you'd just be dead weight against that monster were higher than you'd like to admit. Zombies were one thing, but this was a different beast entirely.

You raised your weapon half-heartedly, but with how fast the G-mutant was moving, you couldn't risk hitting Leon. Turning to look at Annette still slumped over the console, the only thing you could do was wait. And hope.

Leon dodged, weaved, and rolled out of the range of the monster's strikes, firing with deadly accuracy at the yellow eyeballs protruding out of various parts of its body, including a particularly gross-looking cluster out of its back. The flamethrower, which hadn't been completely burned out on the plant zombies, also came in clutch.

Of course, not without the caveat that the monster was still pretty strong, deadly, and aggressive on top of being on fire, which immediately caused problems when it promptly started setting everything else on fire. Leon, despite his best efforts, was still toting around a bunch of heavy weaponry, and had been launched across the room a few times already by the monster's powerful swipes.

"Come on, Leon —" you muttered, unsure how that was supposed to help.

Leon, however, persisted in using that flamethrower to its full potential, even as the monster was in the midst of prying off pieces of wall to use as a rudimentary shield. However, it seemed to be working, despite him nearly getting flattened into a Leon-pancake by swinging pieces of infrastructure.

At the end, it paid off, the monster crumpling to the ground a scorched, smoking mass, it's eyeballs oozing foul yellow pus as it keeled over.

Your knees almost gave out in relief as Leon hitched a ride on the service lift back up to the higher platform where you and Annette were. There was no time to have a heartfelt reunion, however. Bloodied and slumped against a wall holding her midsection, she was practically at death's door. Leon sprang into action, kneeling by her side.

"Jesus, that looks bad."

Annette's breath came out in short bursts, her face contorted in agony. "Feels worse, believe me."

"Look, about what you said, I don't know how much I believe it, but I'm willing to —"

She suddenly grabbed him by the arm. "Just tell me you'll destroy that G sample."

Leon shook his head. "No, it's evidence. It's going to the FBI."

You stiffened at that. In the heat of the battle and running into Annette, you'd nearly forgotten. Hell, you weren't even sure you believed it coming out of Leon's mouth anymore.

Evidently, Annette didn't believe it either. Coughing weakly, she stared up at him, her voice dripping with derision. "You trust that bitch?"

Leon glanced over at you, then back at Annette. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You knew, but somehow, Annette saying it would be the final nail in that coffin. "She's not FBI, she's a mercenary. She's gonna sell it — the G-Virus..." she winced. "... is gonna go to the highest bidder."

Leon stood back up, staring disbelievingly down at her. "That's bullshit."

You stood up as well, placing a hand on Leon's shoulder. Annette gasped, and you saw the wound properly for the first time — a dark, gaping hole in her side, soaking her shirt with blood as she eased herself on her side.

"I hope — you're right," she gritted out through her teeth. "But if the G-Virus... gets into the wrong hands..."

She didn't get to finish her sentence, her head lolling on the floor as she lay, motionless. Somehow, you weren't even fazed. You and Leon lingered for but a moment, but time was of the essence.

You found your way back to the decontamination tunnel again when Leon stopped in his tracks. You abruptly stopped as well, staring at the R.P.D initials on his bulletproof vest.

"You believe her? Annette?"

You stood behind him, checking the bullet chamber of your handgun, feeling its solid weight in your grip. "No more than I believe Ada, I guess."

He turned around, and you reluctantly dragged your gaze up to his face. Swimming in those blue eyes were a cacophony of emotions — denial, desperation, and an underlying spark of anger you didn't want to touch.

"I can trust you, right?"

You forced yourself to maintain eye contact. "Yeah, Leon. You can."

His expression softened, just a fraction. "OK. Now, let's get outta here."

***

Exiting the decontamination chute, the worst news anyone could possibly hear while stuck deep underground in a top-secret facility filled with monsters blared through the PA system.

"Attention: Self-destruct sequence initiated."

"Well, isn't that just the cherry on top of this messed-up cake," you muttered, trying to keep pace with Leon as his boots thundered against the floors.

"Use the central elevator to evacuate immediately to the bottom-level train platform."

At least it was nice enough to leave you guys an escape route. As you ran down the last hallway out onto the main shaft, you could see the red of Ada's dress on the platform, holding up some kind of gadget to override the elevator's access panel. Right on time.

Instead of the urgency one would expect in this sort of situation, he was walking leisurely over, paying no mind to the crumbling debris around him, your hand firmly in his even as every nerve in your body was screaming to get to the elevator.

"I was just thinking about you."

"That makes two of us," Ada replied, limping her way over. "I was getting worried."

The ground was shaking beneath you, but Leon's grip on your hand remained firm as he walked across the bridge. "Y'know, we all make a good team. But I gotta ask you something."

Ada ambled her way over on her good leg. "The way's clear. Please, tell me you have it."

"Oh, we got it." Leon replied, somehow calm and nonchalant despite the place falling apart around him. It was almost too unfairly hot — nope, you did not just think that.

She held out a hand. "Let me verify the G sample and we'll get the hell out of here."

"Here?" you asked. "You don't want to wait till we're all on the surface?"

Ada's eyes flickered over to you in annoyance. "Look, there's no time, just —"

"Before we do that..." Leon started. "I ran into Annette. She claims you're not FBI."

"And you're awfully fixated on one tiny sample when there's a whole treasure trove of evidence in this place," you added. "You're not really here to investigate Umbrella's crimes, are you?"

You weren't exactly sure what you expected. Denial, maybe even doubling down on the sample. Something you'd seen manipulators do every so often when their jig was up. Ada's lips curved into a wry smile.

"Oh, Leon..."

You nearly staggered back at the sight of her pistol. You'd only been held at gunpoint once tonight, but suffice to say you weren't keen on repeating that experience.

"Why couldn't you just hand over the sample?"

Leon simply returned Ada's gesture by letting go of your hand and drawing his own gun.

"Because I realized, as much as I wanted to trust you, I didn't."

You drew your gun as well, trying to hide how badly your arms were shaking. "And I never trusted you at all."

Ada shook her head, her expression calm despite having two guns aimed right at her. "I really hoped it wouldn't end up like this."

"So that's all this was," Leon said. "We were just pawns to you?"

She huffed, rolling her eyes like she was just breaking up with a whiny boyfriend. "Look, I'm just doing my job," she sent a snide look in your direction again. "And you just had to ask so many questions."

"Thanks," you replied sarcastically. "just doing my job."

"And I'm doing mine, so drop that damn gun!" Leon commanded. "I'm taking you in."

With what authority he had to arrest a mercenary in the middle of a crumbling underground facility when RPD itself was in shambles miles above, you weren't sure. Ada wasn't buying it, either, stepping forward, gun in hand.

"Hand over the sample, Leon. I don't wanna hurt you."

Just then, half the bridge crumbled, and you were starting to think it'd be a better idea to just hash this out when everyone was safely out of this self-destructing facility, but noooo. They had to play out this stupid soap opera when the ground you were standing on was about as sturdy as wet clay. Morons.

As if an entire piece of infrastructure crumbling was just a minor inconvenience, Leon shifted in place, lowering his gun and standing point-blank at Ada's, the muzzle pointed square at his chest. He was wearing a bulletproof vest, of course, but it was the principle of the thing.

"Then you shoot me. But I don't think you can."

Well, maybe not you, you thought. But somehow you had a feeling Ada wouldn't have as many qualms about shooting you.

Precious minutes were wasted as Ada stood there, perhaps contemplating whether she could shoot you instead. Mercifully, she lowered her gun, only for blood to spurt out of her right shoulder.

You whipped your head back, and felt your jaw drop. Leaning against the entryway was a miraculously alive Annette Birkin, who'd somehow survived getting gored in the side and thrown against a wall enough to drag herself back to the main shaft and shoot a gun at Ada.

Just what the hell were these people made of???

Of course, the rest of the bridge just had to fully collapse right that moment, leaving you, Leon, and Ada clinging for dear life on whatever remained of the bridge. To make matters worse, the G sample fell out of Leon's pocket, bounced on the bridge, then fell into the abyss. Your eyes followed it down, watching it get swallowed by the darkness along with all the other falling debris.

You'd just barely managed to find your footing, grabbing onto Leon's good shoulder to haul him back up, if not for Ada dangling from his hand.

"Leon..."

"Hold on, I think I can..." he cursed as the bridge crumbled even further under all your weights. "Argh, shit!"

He looked imploringly in your direction, and despite jealousy threatening to rear its ugly head, you nodded, clambering uneasily over whatever bridge was left to extend your hand on Ada's other side. Sure, she was a mercenary, but you weren't a monster. Besides, there would be plenty of opportunities to turn her in once all three of you made it to the surface. Not like she could run very far with a leg injury.

She made no move to grab your hand, however, which was really kind of hurtful. Just because you were a bit petty those few times — okay, maybe since the minute you met, but this was life and death here.

Ada, for her part, looked resigned to her fate. "Forget it."

"Shut up," Leon sobbed, which definitely didn't make you jealous whatsoever. "I've got you!"

"It's not worth it," she said.

That, however, only made Leon more distraught, to the point where you were feeling it as well, even as you yourself were right on the edge of pitching off this bridge.

You'd never been particularly scared of heights or darkness, but — one look at the chasm below made you gulp. Heavily.

"Don't do this," he pleaded, but her hand was already slipping from his.

Ada looked back up at the two of you, her eyes shining with some of unspeakable emotion. "Take care of yourselves, you two."

With that, she fell, deep into the dust and debris and glowing blue lights of NEST punctuated by Leon's heartwrenching "NO!"

"Leon," you implored weakly, grabbing his shoulder. "Come on. We can't stay."

The two of you clambered onto the last intact piece of the bridge, right by the central elevator. You went ahead, Leon trailing behind, trying to muster up a brave face as you stopped to check on him every few paces.

"Keep going. I'm right behind you."

Somehow, you weren't entirely convinced.

Getting into the elevator, you didn't so much as breathe a sigh of relief until its doors hissed shut. Silence hung in the air as it descended, the chamber lit up by a red glow from the flames blazing through the facility.

When the doors slid open, you reached for Leon's hand, relieved to feel his calloused, gloved hand in yours as you ran for the train, surrounding by flashing screens and blaring warning alarms. It was almost romantic.

Just out of the corner of your eye, you caught a screen glitching. Leon, who'd also noticed, stopped in his tracks.

"Who's that?"

The both of you got in front of the screen, the static cleared, revealing a familiar face.

"Claire!" you both exclaimed at the same time, then exchanged looks.

Her face appeared, and from the looks of her dirt-streaked shoulders she'd been through quite the ordeal herself. "You guys are down here, too?"

"Yeah," Leon answered. "But the whole place is coming down. Listen to me. You need to get out, fast!"

Claire leaned away from the screen, looking at something neither of you could see. "Yeah, there's a way out. We can make it — where are you now?"

You looked around. "Some kind of emergency room. We're on our way."

Whether it was because the facility was crumbling elsewhere or just the fact of being underground, her feed was cutting out constantly. Leon leaned against the console, eyes glued to the monitor as if he could reach her through the screen.

"Claire? You still there?"

"Leon? Hey, Leon — you guys are breaking up."

"Forget about me, just get out of here!"

The feed cut out one final time, and he stood back up. "Dammit!"

You patted his shoulder. "Come on. We're not gonna make it dilly-dallying around here."

"You're right," he agreed, holding out his hand. "Let's go."

As if you needed further prompting to hurry the fuck up, the PA system announced: "Nine minutes until detonation."

Jeez, trigger-happy much?

You and Leon made double time, running out the exit and onto a series of platforms, down a service elevator, through a few more plant-zombie infested tunnels you kept back with bullets, climbing down yet another ladder. Freedom was so close.

Until blue man showed up to ruin the party, bursting through the ceilings and in hot pursuit of your smelly asses.

"What the fuck! You're supposed to be dead!" you shrieked at the advancing humanoid stomping towards you both.

Leon shared the same sentiments, albeit worded slightly more politely. "Uh, is this a fucking joke?"

Either way, time to play good ol' 'ring-around-the-rosie' with this bitch. You circled a railing, gunning for the exit, Leon hot on your heels as the two officially arrived in hell.

Well, close enough. It was on fire, the metal walls and doors burning red-hot from the flames currently swallowing the room. The smoke stung your eyes and filled your lungs, and you held up a sleeve to block it out, coughing as you turned into a corridor that was, thankfully, not on fire.

"Eight minutes until detonation."

You'd think there'd be more convenient ways to escape a disintegrating underground facility, but apparently the architects who designed this place didn't seem to think so, as you were plunged into yet another blazing backroom, the heat almost unbearable through your cardigan.

Unfortunately, before you could reach the exit, an explosion went off, blocking the way forward. As if the situation wasn't dire enough, blue man had caught up, grabbing Leon by the throat and raising him up to the grilles, another blast shook him from its grasp, and Leon toppled to the ground.

You rushed to his side, eyeing the creature uneasily, but before you could contemplate whether to raise your shotgun at it, two gas tanks exploded, collapsing the grille you and Leon were standing on and pitching you onto the level below.

"Gah!" Leon gasped as he landed on his side, curling up in pain.

You'd fared slighly better, having managed to break your fall with your knees and elbows, crawling over to him. "Leon, come on, get up —"

More gas tanks exploded, blasting blue man from all directions until another grille collapsed, landing several inches from where he was. You grabbed him by his good arm, hauling him up and making sure nothing was broken.

"Gotta keep going...!"

"Yeah, you don't say!" you retorted as the both of you promptly hauled ass out of there, running out onto another platform where you snagged a joint plug to slot into the circuit. Leon pulled the lever, and you felt relief wash over you as the indicator turned green.

Of course, the universe wasn't letting up on either of you just yet.

Right on cue, emerging out of the flames was blue man in all his glory, his trenchcoat completely tattered, showcasing every sinew and bulging muscle that could put even Arnold Schwarzenegger himself to shame.

Leon stared up at the creature in horror. "Oh, shit..."

You, on the other hand, managed to articulate your concerns somewhat more eloquently. "Really, bitch? Again?"

Right before a collapsing beam promptly knocked you both off your feet, and blue man, still on fire, landing squarely right on your platform.

"Alright, come on!" Leon dared, while you grabbed your shotgun like an irate grandpa yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

"GET THE FUCK — OFF OUR BACKS — ASSHOLE!"

You were pretty miffed Claire didn't leave you with a machine gun instead. That would've really driven the point home.

The battle begun, with both you and Leon aiming for the pulsing red thing in its chest like an exposed heart, while trying to keep your distance from it, which was far easier said than done on such a small platform. Still, it was two against one, and Umbrella's monsters had quite an obvious design flaw.

Tossing a flashbang at the creature, you heard Leon go, "What is it with this thing?"

"Wouldn't I love to know!" you shouted back, unloading another round into blue man's chest, narrowly avoiding a swipe from its outsized talons.

Between the both of you, Leon's flamethrower, and a convenient grenade launcher sliding from the rafters, you managed to dispatch blue man at last. You could've wept for joy upon hearing the words "You have reached the bottom level" if it didn't mean embarassing yourself in front of Leon.

With the grenade launcher in hand, you mowed through any remaining zombies effortlessly, making it through the last stretch onto the arriving train, dodging falling pieces of the building and even more explosions as you ran.

"Dammit, this thing's not stopping?" you panted as your legs struggled to keep up.

Leon, without so much as a warning, scooped you up, running to an opening and tossing you in like a sack of potatoes before hoisting himself up beside you.

At last, you could both breathe, as NEST disintegrated behind you with yet another massive explosion. You'd made it out just in time.

You both slumped against the wall, far too exhausted to even celebrate.

"You know," you heaved. "I really only did yoga before this."

Leon laughed, a gentle sound that rang out over the train rattling over the tracks. "Really? Could've fooled me. You held your own."

"I've got you to thank," you replied, feeling warm in the face all of a sudden. "I don't think I would've made it out of here without you and Claire."

He reached for your hand, squeezing it in his. "I promised, didn't I?"

You spotted the faint purple glow of Ada's wristband, and your face fell. Leon pulled it out of his pocket, examining it with a bittersweet look in his eyes.

"I still can't believe I never saw it," he murmured, before turning back to you, his eyes filled with that earnestness you'd become so fond of. "How'd you know, anyway? That she wasn't... trustworthy."

You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall. "Well, I am in advertising. Guess I know a thing or two about manipulation."

"Maybe you can teach me," he said, before clearing his throat awkwardly. "To spot manipulation, I mean."

"Sure," you replied, the atmosphere suddenly getting a little awkward as you both became rather aware of the elephant in the room.

"So..." Leon began, fiddling with the bracelet awkwardly. You almost wanted to snatch it out of his hand and kiss him senseless, if not for the fact that you both were still a) covered in sewage and b) stink to high heaven.

"So..." you supplied, waiting for him to spit it out.

"Maybe once we get out, we can — get coffee...? See a movie...?"

You blinked, not quite believing your ears. You'd been so busy trying not to die, you hadn't exactly given tomorrow much thought, let alone seeing Leon again outside of the zombie apocalypse.

Wait, did he just say he wanted to see you outside of the zombie apocalypse? Coffee, movies — surely, that was indicative of wanting to see someone beyond the zombie apocalypse.

Immediately, your brain scrambled to formulate a response. "Uh, y-yeah, yeah, totally! Err — wait, maybe when we get back to the surface we can... exchange contact info?"

You couldn't quite see it in the dark or the layer of grime over his face, but you could've sworn his cheeks were pink too. "Yeah, sure."

He stared back down at the bracelet, a sad smile on his face. "I can't believe I actually miss her."

You remained silent. There were a million things you could say, but none of them seemed remotely appropriate for the moment. Although, you did allow yourself a moment of triumph as Leon let the bracelet fall away onto the tracks.

He got to his feet, holding out a hand to you, which you gladly took, walking among the seats to another set of doors, which slid open to reveal Claire and Sherry, just one car away from yours.

"Claire!"

"Hey, guys!" she beamed. "It's so good to see you both."

Leon spread his arms out. "Told you we'd make it, didn't I?"

"You did," you replied, your hand still in his.

Leon looked over at Sherry, sitting over to the side. "Who's this?"

Claire brought her forward, the little girl smiling politely up at him. Somehow, you imagined that pretty face of his put children at ease. "This? This is Sherry."

Just as Leon nodded his acknowledgement, the train car shook. And just when you thought that was the last of it. Nope. Claire and Leon, who were far more resolute than you, were immediately on alert.

"What was that?"

"I don't know."

Claire held up a hand. "You two stay here with Sherry. I'll go check it out."

Not long after, you were hearing the sound of gunfire and Claire cursing up a storm. You and Leon exchanged glances, taking up arms again. Hey, what's one more horror for a night already full of 'em, right? Sherry got off her seat, padding after you as you prepared to charge through the door, guns blazing.

"I'm coming with you guys!"

Leon knelt by her side. "It could be dangerous. We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"But... I'm scared. I don't wanna be alone."

You knelt on her other side. "If you come with us, you have to promise to do as we say, and stay out of danger. Understood?"

Sherry nodded, her nose scrunched in determination.

Right as you got to the last car, you were floored by the sight before you. You couldn't even begin to describe it, the way its flesh parted in the center to reveal a familiar yellowed eyeball like the world's most cursed flower, edged with way too much teeth in all the places where there shouldn't be any.

A tentacle swiped out, knocking Claire off her feet and throwing the car off-balance. Out of a nearby window, you could see the metal exteriors trailing sparks against the tunnel.

Leon, ever the man of action, sprang towards the panel between the cars. "Claire!" he turned to you, urgency in his eyes. "We gotta lose that car!"

You wasted no time helping him open up the panel, exposing the hook. A few good stomps later, the cars were coming loose. Claire, for her part, got her bearings right in time to grab a stick and stab the creature's big yellow eyeball, gushing foul pus as she drove it deeper in.

"You like that? Goodbye, fucker."

She yanked it back out, and the monster let out a blood curdling scream as Leon reached for Claire's hand, pulling her back into your car just in the nick of time to watch it hurtle, along with the abandoned car, into a sea of flames.

***

It had been less than 24 hours since your ordeal, but it must've been days since you'd seen real sunlight. Days of confinement in hotel rooms, then in the RPD had you squinting uncomfortably as you walked, hand-in-hand, with Leon, flanked by Claire and Sherry on your left side.

Sherry's eyes fell onto your linked hands. "So... are you guys, like, together?"

Immediately, you and Leon were sputtering. "We, uh —"

"Well, we actually just met... last night?" Leon offered unhelpfully.

"Sure was one helluva of a first date," you remarked, half-jokingly.

Thankfully, Sherry's attention was soon directed to an approaching truck. "Look, he might be able to give us a ride."

Claire stopped before front of you and Leon, her brows furrowing in concern. "What if it's not just the city?"

Leon glanced over at the truck, shepherding Sherry over to Claire's side. "Get Sherry outta here."

All attempts to hitchhike failed, however, as the trucker instantly flipped the bird at you out the window, driving off and leaving everyone in the dust.

"Well... he was friendly."

"Wouldn't exactly call it that," you muttered as Claire and Sherry rejoined you.

Claire watched the truck disappear into the horizon. "So... is it over?"

Leon's gaze was determined, his hand firmly gripping yours as he stepped forward. "I don't know. But if it's not, we'll stop it. Whatever it takes."

"Yeah, you're damn right we will!"

"Uh, are we really walking all the way to next town, though?" you pointed out.

"Long as we stick together, we'll be fine," Leon reassured, extending his other hand to Sherry. "Come on."

"That... still doesn't answer my question."

"Hey, you guys can adopt me!" Sherry piped up, somehow in great spirits despite everything. You supposed that was a good thing.

Claire chuckled. "Adopt you?"

"We can get a puppy!"

"A... puppy."

"And a parrot!"

"Parrot? Great..."

"Hey," you grinned at Claire. "You saved her. She's your responsibility now."

Sherry, on the other hand, was still happily going on about her dream pets. "I always wanted pets, but my mom says they're too messy. Oh, and it would be fun to learn piano. Do you guys play any instruments?"

"Not unless... the recorder in elementary school counts?" you laughed, relieved to finally be heading home at last.