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Chapter Text

                                                                          Somewhere in London.

Year 1XXXX

Even in the dim candlelight, he was able to see and trace the lines with an almost innate perfectionism, as if the paper and his hand were one, but his mind was the one that held the information in a burning fire, under strict custody. As if someone could steal the image. As if he would let it disappear.

He moved his thumb over the charcoal to shape the shadows of the face he was drawing. A face that haunted him for endless nights and days.

Even though he had been avoiding him with all his might.

His eyes behind his dark glasses blinked slowly, his lips twisting into a concentrated grimace as he moved the pencil toward the arch of his eyebrow, descending into those eyes, bright eyes that burned beyond him, too deep, too intensely.

He captured that intensity, balancing it with those long, delicate eyelashes, which gave him that sweet, soft touch, before lowering them to his lips.

Those lips that had captivated him with their different curves. Amusement, confusion, modesty, curiosity...

He lightly touched the lacy hair that fell over part of his shoulder-length face. A strong and delicate beauty that held nothing delicate about  his personality.

He had surprised him all this week by approaching him. At first, politely, because he was the son of one of the guests at that great court, for the celebration of the daughter of the lord of the territory.

They had greeted each other, and each had gone their own way. Although he caught that turn of his head, that slight bow, and blue eyes full of curiosity.

He seemed to have been disappointed when he thought he wasn't looking at him, because his dark glasses covered his own gaze, which was too obvious.

Oh, but that didn't mean he wouldn't look at him.

On the contrary, he himself hadn't been able to resist searching for him with his gaze, always from a distance, always from a point that couldn't be discovered.

A selfish and twisted way of feeding his need. He had worked hard to focus on his duties, to push him out of his mind.

And yet, during those days, Lyor had found his way to him.

Never obvious, never intentionally. But he knew, he knew how capricious fate was being, how much it was pulling the string, watching for the moment he would lose control.

And he had tried so hard...

To move away, to avoid him, only glances, only fleeting images to silence those whispers that faded into the tips of his fingers, that gave him restless tingles, that didn't end even if he squeezed his knuckles.

It wasn't enough.

That's why he needed to capture it, to draw him, to have something of him that he could take with him.

Tomorrow he would leave, with no exact destination.

The most remote place possible.

It didn't matter, really, anywhere was a place, but he knew perfectly well he had to leave as soon as possible.

It wasn't as if he didn't want to stay. Oh...he longed for it. Just a little longer, just a little while longer. To find himself looking through one of the hat shop windows again, like that pair of blue eyes and parted lips that opened when he was caught staring, as he happened to stroll through the small town.

How Lyor participated in the hunts, riding a horse with a rifle in hand, the air moving his blond hair and sweat running down his neck, where those freckles were always exposed. How he turned his head to try to see someone in the audience, finding him hidden among the trees in the shade.

He would smile, thinking he didn't see him. But he did.

As if his whole hope was for him to see him. To recognize him.

And he saw him. He always saw him; he was too bright not to look at.

They had never had the time or the opportunity to get close, but he saw how Lyor tried.

How, after finishing his duties, or his social conversations, he would always move away from the crowd to look for him.

But he would always leave before that happened.

A game of cat and mouse.

How painful it could be, that longing, that denial of his own being, of indulging in just a few minutes of seeing him, sharing more than that brief moment of his introduction.

And he would have to leave.

With a silent sigh, he stood up with the drawing in his hands, caring for it as if it were made of glass. Fragile, precious. To him, it was. It was his way of keeping him  close when distance would kill him inside.

But this time...he would get it.

However, he felt the hairs on his neck prick up, that electric shock passing through his entire body, to his fingertips. He didn't need to see him  to know that Lyor was there.

He covered the drawing with papers, clutching them to his chest, before raising his hand to adjust his glasses.

His lips curled into a grimace, his fingers tightening over the documents. He had wasted too much time sitting here, and he had allowed fate to mock him again. Pulling the string again.

The sound of the door closing behind him told him what he feared most.

He was already here.

He peered between the shelves, following the candlelight, as if he hadn't expected to find Wesker there. He stopped and seemed to catch his breath. Even with his back turned, he could hear his lips part in surprise, how he stepped back and seemed to want to hide, or flee, and it was too late for that.

Perhaps this was a final twist of fate, perhaps a benevolence before his departure.

He wanted so badly to believe that.

That's why he couldn't resist turning his head slightly to speak in his baritone over his shoulder, firm and knowing it made him shudder.

"Good evening, Mr. Scott."

"...!?" This seemed to take him by surprise, and after a second of hesitation, he dared to emerge from his hiding place among the shelves. Speaking softly, but curiously. "Lord Wesker... How did you know it was me?"

Oh, sweet, innocent creature...

His lips gently curved upward as he ran a hand over the wood of the table, his fingers almost scratching.

"Your perfume is too strong to ignore," he replied simply and amusedly, already seeing the other man's confusion over his shoulder.

He even lightly reached for his own shirt to smell it, instinctively, not realizing that he was too adorable for doing so, wondering if it really was too strong.

His cheeks tinged slightly red in embarrassment.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to bother you. I just came to drop off the books Lord Graham lent me." His eyes shifted to the body of the black-clad man in front of him, always so enigmatic. He couldn't control the question, even though he knew he shouldn't ask, that there wasn't that kind of trust or closeness of social standing that would prevent him from being taken for a prying eye. He simply couldn't help it. "What are you doing here so late at night? And..."

Wesker heard boots approaching from behind, closing the distance.

His nostrils flared, breathing in his scent long before it naturally reached him.

He shouldn't have turned around. He shouldn't have. He couldn't. He clenched the documents in his hand.

Control Yourself...

"Why do you always wear glasses? It's not daytime in here," he commented, leaning slightly to look at him, placing the books on the table as a weak excuse for getting closer. "I don't mean to sound offensive, just--"

"You and your curiosity are a combination worth studying." Even if he wanted to turn his back on him, he ended up moving his body to face him when the proximity was too daring. His body was already tense, his jaw clenched.

But those eyes were already disarming him. The blush on his cheeks, moving to his neck, exposed with those freckles too adorable to resist touching. To feel that racing pulse that he could already hear from this distance.

His expression turned shy and embarrassed.

"I really didn't mean to sound offensive. I'm sorry." He touched his hair, brushing some away from his forehead so it fell back like a cascade of blonde. "It was just curiosity, I'll keep it at bay."

Oh, if only it were true, though it wasn't something that bothered him. He knew where this was going. His own pulse quickened slightly as he looked at the sky on the dark horizon, then at the hands of that old clock. He wasn't sure of the time, or how long he'd been drawing, lost in his thoughts, but the sooner he got going, the better.

"Don't worry, Mr. Scott, I'm not offended. You should go to your quarters now; tomorrow is a big day for you, isn't it?"

Lyor's eyes widened slightly, a mixture of surprise and almost innocent, brilliant excitement.

"Oh, you know about my birthday? Who told you? No, it doesn't matter, it really is an honor that you remember it! You'll stay for the party, right?"  Perhaps he had sounded too enthusiastic, too hopeful, but finally, after weeks of trying to find this mysterious, captivating man again, who had haunted his mind from the very beginning, he had found him so he could get to know each other better.

He wanted Lord Wesker to be there for his birthday so much, so they could talk more, not just cordial, short conversations. He wanted to hear him speak. His thoughts, his tastes.

People spoke of him as if he were a scholar, with a brilliant mind, with admiration and fear in equal measure. He arrived there overnight and in a short time, he made a name for himself, recognized by all and admired as a genius ahead of his time. Even the clergy of the church kept their distance because his influence surpassed even the laws of God. So great was Lord Wesker that Lyor felt he had begged for sanity by wanting to be under his gaze for a few moments.

In an illogical and almost magical way. As absurd as that was.

Without realizing it, he'd shortened the distance, causing the man to tense, not out of fear, but something more. Something unspoken, something charged between them. Then, when Lord Wesker moved, something fell from among the papers he was holding.

Lyor's eyes glanced down, meeting a charcoal drawing. A drawing of him.

His breath caught in his throat as he bent down to pick it up, his eyes wide and bright, something inside him already burning with warmth that was hard to hide. He looked up at the blond man in front of him, his lips parted in a near-smile.

"Have you...did this?"

Wesker seemed hesitant to answer that. He considered what he should say, whether to snatch that drawing from his hands or indulge the object of his obsession that was gnawing at his mind. He didn't feel the strength to take it back. Lyor's smile disarmed him with the ease of a seasoned swordsman.

That's why he answered.

"Yeah, one..." he seemed to think about it, before slumping his shoulders and giving a slightly tilted smile. "A little something for your birthday."

It was pure whim, telling him, to delight in that sight. The surprise, the blush growing from his neck to his ears. His cheeks were covered in a pink that was too flattering, just as his eyes shone with flattery and shyness.

"That's amazing, thank you very much. Really!" He looked into his eyes again, bravely daring to take a step closer. "Why did you do it? I mean, it's not that I don't like it, I love it! But why? We haven't had a chance to talk since Lady Graham's party. I'm not... I'm not worthy of this gift!"

Wesker already felt on the edge of sanity, so close and so difficult to control his hands from touching him. From cradling that face between his fingers.

To erase that aberrant doubt from his mind, to remove any trace of believing he was less than worthy.

But he leaned closer nonetheless, allowing himself to drink in the scent that wafted through his nostrils, slipping down his throat and riddling his brain, memorizing it.

"I'm afraid I have to leave before midnight, and I wanted to give you a gift for your big day, Mr. Scott. Even though we haven't been able to spend more time together, does that prevent you from receiving a gift?"

He gently tilted his head, and Lyor seemed to follow his movement, staring down at the drawing for a moment before looking up and tugging at his own lips in a soft smile.

"Not at all." They stared at each other for moments that seemed countless, neither wanting to break the warm atmosphere that had settled between them. The space was limited, their toes almost touching.

It was then that Wesker didn't anticipate how Lyor stood on tiptoe and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. He tensed, his eyes wide behind those dark glasses, the hands resting at his sides tensing and retracting, controlling himself. Barely.

Actually, he didn't want to control himself.

He moved them to take Lyor by the arms, keeping him at this distance, their bodies practically pressed together, his face moving to brush against the other man's nose.

Their breaths touched, their breathing slightly ragged, their eyes staring at each other with something heavy between them, like a fuse before it explodes. They both knew it, they both wanted the same thing and were about to do it.

Until the sound of the grandfather clock projected a loud sound, echoing in the room, and on Wesker's skin.

He quickly glanced at the clock to make sure the time was right.

He sighed in relief to find he still had an hour to go.

"Now it's officially my birthday, Lord Wesker..." Lyor had murmured, still touching the man with one hand on his chest, the other holding the drawing.

That earned the taller blond a quick turn of his head, who frowned, his skin tingling again, an old, familiar alarm in his being that extended to his very core.

His voice raspy, he asked.

"What did you say? It's not midnight yet."

"Oh..." He seemed surprised and somewhat embarrassed by this abrupt change of atmosphere, as he had planned something more intimate. Then he cleared his throat, blushing. "Th-that clock is slow, Mr. Graham told me the other day. Didn't you know?"

Wesker's pulse quickened, and his features hardened, his jaw tense, his teeth clenched. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair. He began to curse under his breath; there was no escape now. No matter how hard his mind tried to make plans, he quickly discarded them because there was no room for error!

Time was running out...

And the worst part?

His eyes moved to Lyor.

No... it couldn't be... Fate was playing tricks on him again?! Was he doomed to this twisted joke?!

Lyor didn't understand his change of attitude, of course. The sweet creature approached him again, reaching out to touch his arm, trying to reassure him.

"Hey... is something wrong, Lord Wes-..." The words died on his lips when his eyes suddenly opened as he saw a spark of blue fire ignite in his hand. It spread throughout it, burning his clothes, skin, and bones. Fear flashed in his eyes, and he looked back at Wesker. "Lord Wesker?! What the hell is going on?! My hand!! My arm?!! AAAAAAAAHHHggHHh?!!!!"

He panicked, seeing how even his feet began to burn, how these flames appeared and began to consume him as he screamed in pain and fear.

Wesker wasted no time, taking his face in both hands, holding him close, making him look at him. Watching those eyes shed tears filled with pain and fear.

"Lyor...Lyor, please, look at me...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I should have left sooner...!" he said in a dejected, sincere voice, brushing under his eyes to wipe away the desperate tears. "Shh...shh...I have you...it'll pass...I have you, Lyor...!"

He pressed their foreheads together, wrapping his arms around him, while he himself felt a different pain. The fire didn't burn him, but Lyor's screams echoed in his head. His arms held his body, which was writhing in search of relief and freedom, tightly wrapped around him.

His poor voice died away into a bitter, pitiful murmur, his name on his lips, which disappeared.

Wesker didn't close his eyes.

He didn't want to leave him alone in this. He didn't want him to suffer alone. He looked at him, held him close, as if he wished the flames would take him too.

His breathing labored, barely allowing himself the luxury of tears, feeling a single tear escape as he tried to remain composed.

When the voice fell silent, when the only thing he held in his hands was Lyor's skull, engulfed in bright blue fire, like the rest of Lyor, evaporating in sparkles amid the flames.

Until the skull too turned into that stardust, until the flames stopped dancing in the air, and he left the castle library in silence.

The half-burned drawing on the floor, where a dark stain was the only proof that anyone had ever been there.

Wesker slowly lowered his arms to his sides. He raised his head to the air, and remained calm.

He was gone. He had lost him again, trusting that fate would be benevolent.

For believing he'd have a chance if he treated the world better than it deserved.

He took a slow breath before bursting into a fierce, beastly, unhuman scream. He unleashed his anger and sorrow, throwing the table and chairs against the walls. Knocking over the bookshelves.

At some point, the books and candles fell to the floor, causing a fire to burst forth and spread through the room and beyond.

Wesker didn't care.

He left that room, that castle, breathing heavily, clenching his knuckles as if he hadn't yet had enough to stifle his anger and sadness.

Not even the screams in the background as the castle began to burn were enough to drown out the voice in his head that demanded blood and pain. Something that would make him feel even a second of what he had just lost that night.

He advanced along the brick path, following the trail to leave the castle grounds, going against the flow of the services that were rushing to try to put out the fire and evacuate the people inside.

He just kept moving forward.

He had no choice.

He had nothing else.

He could only move forward.

And quench his thirst with the souls of those who weren't guilty, causing another night of terror in that small town. He had helped them as much as he could.

He had tried to change things, and yet this was his reward.

Well, it wouldn't be like that. No...

His eyes shone redder than ever, like two burning rubies, as he walked almost erratically, enraged, with emptiness in his chest, dripping only anger and pain.

Because if he couldn't breathe right now, because of his sadness and anger, his immeasurable loss, then no one in that village would.

Chapter Text

Police station, Harvestville.

The tapping of the pen on the iron table penetrated Leon's senses, hammering at his brain, forcing him to lightly close his eyes for a moment in a vague attempt to ignore it.

The room, dimly lit by a fluorescent light halfway detached from the wall, cold, sterile, and barely decorated, oppressed him.

More so than even the man in front of him, his boss, Brian Irons.

He remained silent for a few more minutes, flipping through the file in front of him, tapping it again, too many times, causing Leon to stifle an annoyed snort and decide to shift in his seat, clearing his throat slightly to get his attention.

He was already feeling mentally tired enough to endure another fifteen minutes of this suffocating silence.

Irons finally lowered the file and looked at him, gently tilting his head.

"Leon S. Kennedy...the man of the moment." He announced, as if Leon hadn't been called there in the first place by him.

"...." His first reaction was to raise his gaze slightly to meet his face, then shift his blue eyes to either side of the room, releasing a soft, silent sigh.

After a second, he sat up, ran a hand over his own face, brushing his stubble, and looked back at Irons, who remained silent as if waiting for an answer to an unasked question.

"So?" Irons asked aloud.

Leon just shifted again, too uncomfortable in that chair.

"Tell me what you want me to answer, sir." He decided to get straight to the point; he knew exactly why he was here. "I'll give you the same answer I gave at the trial."

Irons reopened the report and skimmed it, or seemed to, wasting more of Leon's time, who was already tense and tired.

"Your record is excellent. With no criminal record, you graduated from the police academy with high, bordering on perfect, grades. Medals of recognition, praised as a talented future prospect, and recommendations. You were assigned here to work on a major case a few years ago after working at another precinct, which promoted you here for your achievements in said case…" He tilted his head, reading the last part. "Being one of the best officers here, with no incidents and excellent reports. A role model, no doubt." He nodded slowly as he read, until his eyes rose to meet his. "…But recently accused of a murder."

Leon's gut churned, and he clenched his fists on his thighs, his entire body tense and exhausted by this.

He dared to speak softly through his teeth.

"I didn't commit any murder, sir. The trial has established my innocence."

"Presumed innocence," he corrected, throwing the report in front of him on the table. "Mr. Serra's body was completely charred. Because of that and the security records, there's no evidence to charge you with homicide. Yet you were the last person with him."

The words sounded harsh, cold, and Leon shuddered, no matter how hard he tried to control it. His eyes moved to his hands, which were clenched, his lips pressed together, trying to suppress the flashing memories.

Irons raised an eyebrow, leaning back with his hands on the table, clasping them together to look at him measuredly.

"The park's security cameras couldn't capture anything out of the ordinary that day. It was as if it just happened, right? But you and I know that people don't burn for no reason."

"No. They don't burn for no reason," he repeated almost mechanically.

"Exactly." He nodded a couple of times. "I wonder why you and Mr. Serra got together that day?"

That question was a bit odd, not because he couldn't answer it, but because Leon had already answered it in court and thought it was already written there. It wasn't pleasant to remember the answer, but he couldn't, and he wasn't going to lie or hide anything.

With another tired sigh, Leon sat up more, moving his hands, trying to find his voice, faintly feeling his eyes water again.

"It was a date." His voice barely a whisper. He held back the tears in his already aching eyes as best he could, but a treacherous one escaped from the side. "It was a date. Just the two of us, in the park, for my birthday."

He clenched his fists again, keeping himself from shaking as best he could.

Irons seemed to shift his posture, his expression slightly surprised. He flipped through the folder in front of him again, as if searching for that same information. Not that Leon had lied in his statement; he never would. But it seemed that small detail had slipped past the man.

He ran a hand over his chin, studying the situation in a silence that was once again too oppressive. Without having received a word of empathy, Leon simply wiped his face with the back of his hand, staring at the ethereal wall of this cold room he hated so much. Suddenly feeling too exposed and too vulnerable. Without any sympathy offered, just his emotions on edge. 

He never thought about this. Being in this situation, on trial, accused of murder, with everyone looking at him as if he were a madman who had lied to their faces. Having lost his partner, with no time to grieve, to recover. In a trial that was too long.

God, he felt so tired...

But he was fighting not to sink, to not ruin everything he'd been fighting for his whole life. Since childhood, from a certain moment, he'd decided to be a police officer. He'd worked hard for this, to get where he was.

Shit, he'd pushed himself so hard, pushing himself to the limit in every way his body and soul could. And now he felt empty, enduring that pain, and that dizzying feeling of being on the verge of falling.

As if all that work and effort were going to vanish.

Everything depended on what Irons wrote, what he wanted to do with his destiny.

The trial had been long and exhausting, with little defense, but no way the prosecution could find real evidence to prove him guilty.

Because it was just like Irons said.

People don't burn for no reason...

But with Leon, it seemed they did. It didn't matter how many times he replayed that moment in his mind, section by section, moment by moment. Frame by frame, as if his mind were a photo-development studio. Leon couldn't make sense of anything. Just...

Confusion... so much confusion, and a pressure in his chest that was too big.

Then Irons' voice pulled him out of his mind.

"Just curious, how old were you, Kennedy?"

"...What?"

"How old were you, just curious." He waved his hand as if it didn't really matter, while holding another folder.

He couldn't make sense of that question, not even out of curiosity. But if even Leon didn't feel like indulging in stupid questions, he snorted as he looked up to calm himself from saying something stupid to this arrogant bastard.

"Thirty-six. I turned thirty-six," he replied with a sigh, his voice dry and his tone even sharper. But when there was no response after a couple of minutes, he lost his patience and stood up from his chair. "Sir, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to work. I'm not comfortable with this."

Not comfortable, not okay, he didn't even know if he  should be working.

God, he hadn't had time to grieve, to process what had happened, to rest mentally and physically, and worst of all, he hadn't even been able to go to the funeral! He'd been locked in a cell while the wake and burial had happened! He'd stayed in a corner, in shock, sometimes crying, sometimes just staring into space, trying to process it all, alone.

And now the pressure was too much. He just wanted to go to work, to try to escape this damn room.

With everything about to burst out of his chest, Irons suddenly stood up too, throwing a folder in his direction, with a photograph of a place on it.

Leon frowned and looked down.

"What's this?"

"Your new workplace."

"What?!" He looked up to face Irons. "What do you mean by this?" His eyes darted around, studying the photograph of the building, the name inscribed on the paper. Another pressure in his chest stabbing with sharp anxiety. "Are you firing me?!"

His tone of voice sounded too hurt and betrayed for his liking, but Irons shook his head.

"Transferring," he clarified, leaning on the table. "This department can't get any more bad reputations, Kennedy. We've had enough scandals. And while it's true that your presence here has helped improve the public image, well... you know, your case..." He grimaced, shaking his head from side to side, his hand cutting the air. "It's too powerful for the media to keep quiet. No one will trust a police department that has a man accused of burning his partner alive working here. Even if the judge has ruled you innocent, rumors spread like wildfire. They'd shut down the station."

Leon's world went deaf at those words. Everything went dark despite staying awake. He simply repeated those vague excuses in his mind, but they stuck like daggers. No one would trust him. No one would look him in the eye again. He'd already felt the gaze of those who were whispering rumors when he walked through the halls to get here. He already knew the comments.

It was one thing to imagine them, but there was always that glimmer of clarity in his mind that told him they were just imaginary words. Right now, he was hearing that his life as a cop was on the brink of being destroyed if he didn't leave.

His lips parted several times before he felt a spark inside him that made him move forward and pick up the papers on the table, holding them up in front of Irons, frowning.

No, he wasn't going to allow this, he wasn't going to give up the fight. He couldn't let all this control his life. His future. A spark lit in his eyes as he faced the other.

"With all due respect, sir. I'm not guilty of the bad reputation this department may have acquired before my arrival," he announced firmly, taking a breath, squaring his shoulders, and dropping those papers back onto the table with a thud. "Nor am I responsible for maintaining this image you've created, nor am I guilty of any murder. I did nothing. I answered before the judge and the court, and I was found innocent. As for the rumors? They can fly all they want, but I can prove I'm not a murderer. I'm a police officer!"

He raised his voice with the last part, echoing in the room, his chest heaving slightly, relieved to get some of the stress out.

Irons grimaced at his harsh and true speech, but seemed reluctant to accept it. He clicked his tongue and shook his head.

"It's more complicated than just that, Kennedy."

"It's easy to say when you're not the one being impeached for a crime you didn't commit!" he replied firmly, his pulse still racing. That earned him a cold, contemptuous look from the man.

Then he pointed at the folder Leon had dropped before adding:

"This very place could shed a good light on you." He offered a half-smile, far from friendly; it made Leon's stomach churn. "That station has a team specializing in cases that... well, let's just say aren't common. Like yours." He came around the table to pat him on the arm, grabbing the papers again. "Don't worry about transportation and accommodations, I'll take care of that. I have an acquaintance there who will handle the paperwork. You'll leave the day after tomorrow."

Leon's eyes widened, babbling, trying to avoid this. This man was literally deciding his future for him?! Ignoring everything he'd said?!

"Sir, this isn't what I want! I wanted to come here because—!"

Irons's gaze turned cold and cutting, interrupting him with a sharp rap on the table and a scathing tone.

"Kennedy, I have the final say on this matter! So Judge Brown ruled!  So I'm giving you a choice now." He pressed the folder tightly against Leon's chest. His voice was like a poisonous shotgun, angry, hating to be questioned, and each word was bitterly directed at him. "Either you choose the transfer, or you walk right out the door without any kind of recommendation for your next stop looking for a police job. Like I said, rumors spread like wildfire, and many departments will already know about you. So choose wisely whether you want to remain a police officer or not."

Again, he felt that anguish around his chest, as he understood that all of this had already been thought out. Too convenient, there was no doubt about it, Irons wanted him out, and all of this was just an excuse to kick him out. And now, either he accepted this deal, a place far from here, or he gave up his badge.

The man didn't wait for another reply and led him to the door, despite his complaints and attempts at reproach.

Too hasty, he might add, before closing it behind him firmly and sharply.

Leaving him in the hallway where many eyes turned toward him.

The world felt cold against his skin, even more so when he finally left the room and headed into the narrow corridors of the police station. Irons had told him (amid his complaints) to go home and pack his bags. He'd just have to come back the next day to sign the transfer.

As he walked, the weight of everything on his shoulders, the folder under his arm, Leon felt the eyes on him as he passed. Like a courtroom attendant.

He could hear the faint whispers; without lip-reading, he already knew what they were saying.

He frowned.

They wouldn't break him, but it still hurt.

The walk to his car was automatic, his legs moving, yet he didn't feel like he was moving. It was like being and not being in that moment. When he sat down in the seat, he just leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.

Had this just happened? Had he just "agreed" to something he wasn't sure was legal? Should he fight it? It would be a long process again. Even with the police station's bad reputation, Leon and his file weren't exactly the crown jewels right now.

But even if he did, they didn't want him there. It was clear.

A slightly shaky sigh escaped his lips, pressed them into a thin line, and lowered the folder from his arms, opening it again.

He quickly read through everything, skimming a couple of the briefing notes. Of the place Irons had so desperately wanted him to go.

"Raccoon City PD..." he murmured, running a finger down the page, reading, and frowning slightly.

A department in a gloomy, godforsaken city, one few people knew about, yet contradictorily, nationally recognized for its Unidentified Risk Specialists.

Unidentified Risks? What was that, the CIA?

He almost wanted to sneer, rolling his eyes as he tossed the folder to the side of the passenger seat while starting the engine.

He drove, unsure whether to go home directly, but his mind and heart made a decision for him, stopping first at a flower shop that was still open, thankfully, before resuming his journey to his next destination.

                                                                                                                                                      -----

Harvestville Cemetery. 

When he got out of the car, there were still a couple of hours before sunset. He walked through the damp grass and asphalt paths, exploring the quiet place, filled with gravestones, trees, and a silence that brought some calm to Leon's troubled mind.

He was no stranger to death.

He had experienced it up close years ago.

It didn't make it any easier.

Not when he stopped before Luis's symbolic grave, beneath a tree that gently dropped autumn leaves on it, and Leon's head. He clutched the bouquet to his chest, holding back the tears but not the shaky sobs. He couldn't hold it back any longer. He'd fought fiercely to control his emotions, but it was too much.

It was all too much to bear.

"I'm so sorry, Luis. I should have come sooner," he murmured, swallowing back tears, though a few escaped down his cheek as he tried to control his breathing. "I couldn't. Not because I didn't want to; they didn't let me. Those sons of bitches... they didn't let me come..."

There was nothing that hurt him more than being locked up without the possibility of attending Luis's funeral.

His grave was already filled with flowers, photos of him, and messages from his friends and family.

Leon didn't feel worthy enough to leave the flowers. Even if he had come here expressly to do so. His hands trembled as he remembered the touch of Luis's, how the man's face twisted in pain and he looked at Leon in fear.

As if it were really Leon who was killing him.

He closed his eyes tightly, breaking into silent tears as he knelt before the grave.

"I'm sorry..." he sobbed breathlessly. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... Luis, I don't know... I don't know what happened, but I... I...!"

He ran a hand over his face and hair, looking at the grave again with eyes full of tears. He didn't know what happened. How. Why. It hurt because he couldn't understand it, or explain it.

He wanted to take on a guilt that wasn't his, just to be able to make some kind of sense of it all.

But the truth is, he couldn't. Because a part of him thought, what if it was an attack? What if someone did this?

But if it was an attack, a plot, or a cold-blooded murder with no modus operandi, the question remained: How?

After a moment of silence, crying and muttering apologies, Leon thought again about that folder. About Irons's words, about what he read.

"That station has a team specializing in cases that... well, let's just say aren't common. Like yours."

"Unidentified risk specialists."

Cases that weren't common, that the media couldn't cover because there was no explanation as to how they happened.

Really...

Could it be of help?

His gaze deepened, his brow furrowed. He was ruthlessly debating everything in his mind: to accepting that folder entailed, to leaving everything behind, this city, everything he'd done in those years.

His life.

All to find out what happened?

...He could try.

For Luis. For himself. For any other victim who suffered this unjustifiably. So that no one else would have to go through something like this.

If Raccoon City had the answer to what had happened, then Leon could accept these unreliable conditions from a police department that was, to say the least, disastrous.

He would accept the transfer, and he would give everything to make sense of this, that Luis hadn't lost his life for nothing.

Swallowing his pain, with his new conviction, he placed the flowers on the tombstone and gently ran his hand over it, closing his eyes.

The smiling photograph of Luis stared back at him, and he seared it into his chest.

He sighed softly, after calming himself down, after offering his respects and apologies again, before standing up and wiping off his pants. He felt the cold air against his cheeks, flushed from crying, and took a second to breathe before turning around.

It was then that he saw something moving among the distant trees, those with slightly more crooked shapes, out of the corner of his eye.

He wouldn't have thought anything of it, but it was followed by a strange chill that made him try to focus his eyes more closely.

It wasn't something common in a cemetery.

More like...

A...person? Watching him, with hands and arms wrapped around the bark as if peeking out from between the trees.

Leon wasn't sure if he was seeing correctly or not, but he thought he'd retracted an arm that didn't seem very... normal into the shadows when he realized Leon was looking at him. An unusual movement.

He frowned and approached, taking a step forward, his hand instinctively moving to find his weapon inside his jacket. But as soon as he took a step, whatever it was, it disappeared into the shadows and trees, leaving Leon with the dizzy, strange, and most chilling feeling he'd felt in a long time.

He didn't even know how long his breath lasted until it left his lungs.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths, focusing his vision better, wondering if he'd really just seen something or if it was a product of everything that had happened that day.

He shook his head.

Maybe he was tired. He'd slept terribly these past few days; surely his mind was starting to play tricks on him with things that weren't there.

And he didn't need to add crazy to his file.

He sighed and headed back to his car.

A long drive awaited him, and a suitcase still to pack.

Chapter Text

The pop music from his car's old-fashioned radio comfortably filled the silence his mind constantly tried to avoid.

It helped, sometimes.

Leon drove for about two hours; he still had a little while to go. He looked around. The fields and forests surrounding this side of the country were beautiful, offering a nice contrast to the slowly setting sun. Getting away from the city, somehow, felt like he was moving away from all the weight he'd felt those days.

The golden hour bathed the autumn trees in beautiful orange and red hues.

The breeze coming through the vent was pleasant, making him want to close his eyes for a moment to enjoy it.

But even on this quiet road, he had to be careful.

He had left Harvestville after another horrible night's sleep. But he had gotten up early, showered, and grabbed his things, the few he had, because he had never truly settled down in that city. He didn't feel much guilt when he left the rental apartment, as clean as he could have been with just a day's notice. At least his landlord was a good man, who'd known him for a long time, and had no problem letting him go before the end of the month.

He couldn't complain that he'd been lucky.

Then he headed to the police station, walking in with his head held high, not caring about the stares again. He didn't greet anyone, since no one there even came to give him a comforting pat. He didn't deny that he felt betrayed. Shit, he'd spent years there, after graduating from the academy, teamed up with many, and never had any problems with anyone. But after what happened with Luis, it was as if everyone saw him as a psychopath who'd been among them, like a snake in a bird's nest.

Speaking of the snake, Irons looked so fucking satisfied when he saw him walk into his office to get this over with. His smug smile, the way he stood up from his desk, and already had the fucking paperwork ready. Leon had signed the transfer papers, even though he didn't fully agree, with so much force that he even tore a hole in them. He had grimaced at Irons when he smiled and wished him luck, saying goodbye, the fake, hypocritical rat.

And God knows, he barely raised a middle finger on his way out the door just to maintain a shred of composure. Even if he was tired of the treatment he'd received.

He was only willing to go through this as a way to make sense of what had happened.

But even though he was making the necessary stops to stay steady behind the wheel, the truth was, he was starting to feel the fatigue in his body.

The nights had been horrible, and they didn't spare a single second.

Every time he closed his eyes and tried to calm down, Leon saw the images again. They were painful. They seared his chest with a suffocating burn that rose in his throat.

Memories flooded back to him every now and then, no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, there they were, returning like raging waves from a sea that was too aggressive for his brain.

Blue fire, that's what he thought about first, and he tried to make sense of how a combustion could be blue and how it only took a matter of seconds for it to happen. There was no biological explanation for an immediate combustion without any provocation.

He tightened his hands on the steering wheel. The song on the radio started with a louder, faster beat, louder rock. It didn't help, but he couldn't change it; he had to stay focused on the road.

The beat pounded in his ears, and the images returned again.

Luis and he sat on a bench in Harvestville's forest park, surrounded by people having a picnic. Families laughing happily, people playing, others talking, owners with pets around. It was an ideal image; it was a perfect day, the sun bright but not scorching, along with the autumn breeze. It looked like something out of a movie.

It felt good.

Luis was telling stories about his job, maneuvering with his hands, always charming, always touching Leon behind his ear and occasionally performing a cheap magic trick to impress him.

He smiled at that moment, exasperated but allowing him to feel like a true magician. Then Luis had opened his hand, and in it was a small package wrapped in gift paper.

Leon had truly opened his eyes, genuinely surprised because he'd been expecting a silly counterfeit coin or a badly crumpled letter, not a gift... He thought the date itself was a gift.

Then they looked into each other's eyes, while Luis whispered happy birthday, and damn, his chest tightened with emotion, with feeling loved. He'd smiled shyly but gratefully, and they leaned in to join their lips in a soft kiss, after five months together, after Luis's many attempts to invite him to dinner after every shift, during almost a year of knowing each other.

It had been a tender kiss.

A gentle touch, like many they'd had before, Leon had cupped Luis's cheek in his hand, leaning in closer.

But then it happened...

The first thing Leon felt at that moment was the warmth emanating from Luis, still with his eyes closed.

Then came the screams.

The people around him screamed long before Luis himself could.

When Leon opened his eyes, he saw his partner literally burst into flames. He touched him, clutched him desperately, but didn't spread the fire to Leon himself, as if he were fireproof.

Leon had screamed his name, trying to hold him...

He squinted his eyes in pain, feeling them wet.

Luis had grabbed him by the shoulders, staring at him in fear and pain, screaming in agony...

LEON?! PLEASE!!

He gripped the steering wheel too tightly.

HELP ME!!!

His eyes burned bright blue.

In a matter of seconds, his body charred and evaporated between his fingers, with the grotesque image of Luis's skull opening its mouth to scream his name again, disappearing between his fingers. Like glowing dust.

Leaving only a scorch mark on the wood of the bench.

Dead. Luis was dead. He disappeared through their fingers as if he had never existed.

And Leon was arrested minutes after the police were called, surrounded by red and blue lights, the world deafened, being grabbed and shoved by the hands of coworkers, who spoke to him but he couldn't hear them, until he heard that he was being arrested on suspicion of having killed him.

Luis. His friend. His partner.

With whom he'd been on a date minutes before.

He felt fear, terror, confusion. And none of that compared to the latent guilt of thinking that maybe...

Leon's eyes flew open as a car was coming head-on, and he'd crossed into the wrong lane. The oncoming car honked several times to get his attention until Leon finally snapped out of his trance. He swerved to avoid the car and swerved to the other side of the lane, braking sharply as the other car yelled insults at him through the car window.

He breathed heavily, sweating, wondering when he'd gotten so distracted.

Images raced through his mind in a whirlwind, his eyes watered again, and the pressure rose from his stomach to his chest and throat, forming a lump.

Had he killed Luis?

Not in the face of justice, but something inside him splintered with guilt because he was the one who had contact with Luis before he burst into flames.

One way or another, it was his fault.

Had he killed his partner...?

He felt agitated, overwhelmed by intrusive thoughts. He knew that being a police officer meant facing complicated, difficult, and unfair situations.

But this...this was out of control, and all these days he had tried so damn hard to contain himself and be strong...but when his mind went silent...and Luis's face appeared, bursting into flames, dying in his hands...

Leon couldn't help but scream at the top of his lungs over the sound of the radio, squeezing his eyes shut, unaware of the echo that resonated beyond the trees...

When he ran out of air and his throat burned with pain, he dropped his head back against the steering wheel, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes tight.

"Shit... Shit... Shit, shit, shit..." he muttered through his teeth and short sobs, trying to calm himself.

The sound of the radio became distorted, hurting his ears, but Leon ignored it.

Now he just needed a second...

He also didn't notice how it was starting to get dark, too fast to be natural. Like shadows crawled across the ground, like monstrously deformed arms and hands crawled near his car. Like something sinister was looming over him, a dark, distorted wave ready to engulf his car and him inside.

With his arms still covering his vision, and his senses drowning from his own guilt and remorse, he didn't see how those shadows grabbed his car and climbed up, trying to reach him. Like dark, deformed arms with large claws hovered near his window, about to grab his head.

Leon didn't notice anything until a loud bang against his car made him jerk in his seat and open his eyes wide. He yelped in surprise, and a curse escaped his mouth.

"Fuck!! What the hell?!"

Suddenly, the darkness wasn't so great, and his heart pounded as a figure stood in front of his door, the sun looming darkly behind it.

Someone leaned forward, and Leon's instincts kicked in. He was seconds away from grabbing his gun from the glove compartment; his hand had already shot out to grab it. After all, the impact had shaken the car, and he didn't know if he was facing a mugger, a madman, or—

But he stopped when the face that peered through the window was that of a man, and not a threat...or so he thought.

It was a middle-aged man with perfectly combed blond hair, wearing an impeccable black suit, a matching dark coat, and sunglasses that covered his gaze. He maintained a firm stance, his gloved hand gripping his rolled-down window firmly, the other hand on his waist.

If this man was a thief, he was the most damn stylish thief he'd ever seen.

The man grimaced when he made eye contact, though.

"You're blocking the road." His voice was low and measured, each word spoken in a confident, clear tone with a hint of baritone. It sent a slight shiver down  his spine and up to his neck.

He wasn't sure if it was in a good way.

Leon breathed heavily for a few seconds, still recovering from the double scare he'd had in less than ten minutes. After that, he sighed and looked ahead, realizing he'd stopped in his lane, not on the side to yield. But right in the middle.

He closed his eyes for a moment, with a slight snort before answering.

"I...I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking down in embarrassment, feeling the sweat dripping from his forehead. "I hadn't realized."

The man didn't seem to take his apologies well, though.

"You didn't even turn on your headlights to indicate you'd stopped." He continued, speaking in a low, accusatory, and authoritarian tone.

There was something about that tone that made Leon's hair stand on end, but right now, at the same time he felt that, he felt irritation, because he didn't feel well. He hadn't been a good driver for a couple of minutes, it's true, but he was on the verge of an anxiety attack.

Shit, he'd almost crashed into a car a few moments ago, and now a man dressed in black, with perfectly combed hair and a haughty attitude had hit his car and was lecturing him. He didn't feel well. Not at all.

"Sorry. I didn't have time," he replied dryly through gritted teeth, almost a growl, still not looking at him as he closed his eyes, trying to recover, to control himself from saying anything too rude. His heart still hammering in his ears.

"Are you aware that you're breaking many traffic safety rules? A sorry doesn't fix anything. You're still standing here in the middle of it."

Leon's patience ran out in a matter of seconds.

"I KNOW!! Okay?! I KNOW!! I'm aware that I'm in the MIDDLE of stopping traffic on this godforsaken highway!" he burst out, uttering the following almost ironically. "I'm really SORRY!! I'll get moving right away, but can you give me, at least, one fucking SECOND?! Or are you a traffic cop?!" He turned to him, exploding with agitation, even ferocity, all the stress oozing from his pores, his hair slightly covering his sweaty, red face.

He really didn't know why he'd shouted that last bit, being a cop himself, but he was too upset.

The man didn't even flinch. He looked him in the eyes (or so he thought, thanks to the dark glasses that covered his gaze). He arched an eyebrow over his glasses. Something changed behind the lenses, though barely visible, but noticeable.

Maybe it was curiosity?

He just moved his hand inside his coat and pulled out something Leon hadn't expected to see.

"Not a traffic ticket. But the truth is..."

Leon held his breath.

It couldn't be...

And the bastard seemed to enjoy his reaction.

"I am an officer."

He closed his eyes for a second, frowning, sighing loudly through his nose, throwing his head back to curse with all his might inside.

SHIT.

When he opened his eyes again to make sure he hadn't misread it, sure enough, he hadn't. And he cursed his fucking luck again.

A police badge. No. CAPTAIN. He read the name; something about it made a strange click in him.

Captain Albert Wesker. Department of-...

Leon had barely finished scanning the badge when the man pocketed it with a swift, graceful motion. Then the full weight of his shoulders, the tension, and the exhaustion hit him. He exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, staring up at some nonexistent divine being.

"Something else? Something you want to send me to screw up my life some more? Come on, I'm on a roll..." he muttered sarcastically and quietly to himself. Unsure if the other heard or not.

He felt a light against his face and covered it with his hand. The man was shining a small flashlight directly into his eyes.

"Ugh?! What the hell are you doing?! Stop!" He tried to cover the flashlight with his hand.

"Are you under the influence of any substance? Have you been drinking?" he asked as he looked into his pupils, turning off the flashlight when he saw nothing relevant.

Leon rubbed his face, sighing in defeat.

His anger was suppressed by a crushing feeling of tiredness and heaviness. His voice trailed off when he answered, though still slightly irritated.

"I'm not under the influence of any substance, I'm sober. Just..." He pressed his lips into a thin line. "I almost had an accident and stopped to catch my breath. I hadn't realized I was blocking the way."

The blond stared at him, weighing his words, perhaps considering whether he was lying, but he simply tilted his head gently and offered a small nod.

"You look tired. Where are you going?"

That was perhaps the kindest question he had asked in this entire exchange. He didn't even seem bothered that Leon had answered him badly. He debated whether to say anything, but there was no harm in saying it. Especially when he already felt like he was in trouble for that exchange of insults he'd hurled at a superior officer. Better to try to be on good terms with this agent than to be in a temporary holding cell again.

"I'm heading to Raccoon City."

There was a subtle change in his posture, in the way his chin tightened, in the way his shoulders stiffened.

Even tired, he found himself being overly observant of this man. As if everything he said and did was something worth taking into account. As if he needed to understand his body language.

It was strange...

"That's still far from here. You won't arrive before nightfall," he replied in a low tone, gauging his reaction.

But Leon shrugged gently, leaning back in his seat to look at him. He couldn't find any angle to see his eyes behind his glasses. He seemed unfazed.

He chose to respond differently. He raised a solemn hand, as if pledging allegiance.

"I promise to drive exemplarily during the night if you let me go, officer." He tried to joke a little, though his voice betrayed his tiredness, more than his eyes.

"Captain." He raised an eyebrow, slightly amused, as he corrected him. Leon's charm seemed to have some effect on him.

Leon snorted softly, but without real annoyance.

"Sorry, please,...Captain," he emphasized the last part, and bowed his head toward him.

The man hummed softly, as if pleased by his cooperation and submission, looked from side to side before tapping his gloved fingers gently on his window.

Then he gave the next order.

"There's a roadside diner up ahead. Let's go."

Nothing more. Just an order. He turned and started walking with his back to him.

Leon opened his eyes and muttered, before leaning out the window.

"Wait!  What do you mean? Didn't you say it would take a while to get to Raccoon City? If I stop, it'll take twice as long!"

The reply came without Wesker even turning around.

"There's not chance I'm allowing you to drive in this miserable state of yours, without a dose of food, rest, and caffeine. No argument unless you want me to arrest you."

A clear order and warning. Leon wasn't stupid, and he could see it in the way agent—Captain Wesker—moved, the way he spoke. He projected a kind of powerful, authoritarian aura that left no room for argument.

Like those eccentric types on cheap comedy TV shows he occasionally watched on the couch.

Leon decided not to argue, just moved further to the right to let him, who was driving a luxurious, dark car, pass first. Of course, it had to be dark, he thought, rolling his eyes. But seeing the model...damn, too luxurious.

Nothing like his own.

Leon shook his head. No more distractions behind the wheel. Especially with a police captain in front of him on the road, ready to further compromise his record.

Although now that he thought about it, he hadn't read which police station he was the captain of...

In any case, he didn't think this man wanted to do anything strange to him...Leon was armed and knew how to defend himself.

As soon as he started moving again, following the black car in front of him, he jumped slightly when the radio started playing normally again, no longer distorted or silent as if something was jamming its frequency.

He frowned.

Jesus, what else could be wrong with him?

The radio started playing a loud old country song from his favorite station again. To the beat, Leon let out a sigh, following the car in front of him, unaware of how Wesker was looking in the rearview mirror to keep an eye on him.

Him, and what was behind him.

Of course, Leon didn't see the scratch marks on his car.

Nor the arm-shaped traces on the ground, dragging themselves deeper into the forest, like claws that had resisted in vain against a force greater than their own.

The road would have led to a wooded area, with the sunset on the horizon, where shadows lurked, but more hidden, not daring to emerge.

Not with him present.

Chapter Text

The sun had long since set behind the evening clouds, and night had fallen when they arrived at the restaurant.

Leon got out of his car, grabbing his jacket and wallet, feeling the cold hit his face and the air gently moving his hair, plastering some of it to his face. The temperatures had dropped rapidly, especially in this damp, wooded area; the chill got under your skin if you didn't dress warmly, even though it was only autumn.

The parking lot wasn't exactly crowded; just a couple of other cars, a truck, and some motorcycles that looked like the kind you'd find in biker movies. Just what you'd expect from a roadside bar in the middle of nowhere.

He rubbed his hands together as he sighed, his breath creating a soft mist as he blew a little on his hands to warm them against the change in temperature. Now he regretted not having worn gloves, like a certain Captain.

Speak of the devil...

He looked to his right to find the aforementioned man, leaning against his car, waiting for him, silently observing his movements, his face impassive, his gaze hidden behind those glasses. But he knew perfectly well that he was watching him.

It was... unsettling.

Strange, indeed. Leon took his time looking back at him, as if somehow showing he wasn't uneasy about his attitude, as he locked the car. Maintaining eye contact, he performed every action with an almost defiant air.

Far from bothering the other, the blond just tilted his head, the corner of his lips now slightly twisted in something close to amusement.

There was something about him that made the hairs on his neck stand up, and... surprisingly, not in a bad way. Perhaps it was all that confidence he exuded. He seemed totally in control of everything around him, and Leon was used to constant chaos, which made it shocking to see someone so measured. And these last few weeks, dealing with things beyond his control, was fucking stressful.

Maybe he even felt envious.

He wished he could have that control right now over everything that would happen in his life.

He turned up the collar of his jacket as he gave him a gentle nod, then moved toward the restaurant door.

Wesker moved then, with long, elegant strides, arriving in a few short strides before Leon opened it and let him in.

It was a very... gentlemanly gesture.

Damn, too gentlemanly considering their previous encounter had been tense, with insults and a bitter reaffirmation of who was in control here.

That stopped Leon for a moment, before he raised his head and looked at him with slightly raised eyebrows.

Captain Wesker just tilted his head inside, where the warm neon light illuminated their faces, unwilling to pass unless Leon went first.

A hint of an almost amused smile escaped the corners of his mouth. He parted his lips slightly, smacking his lips before letting out a soft snort.

He tilted his head toward the light, his blue eyes illuminating in the glimmer of light beneath his long eyelashes. A half-smile was already forming as he spoke.

"You know I won't escape, right? You don't have to wait for me and hold the door, Captain."

Wesker hummed.

"Hmm, I'm not sure. You didn't seem too convinced to follow me, even if it's an order from a law enforcement officer," he replied, the corner of his lips gently tilting upward.

Leon rolled his eyes. His eyes narrowed in amusement as he leaned against the frame, opposite his arm, but still face to face.

"Damn, was my escape plan that obvious?" He joked, his hands in his pockets.

The other man continued his joke, his lips still pursed in that half-smile.

"A terrible plan. I would have intercepted you in seconds, given your poor driving skills," he replied, leaning his head forward, closing the distance a little.

Leon blushed slightly, genuinely hurt, pursing his lips.

"Hey, I can drive very well, you know? It was just a lapse; everyone has one. I'm sure even you've had it once in your life behind the wheel."

"Not once," he smiled smugly. Seeing Leon's reaction of wanting to answer him again, he nodded toward the spot. "Let's go in. We're blocking the door, again because of you. It seems blocking the way is your specialty."

Leon snorted, shaking his head at the barb, but he obeyed, going inside, followed by Wesker, who closed the door behind them.

When he looked ahead, he saw a cozy, classic bar with that 1980s aesthetic that had a peculiar charm. Inside, the heater hit his red cheeks, and the smell of food was pleasant: fried bacon, coffee, sweets, car oil, grease in general, everywhere he turned his face.

It almost made him feel hungry.

It was strange to feel hungry because up until a few days ago, he had eaten practically nothing. That's probably why he felt weaker, and the lack of sleep certainly didn't help his fatigue.

...Remembering the reason, in fact, made the brief exchange he had with Wesker, which had somehow lightened his mood, fade, and his previous state of discomfort returned.

His body betrayed him; tension invaded him, his jaw clenched. He dug his hands into his pockets and lifted his somewhat stiff shoulders, walking to one of the free tables.

Followed by the man in black, who looked so out of place in that colorful environment.

He sat down and crossed his arms on the table, shifting his gaze toward the window, where the world went dark and the parking lot was barely lit by the flickering lights of the restaurant's neon sign.

Wesker immediately noticed his sudden change in mood, but remained silent as he sat across from him, silently watching him with his legs crossed and his fingers interlaced in his gloves. He was still wearing those sunglasses even inside the restaurant.

It was strange.

All of him, really.

And it made Leon feel uncomfortably watched. Or... not entirely uncomfortably, he just didn't understand why he'd insisted so much on joining him, even sitting with him.

This was actually strange.

He turned his head to meet him and opened his lips to say something, then closed them, thinking of the best way to ask without sounding rude.

"Hey... really, you don't have to come with me, you know?" He shifted a little in his seat, the light no longer shining as brightly in his eyes, which shifted downward. "Surely you have real work to do. You're a police captain, right?"

Wesker didn't respond immediately; in fact, he didn't answer at all. He waited for the waitress to approach so he could order a coffee, completely ignoring Leon.

Who bristled, frowning, and wanted to retort and demand an answer at least, but then Wesker pointed at him with his hand.

"And a full menu for him," he informed the waitress, snapping Leon out of his stupor by offering him a menu. "Order whatever you want."

"What? Wait, I don't want..."

"You're hungry," he cut him off elegantly, observing him through those damn sunglasses that prevented him from seeing what kind of look this arrogant man had. "I've heard it since we walked in here, the rumbling of your stomach. It is as discreet as your observation skills."

Leon's face suddenly flushed, though he tried to maintain a neutral expression. He felt embarrassed in front of the waitress who was patiently waiting for his order with a gentle smile.

Caught in a decision he, again, couldn't make of his own free will, he glared at Wesker. This seemed to amuse him more, as Leon grabbed the menu to cover his face and quickly scanned what was on offer.

He ordered a set meal, a simple hamburger with fries and a soda. Quick and easy, enough to fill his stomach and not look like an idiot who couldn't choose.

Although someone else chose for him, again.

"And a strong coffee for later, too." He raised his finger to inform the waitress, who nodded, writting to pour at him it later.

Leon's eyes widened, his mouth ajar, lowering the menu.

"Will you stop deciding for me for a second? Please?"

"You need it," he replied simply.

Leon's jaw clenched as he clicked his tongue, setting the menu back down, his eyes practically burning.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you don't know what I need." It sounded drier than he actually felt, but he was starting to feel like he should set boundaries; this man was treating him with far too much familiarity. And they were still strangers.

If anything, his response and challenge seemed to interest Wesker.

"Oh, no?" he almost purred, and it made his skin crawl. He leaned forward with his fingers interlaced, watching him sharply, suddenly feeling Wesker enveloping his space. He simply said one thing. "Enlighten me."

At that, Leon took a breath and remained silent for a second, until he could think carefully about what to say, then placed his hands on the table, gesticulating.

"No, you don't know, you don't know me at all. Nor do I know you. I only know you're a police officer because you showed me your badge, and by the way, I don't know how normal it is for a police captain to escort someone to a restaurant I didn't ask to go to, or order food I don't really want, and continually remind me that I've had a single road rash!" he snapped, raising his finger, keeping his voice low and controlled so as not to upset anyone.

Wesker took his time again to answer, gently inclining his head.

"You look exhausted," he pointed at him with his finger. "Prominent dark circles under your eyes, at least two days without a good night's sleep, if not longer. Pale skin due to malnutrition and discomfort, your stomach growling so loudly you could be mistaken for a wild animal... Erratic nervous movements, you hate being watched, I'd say from some unpleasant experience where you've been the focus of unwanted attention. All the symptoms indicate that you're a danger on the road if left unattended, because you seem like the type of person who doesn't take care of yourself well enough. That's why you need to be pushed to meet basic needs." He finished the devastating speech with just that, and raised an eyebrow to add, "It's my duty to keep my streets clean."

Leon, faced with all this analysis, just by looking at his face, his lips parted, unblinking, mute, feeling too exposed. Worse, as if this man knew him, as if he were arguing with someone who knew his own quirks better than he did. It bothered him; he wanted to cross his arms and sulk, but found he couldn't because he'd look like an irritated brat, which he wasn't, and... shit, it was all true. Absolutely fucking true. Unfortunately, he couldn't help but shift his foot nervously under the table, his eye twitching as he realized Captain Wesker was clearly right, and his face said he noticed the pounding on the floor.

It irritated him to feed his petulant analysis. He couldn't argue with it.

Although then, he grimaced at the last bit.

"Your streets clean?" he asked sarcastically.

Who the hell did he think he was? Batman?

Well, he was already wearing black...

"Excuse me for waking you up from your anti-hero fantasy, man in black, but we're on the highway in the middle of nowhere." He shook his head. "There's no..."

"We're in Arklay County," he replied, cutting him off, then cracked a mocking smile when he saw the cogs in his head turning as soon as he said the next thing. "You know which city is in Arklay County, right?"

It took Leon too many seconds to realize, but his mind started to put the pieces together. Police captain from a nearby station. It was true that there was nothing on this highway and its surroundings... But up ahead, there was.

Raccoon City.

'It can't be...' He thought to himself, but there was no doubt.

Even now, the name sounded familiar. Flashes of the documents came to mind. He'd vaguely read it in the report Irons had given him. The description of Raccoon City and its precinct, with its special unit, not only gave information about the place, but also some of the equipment that comprised it. Among them were many names Leon had overlooked, but his mind returned to the paper to find that right down in the corner, along with many more names, there were the initials A. Wesker.

And the damn license plate he'd shown him on the car clearly said Albert Wesker.

Captain of the Raccoon City Police Department.

Captain, Albert Wesker.

This was a fucking joke of fate.

Leon ran his hands over his face, covering them as he slumped back in the seat, raising his head, letting out a loud snort, more like a pitiful groan.

God hated him, hated him so much. And he didn't hesitate to remind him how much he hated him every day of his damn existence.

"I can't believe you're my fucking boss..." he mumbled into his hands in a subdued tone.

Totally and utterly defeated.

There was nothing more that could happen to him...

Just the thought gave him chills.

The waitress then returned with their order, wishing them both a good meal and leaving them alone in that prolonged, awkward silence.

Leon didn't want to look at his face. God, he had yelled at this man, spoken badly to him, and to top it all off, now he knew he was going to be his superior.

After maintaining silence for a few more minutes, Wesker moved the coffee spoon around, then picked it up and took a calm sip.

Somehow amused to see his behavior, but decided to snap him out of his self-loathing session.

"Eat, the food's going to get cold," he said authoritatively but calmly.

Leon wanted to hide for a few more minutes, but he couldn't do it forever. He sighed through his nose and slowly lowered his hands to look at him; he seemed impassive.

Had he given him the wrong impression? Damn right, he probably had.

He bit his lower lip, trying to find a way to speak without sounding even more idiotic.

"Hey, I'm sorry, I really am." He gestured with his hands. "For speaking to you like that, I..." He gulped. Shit, now was the moment when he had to reveal that he was the police officer who was going to be under his command. "I'm a police officer too, and I-I've been transferred to Raccoon City... And..."

It wasn't an easy subject to talk about; the truth is, he wanted to leave out the details. But Wesker just nodded with a soft hum, calmly taking another sip of his coffee.

"I know. I know who you are. Leon Scott Kennedy."

He looked up to meet the dark lenses of his glasses, surprised to say the least, in truth he was shocked and on the verge of hysteria.

Then he couldn't hold back, and raised his voice.

"Wait, you knew all along?!"

He nodded, reaching into his coat to pull out a folder containing his police record and criminal history, along with a photo of him.

"As luck would have it, I was on a business trip near Harvestville when my phone rang, and Brian Irons told me about the case."

Irons's contact was Captain Wesker himself?!

Leon's eyes widened, looking like a madman, as he leaned closer. He pointed an accusatory finger at him.

"You were following me from Harvestville?!"

"How bold of you," he chuckled, slipping the folder back into his coat. "Fate is... capricious, and it just so happened that we ran into each other because I had to stop by the Harvestville department to arrange the paperwork for your transfer. We just happened to meet on the way back."

Ah... that's right, Irons said he'd take care of the paperwork. The truth is, everything was happening so fast that Leon had barely realized he'd of course have to go through that process.

He sighed, looking down. So this man knew everything...

A jolt of anxiety returned to his veins.

Wesker wouldn't be long in judging him, if he wasn't already. From the very beginning, maybe he had been.

It wouldn't be long before he spread everything he knew around the department, and once again he'd be judged with the glares of his future colleagues, cast aside like a plague. Irons was right, rumors were like wildfire. Would he even want to work with him? Was he lying and had been following him from Harvestville to confirm whether Leon was some kind of lunatic trying to play innocent?

Fuck, maybe even now this was all just a sham to keep tabs on him. Not as a future cop, but as a suspect.

The cycle would repeat itself...

Silence fell between them again, tense and cold. Leon didn't touch his food, feeling a lump in his throat. His intrusive thoughts were too loud in his mind, hammering loudly against his skull. He clenched his fists tightly, his nails almost digging into his palms as he bowed his head in front of Wesker.

The bar seemed emptier, and it was just the two of them, illuminated by the neon lights. Drops of rain began to fall outside, hitting the glass and casting shadows against Leon's face, mingling with the colorful lights of the flashing sign.

Then, against all odds, as if he had read his thoughts, Wesker's voice cut through the silence, changing to a much...softer tone.

Reassuring, even.

Overwhelmingly sincere.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Kennedy. It's not easy to lose someone you love, and yet, you're here." He lifted his chin, speaking confidently, without double meanings, without hesitating over a single word. "That's admirable. Don't bow your head to what others say or think. You know the truth, you're innocent, and a police officer, don't show anyone the opposite."

Leon looked up from under those long eyelashes, slowly, surprised.

It wasn't a defiant look, he was simply searching for the truth in what he said.

Wanting to find some trap or devious game, lies or manipulation.

He found none of that.

So far, no one had offered him condolences, no one had comforted him, no one had stopped to pat him on the back. No one acknowledged his innocence and emphasized that he was a police officer.

He was always the one to blame for a death he didn't cause. He didn't receive any empathy. No one spoke to him with real sincerity or with the intention of seeking something juicy to feed their own benefit.

And now this man, after all this time and their rough start, where he thought he was a complete jerk, had said things Leon didn't know he needed to hear until now.

It stirred something inside him.

His shoulders relaxed a little, slumping into a more comfortable position, not defensive, but...finally relaxing. Just as his voice softened almost to a whisper.

"...Thank you."

Wesker nodded, taking another sip of his coffee, staring out the window.

"Eat. It must be cold by now, and it'll be a waste. We'll talk about everything when you're done."

The corner of Leon's lips twitched gently as he leaned down to take the burger in his hands.

"Yes, Captain," he replied softly, not seeing the small smile that formed on Wesker's lips behind his coffee cup.

And then, he ate, ate like he hadn't eaten in a long time, at peace, feeling the flavors and how his body accepted the food without complaint.

In a more pleasant silence, sometimes broken by small conversations and small jokes that began to float naturally between them, without too much sarcasm. Accomplices in Leon's mood.

For several days, Leon had finally felt more normal, more stable, and he didn't know why this man gave him the small peace he needed to stay in order.

He thanked him again as he took a potato chip and dipped it in ketchup. It was already cold, but he enjoyed it just the same.

Albert Wesker raised an eyebrow and asked him why he was thanking him again.

Leon's response, still holding that potato chip between his fingers, came from his heart, his gaze lost in his own plate.

"For making me feel like a person," he said simply, eating the potato, and then sipped a little of his drink. "I felt like I'd forgotten what it was like to be one."

Another silence stretched as Wesker finished his coffee and left it on the table, watching Leon finish his food, leaving practically nothing on his plate with clear satisfaction.

Of course, he'd been hungry, but it had been hard to manage all these past few days. He'd gotten thinner from feeling his throat close and his stomach churn every time he put food in his mouth. But right now, he felt satisfied and settled.

Soon, his coffee was brought to him, along with the check.

By the time Leon pulled his wallet from his jacket, Wesker had already raised his fingers with a card between them, handing it to the waitress.

Leon opened his eyes wide, for he didn't know how many times that day, and looked at him worriedly.

"No need, I can pay it!" He grabbed his wallet to take out a few bills. "How much do I owe you?"

"It's nothing. I insisted we come over for lunch. Think of it as an investment." He raised a hand to stop him from giving him the money.

Leon tilted his head, confused.

"Investment? In what?"

"In you." Wesker turned his head to stare at him before crossing his fingers on the table, leaning in close. "Leon S. Kennedy, you're a few miles away from reaching Raccoon City. Becoming part of our police department isn't just about being an ordinary officer."

Leon remembered what the report said. About the "special" cases.

His expression grew more serious, his brow furrowing.

"Is this about the Unidentified Risk Specialist Unit?"

Wesker nodded.

"Like I said, you won't be behind a desk filling out paperwork. You'll be out in the field. And you'll see things not everyone sees, things not reported on the news. You must be at a higher level of mental toughness for what awaits you. And I don't accept incompetents on my team," he said clearly and sharply, despite the reassuring talk from before. "One mistake out there equals death. So I'll ask you this now. Do you think you're ready?"

Leon paused in holding the coffee in his hands, his knuckles turning white.

He remembered his motivation for agreeing to this. Luis's face, his photograph on the grave, the pain, the looks of others on him. His own reflection in the mirror.

He had to make sense of what happened.

He had to prevent it from happening again.

Something in him had changed these past few days, and he wasn't sure what it was.

But he was sure of this.

"I am."

Chapter Text

Leon continued driving on the dark road, following Wesker's car at a safe distance.

The radio played music in the background, but he couldn't hear it; his mind kept flashing back to fragments of their conversation at the restaurant.

The more Leon thought about it, the more he believed that somehow, it was all too surreal to be true.

Not to mention the reason he'd agreed to this transfer agreement, the simple fact that his future boss was literally there at the exact moment of the accident, the one he'd almost insulted to his face, and the one who'd invited him (forced him) to lunch, and revealed right there that he knew exactly who Leon was...

Yes, this certainly seemed too well orchestrated to be real. He had to pinch his nose and arm several times to make sure this wasn't a crazy dream, already a product of his tired mind.

But...

He blinked for a moment, resting his head more comfortably on the seat, more relaxed.

The truth was that, although brief, that exchange, that moment where Leon could relax... damn, he'd never needed to talk to someone so much and put what had happened aside, even if it was only for a few minutes.

The man had... charm, in his dark, sarcastic way that didn't hesitate to point out Leon's every flaw, and Leon himself found himself responding and challenging him with his rebellious wit.

Leon found himself smiling, a little, at least.

Something told him this was going to be a lot better than working with Irons. He looked fierce, effectively fierce. Disciplined. And Leon wasn't going to make any mistakes.

Any mistake out there meant death, Wesker had said.

He still didn't have enough information about everything working for him entailed. About whatever Wesker meant by things that challenged sanity.

A weak mind wouldn't hold up.

He gripped the wheel, his jaw clenching. He wasn't going to fail. He wasn't going to give up or let anything weaken him. He had to be stronger mentally. That was his conviction.

The radio changed to a guitar melody, somewhere between melancholic and hopeful, just as the headlights illuminated the large sign in the night. Making way for his new life, his future, whether good or bad, he didn't know, but he did know that nothing would stop him. Not Irons. Not Wesker, not even that mysterious thing that loomed on the horizon, the city of the unknown. His heart skipped a few beats to the rhythm of the music, feeling the hairs on his neck prickling.

Leon looked up.

Welcome to Raccoon City.

His breath lingered in his throat for a second before he let it out in a soft sigh through his lips.

He was here, finally.

The city opened up, the buildings were semi-tall, looking quite good despite the gloomy atmosphere of the night that covered it with its dark cloak. Not a soul was around, no business was open, everything was in a silent harmony that was nowhere near the liveliest and most colorful Harvestville.

But it had a certain charm.

At this hour, it was practically deserted, barely a single car was passing by, and that was drawing his attention too much, so when Leon checked the clock, he realized it was eleven at night!

"Fuck... have we been at the bar that long?" He blinked in surprise.

It hadn't seemed like that at all! It was true that at the beginning of the conversation, it was more tense and filled with long, awkward silences, but afterward? Leon couldn't remember when the coffee had actually run out and when Wesker gave the order to get going.

He hadn't insisted on accompanying him, but they were both going to the same place, so he allowed the blond to guide him without having to look at the map.

According to Wesker, he didn't want Leon to have another unfortunate accident because of his lack of concentration behind the wheel.

He had rolled his eyes.

Conceited bastard.

But the small smile had betrayed his attempt to look offended.

It was weird...but in a good way, if that made any sense.

Two blocks away, he suddenly saw Wesker's gloved hand emerge from the window and point him in the direction to stop and park.

Well, he hadn't expected that. But he did anyway, following him until he turned right and turned onto a wide, completely empty street lit by streetlights. They parked in a row, one behind the other, with Leon at a prudent distance again, more than even security. Inside, he wanted to maintain that small status quo; after all, he was his boss, he was going to be his boss, how many close calls had they already made off duty? Although, given his personality, his demeanor of having everything under control and leaving nothing undone, the truth was, Leon supposed it might not bother him so much that Leon was more open to talking and joking. It was part of him, his way of externalizing his own doubts. A shield, almost.

His way of facing this messed-up world, but one in which he still believed.

His thoughts were interrupted when he saw the blond man getting out of his vehicle, and something in his body tensed, almost in anticipation. He mechanically unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his car door, intrigued.

He leaned against the open door, letting the radio play to fill the silence, not too loud so as not to disturb anyone, now that the music changed to something softer.

However, when the black-clad captain approached, with all his elegance and measured strides, suddenly the radio began to distort again.

Leon frowned, looking into the car, confused and puzzled. Failing again?

"Troubles, Kennedy?"

His voice sounded close, and sure enough, he was already leaning against Leon's car with his arms crossed. Shit, was he that fast? Or was his perception of space-time decimated by accumulated fatigue?

He rolled his eyes. Whatever the case, he ended up leaning inside to turn off the radio.

"The car's old, and so is the radio. I guess it's normal for it to fail." He shrugged before resting his arms against the open door, a sort of barrier between them, as the small silence had barely begun when Leon broke it. "So, Captain? Don't tell me you're going to give me a ticket now. I parked perfectly."

Wesker's crooked smile sent shivers down his spine, but he'd deny in front of any judge that it was true.

"I would have revoked your license for so much recklessness combined."

"So how am I going to get to work for you?" He tilted his head to one side, playing innocent.

Wesker pretended to think about it.

"You can walk, or let me take you."

Wesker leaned slightly closer to the door, playing along. Something in him shifted, a small nerve, but he shook his head.

"You?" He smiled amusedly and almost burst out laughing. "How generous of you, Captain! After criticizing me even for the way I drink coffee!"

"You used all the sugars in the packets. That wasn't coffee, it was diabetes served in a cup, Kennedy," he replied impassively, without a hint of humor this time.

Leon lifted his hands from the door.

"Guilty. And I'd do it again."

He earned a low, amused snort, and then a small silence settled between them as Leon looked around, taking in the city. This time it wasn't awkward, so he didn't feel the need to speak up and ruin it.

Raccoon City and its mysterious aura loomed before him, and he felt as if somehow, he could belong here. It wasn't that feeling of discomfort and bewilderment you might feel when you arrive somewhere that isn't yours. Or the feeling of being out of your depth. He'd felt that when he arrived in Harvestville, years ago... He squinted at the starry sky, releasing a bit of air in the form of mist. The rain had stopped, so he could feel the coolness of the environment in his bones. It didn't bother him. He simply remembered what it was like to be in Harvestville, comparing it to the first sights and impressions he was having of Raccoon.

There, from the minute he was assigned from the academy until he moved in, he felt he had to fight to be there, to earn a place. Among them, among the people and his workmates, it was hard, it was an experience... Exhausting, now that he looked at it from an outside perspective, now that he no longer felt like he was... caged. He had fought tooth and nail in that place to feel like he belonged. And even after fighting, he still felt like his place wasn't there. Even if he had his own personal reasons for being in that city.

And yet, all those years were... in vain.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.

Everything had vanished behind him; he had to live in the present. There was no point in dwelling on the fact that he was no longer in Harvestville; the important thing was to focus on what was to come, on this new city and what it had to offer him.

For the moment, he didn't dislike it.

Or maybe that was just the impression he wanted to believe. The truth was, right now he was tired and needed so badly to press his face into the pillow and pray that his dreams were kind. Or simply not dream. Not see anything. And just sleep soundly without interruption. God, that sounded so good, sleeping a marathon of uninterrupted hours.

Their comfortable silence was broken when Wesker spoke again, his baritone making the hairs on his arms stand up.

"You have a couple of days before you join the unit," he announced, his voice authoritative but measured, suddenly getting to the point about work. "Training for your initiation starts at 6:00 AM the day after tomorrow. I don't accept delays."

Of course, he was that kind of strict, it didn't bother him, however, he supposed it was important to remember that he was his future boss. For a position on a team meant to solve complicated and unusual cases, not filling out forms or helping elderly women who couldn't remember where their house keys were. Real fieldwork. It was obvious he had to set the guidelines; after all, he'd shared little since the restaurant. When he looked at Wesker's serious face, Leon found himself frowning gently and nodded a couple of times, reaffirming his thoughts that this was important.

"I won't miss."

He nodded, pleased by his cooperation.

"Good, remember; This job is not for the faint of heart. I won't go easy on any training, and when you go out there, you'll come away thinking you might come back in a plastic bag."

Quite an optimist, he thought to himself, before nodding again.

"I can handle it. I've been through exhaustive training before."

Wesker hummed, staring straight ahead.

"You're very confident in your abilities, Kennedy."

"What can I say? I'm good at difficult things," he replied, resting his chin on the door. He'd won a case against all odds; that wasn't something you saw every day.

"Splendid, I'll give you a little advance, to get you in the right frame of mind. Take a step back," he ordered, clear and concise.

Leon frowned slightly, but obeyed. He wanted to ask him what he meant by the advance, but then the blond man moved.

Or rather, just his arm, pushing his car door shut.

In the midst of his surprise, about to tell him to be careful with the door, it was then that Leon froze.

Completely speechless, at the sight before him.

He hadn't noticed him in the parking lot because of the darkness and the poor light from the flashing neon signs... But here, with the illumination from the streetlights, he could see him clearly.

His door and part of the car were ripped in huge rows, tracing lines from the front door to the back as if they had been dragged.

As if they were the claws of a wild animal.

Leon didn't know what kind of animal could have done that. Not even a puma, which could have appeared out of nowhere, had claws of that caliber to do so undetected.

Because, at what point could that have happened and he hadn't seen it?! Or heard it?!

His mind then flashed back to the flash of the road, moments before Wesker appeared, his car being hit, even shaken.

He could see the dent in the back door now that he looked closely.

But then it meant...

When he turned to Wesker to ask for an explanation, he was already getting into his own car and closing the door.

"Hey!! Wait!! Wesker!! What the hell does this mean?! Hey! TKs! You piece of...! Ugh!"

Leon stood in the middle of the road, raising his arms and letting them fall with a snort.

Incredible. Simply incredible! He dropped a bombshell and then walked off like nothing had happened?! Leaving Leon to try to guess on his own?!

But still, certainly when he looked toward the car door, he felt his chest tighten a little in anticipation, with an icy chill similar to what he'd seen in the cemetery. Even that moment passed fleetingly through his mind, turning gears.

Something wasn't normal, something wasn't right, of course, and Wesker was warning him about it. He'd been warning him since the bar itself.

He was about to cross a threshold from which he wouldn't be able to return, he knew it. A glance around Raccoon City made him understand the report now: a gloomy city beyond the state borders, a lost city, where strange things happened and the media didn't cover or report on them. The drive here had given Leon a taste of things he wouldn't have thought possible.

And Wesker wasn't joking; he didn't seem like the type to joke about this.

Perhaps he thought this would scare him? That he'd decide to turn around and forget about entering the Unidentified Risk Unit?

...He frowned, staring at the door with his fists clenched, despite the tightening in his chest, his racing pulse, and his mind wandering between things he didn't understand and wanted to understand. On the threshold of fear and resilience.

No way.

He didn't know much for now; he only had hunches, and the feeling creeping into his skin that whatever was looming over his life was dark and dangerous. But he'd already crossed that door since Luis's death.

He approached his car and got back in, gripping the wheel. He was going to do it. Whatever happened, happened. Whatever it was. He had to do it.

He must to do it.

He started the engine again, and the radio returned to its normal tune, as if nothing had happened, surprising him. Even the rest of the drive to the residence Irons had pointed out in the address, he didn't miss a beat.

Maybe it was just bad luck.

...But when he remembered the claws in his car, he thought maybe he should start ruling out the idea that everything that seemed normal was actually normal.

And something told him that even Wesker wasn't normal at all...

                                                                                                                                                                  ------

Harvestville Police Station. Hours earlier...

Brian Irons hummed as he ate from a tray of sweets, the most expensive and delicious, made in a nearby bakery of very high quality.

Fuck, since he had to stay late in this shitty office, at least he'd get the best sweets, which Miss Perkins had so kindly brought for the next shift. He gave a crooked smile; they had to understand, being a chief entailed a lot of responsibility and hard work!

Plus, he'd been rid of one of the biggest problems in his precinct/life; he deserved a self-reward for that.

Now he wouldn't have to deal with that weight anymore, that damn responsibility that had been hovering in the halls of his station for years. Damn it, it had taken years off his life to feel like he had to keep an eye on Kennedy's every damn move and mission. So many fucking years with every report laid out on his desk, with guidelines to follow, with instructions on where Kennedy should NOT go, what events he shouldn't be invited to, what shifts to attend. All under the promise of extra cash, which, although Irons had dug in and not said a word about it, was exhausting... Having to plan everything to run the life of a damn officer, of whom he was tired, on top of that, so much perfection everywhere you looked, damn! He'd hoped to find an excuse, however absurd, to taint that brilliant record. No one was clean of dirty laundry, NO ONE, no cop was exempt from it.

But Leon S. Kennedy was like something out of place, wherever he went, all eyes on him.

Brian Irons had worked hard to keep his precinct from going under, and it was only when that rookie showed up at his door that the press started talking well about the Harvestville PD.

Should he have been happy to have such a dedicated rookie? No way!

He stole all the attention, his word of mouth was shining everywhere he went, but his effort? And his own dedication? The years he'd spent working there were overshadowed by that man.

So, he wouldn't deny the grin that had spread across his face when he received the call that Kennedy was in jail, accused of nothing more and nothing less than murder.

It was a golden opportunity to see that false star fade, to see that whole life that seemed the perfect portrait of a hero crumble. But that was short-lived; the investigation and the evidence from the trial showed that Kennedy couldn't have done that. The recordings showed nothing unusual, there was no modus operandi, no reason, the psychological tests only made it clear that the man suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder and no homicidal or psychopathic streak underneath it all.

So even in the dark moments, that damn rookie continued to shine, innocent. Which infuriated him, made him want to throw the table on the floor, but then Judge Brown's notification arrived, giving Irons free rein to decide whether or not he wanted Leon at his station.

He could fire him, he could get rid of him with the perfect excuse.

It was then that he remembered his anonymous contact, who always sent him the guidelines, where not to send Kennedy on any missions and so on.

With a little research, he had found the right place.

Raccoon City.

That's where most of the reports came from, so whoever wanted him away was there. He cracked his knuckles and, for the first time in a long time, typed a long, detailed report to the head of the Raccoon police station.

He made it clear that Officer Kennedy had to be transferred immediately and urgently, by order of the judge (a half-truth), which left him the responsibility of deciding where to take him. Even if it meant giving up the extra money he'd pocketed. Given the center's excellent reputation, he attached Kennedy's case to give them more reasons to accept him. If those weirdos at URU (Unidentified Risk Unit) could dedicate themselves to hunting aliens or whatever they did, they might have the perfect man among their ranks as well. He had also attached the funds the judge had given him for the case, since transferring someone, and so urgently, required money, and that was at least covered. He looked for the easiest and cheapest way and quickly prepared all the paperwork for Kennedy to sign.

Oh, and how he had enjoyed the sour expression on his face when he'd walked through the door that morning, out of his station uniform, but still wearing his badge.

Leon hadn't exchanged a word with Irons, not even a goodbye. He'd signed everything I'd put in front of him, reading it. Oh, of course he'd be reading it; he wasn't one of those idiots who signed without looking. He didn't ask any questions, though; he took the rest of the papers that belonged to him and turned around, even though Brian Irons told him with a fake smile that he wished him luck in his new, far-off, remote workplace.

He could see his lip curl down in a snarl, but Mr. Perfect simply walked out of his office.

Leaving Irons with immeasurable satisfaction. Yes, without a doubt, he'd enjoyed this. One thorn in his side, and now, with the problem out of the way, the people of Harvestville would trust him again, and his decisions. The people wanted a villain to make the heroes shine. And he would be the hero this town needed, and life would return to its peaceful pace without having to look through stupid instruction documents for a single annoyance.

Irons leaned back in his overstuffed chair, popping a sweet treat into his mouth, eating with his mouth open and making annoying noises, while staring at the ceiling fan in the small, brightly lit room of his office.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn't received any confirmation email about the transfer...

He glanced vaguely at his computer, with no incoming notifications. Hmph, odd, but hey, that was a problem for Raccoon City and Kennedy himself. He'd already moved the papers, and the aforementioned official had signed them. Officially, Kennedy was out, and if Raccoon City didn't accept him as an agent, well, that would be that poor bastard's problem.

Right now, he was free.

He continued eating, unconcerned, turning on the radio next to him to enjoy some music while he closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. He hummed softly, bringing the rest of the candy to his mouth, enjoying the tranquility and the soft jazz music in the background. These moments in life were meant to be savored, without a doubt.

It was then that he felt the ceiling light flicker twice, making him frown and open one eye. The light returned to normal.

"Humph," he half-smiled mockingly. Now even electricity would respect him.

Not even a couple more seconds passed before the light flickered again, twice. But what really bothered Irons was that not only did the light fail, but his radio suddenly began to suffer interference, distorting with high-pitched, annoying sounds. He lost his patience and growled.

"Let's see, what the hell is going on h-?" He couldn't finish his sentence because when he opened his eyes, he froze. A man's figure loomed over him, with glowing red eyes. He barely had time to contain the scream from his mouth before a gloved hand grabbed him by the shirt and lifted him up like nothing, his face dangerously close to the ceiling fan. "AH!? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!" He was lifted higher. "WAIT! WAIT! PLEASE PUT ME DOWN!"

The man didn't flinch, and instead spoke coldly and sharply, like the blade of a razor-sharp knife.

"I consider myself a clear and concise man, Mr. Irons." His voice was a baritone, and his eyes didn't blink for a moment, as Brian stood inches away from having his face sliced ​​by the fan blades that were beginning to move faster. "And I left clear instructions, every day, every month. And you have not only deliberately ignored them, but with the utmost brazenness, you are directly violating them, sitting here like a pig waiting for its executioner."

Irons' eyes widened as he looked down. It was him!? The mysterious emissary had been him all this time!?

"W-WAIT! PLEASE! JUST WAIT, IT ALL MAKES SENSE!" He tried to kick and free himself. Shit, he didn't even have his gun on him. There was no way to defend himself, let alone the inhuman strength this man possessed.

The man just bowed his head, frowning even more.

"What sense do you expect me to see? I made it CLEAR that Officer Kennedy wasn't supposed to leave Harvestville for seven years?" He grimaced even deeper, his eyes flashing with anger. "I don't accept incompetence or insubordination, Irons."

Death was lurking, and Irons knew it. However, even under the fear that gnawed at his body and mind, he found a glimmer of something that caught his attention.

Did he say seven years?

Irons shook himself, exclaiming at the top of his lungs:

"HE'S BEEN HERE FOR OVER SEVEN YEARS!! I SWEAR! IT WAS HIS BIRTHDAY!! JUST A FEW TIME AGO!! " He cried out in despair as he felt the fan just a touch away from his skin.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not believing his last words would be about Kennedy and his birthday. Absurd as it was, it stopped the fan blades, and Irons opened one eye to see that he wasn't dead yet. His peace of mind was short-lived when he was slammed against the desk, a gloved hand now gripping his windpipe. He felt the air escaping his lungs, his bones tensing, and even though he clung to the powerful wrist, there was no room for doubt. He was facing a force greater than his own. With labored breaths, he watched as the man searched his face for lies, as those red eyes seared his soul, and he felt terror.

Then the man spoke again.

"What did you say? In those poorly written and deficient reports you did, they stipulated he'd been here less than seven years; he's twenty-five now." He tightened his grip on his hand. "I don't like inconsistencies, Irons."

"Gagh!! Cough!" He coughed, feeling bile rising. His mind wandered, but he managed to find the answer, desperate. "T-They're wrong...the reports! The...The date! Ghgh! Kennedy's entry! Ugh! It's wrong!"

His hand stopped, his red eyes seemed to doubt his words, but he gave him a few seconds to recover.

Irons' hand fumbled with the papers, finding that damn folder that he almost didn't break, and held it up to the blond man, like a lifeline.

His last hope was those papers.

The man let go of his throat to take the folder and open it, scanning the information with quick glances, until he stopped at the photo inside.

His irises widened slightly, as if he had never seen that face before and at the same time had.

Irons coughed, sitting up slowly, without taking his eyes off the man holding the Kennedy folder.

"H-he's...gasp...thirty-six years old...I found out yesterday. I also found it strange that the date didn't match, but it was just a simple registration error! He confirmed his age when I questioned him!" He began to back away slowly toward the chest of drawers, wondering where his gun was. Not understanding what Kennedy had to do with this man, what age mattered, or why all those bullshit instructions, but right now, it was what stood in the way of his death. "He's been here over seven years and...And he signed today! Maybe he's already on his way to Raccoon City! If you don't want him to go there, y-you can kick him out! It won't be anyone's fault! And I won't say anything about what happened here! I swear!" But then the blond man stuffed the folder into his coat, turning to his desk to look for the rest of the papers he was supposed to sign for the transfer.

Despite his initial opposition to Leon's transfer, Irons watched as he took a pen and signed the papers in impeccable handwriting.

He blinked in surprise at how calm this man was, having tried to kill him seconds before. He took a pair of sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on as he turned his face back toward Irons.

"Of course you won't. At least you were useful in the last moment of your life."

Irons didn't know what to do, or how to react to those words.

But from outside, the light in his office flickered a couple of times before going out completely.

Silence returned to the Harvestville police station, broken only when a radio playing jazz music started playing again.

Chapter Text

The view from the residence was, to say the least, sinister.

A cheap apartment complex in one of the most grim and cramped areas of Raccoon City.

As soon as Leon opened the creaking door, it was almost a touch away from breaking due to a lack of security. With his duffel bag dangling from his other hand, he simply stood there, staring at the room in complete silence and not even blinking.

Practically empty, with dirty walls, a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling as the only lighting, an old-model television on the floor as the only other piece of furniture, perhaps even thanks to a plastic table and a half-broken chair.

The kitchen was separated from the dining room only by a brick bar and a poorly cleaned countertop, next to the entrance.

And he could see an open-door bathroom to the right and a bedroom to the left.

The front window faced the street, so he could at least see the outside world through that shoebox.

"...Well, it could be worse." "He muttered after a moment of thought, shrugging tiredly, only for the light bulb to simply blink twice and go out. "Ugh...great..." he sighed, searching his pocket for a mini flashlight he had on a keychain. "Let's see..."

He went inside and set down the bag to approach the light bulb. Holding the flashlight in his mouth, he tapped it a few times to adjust the screw to the cable, causing it to respond and the light to come back on.

He inhaled a small victory as he stretched and thought about the other trips he had left to the car to bring the boxes. It wasn't much he had, but it was all he would take with him anywhere.

Honestly, his body couldn't take it anymore, and his mind even less so.

The transfer of his belongings was for the Leon of the future.

He moved wearily, taking off his jacket and leaving it on the counter, walking with the duffel bag to the separate bedroom, finding that luckily, there was a bed. Its hygiene was questionable, but this was what Irons had intended for him, of course.

"Egotistical bastard..." he cursed under his breath, but decided to push the thoughts away, simply taking off his shoes and plopping down on the bed. Okay, the sheets were at least clean, or so they smelled; he recognized the scent of cheap fabric softener.

He stared at the ceiling for a few moments before turning around and facing the window.

Silence reigned, and he remained still, watching the small city lights illuminate the sky, alone with his thoughts.

...

The silence was too overwhelming, making him feel restless, his toe twitching.

He hesitated for a second, but reached into his pocket for his cell phone and picked it up.

No messages.

Of course, there was no one to talk to. Leon was always a people person, he got along with most people, but it was...hard to let anyone into his life.

People didn't stay around him long enough to know him, enough to be able to add him to their friends list on their phone.

.....

Except one.

His fingers moved to search for the images, opening them, where there was a small folder containing the photo and video files of him and Luis.

He ran his thumb over the photos, caressing Luis's smiling face in the picture. They were wearing stupid fishing hats, and Luis was holding a fish he'd caught, with Leon standing next to him, one eye closed against the sunlight, also smiling at the camera.

It was a weekend they'd spent together, their first time away from Harvestville.

God, leaving that city was always complicated. If it wasn't because of work, it was because everything seemed to be against Leon leaving. As if he were jinxed or cursed.

But that weekend, they made it.

He flipped through the images, reminiscing, smiling weakly. Zapping to the short videos of Luis talking to the camera, then focusing on Leon eating, he just raised his head, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Luis's shrill laughter filled the room.

He let out an amused snort, as if responding to the laughter, his eyes narrowed in amusement.

Luis always recorded when he was busy with something. He said Leon was a terrible actor and that when he knew he was being recorded, he got nervous. That's why it was always Luis who grabbed the camera and caught him doing normal things.

'You're natural, Leon! The camera loves you, now keep doing those things you're so good at!' Luis's hand was seen moving toward him.

'Fix your shower faucet?' His video self looked at the camera, tools in hand, stuck in Luis's tiny shower. Smiling shyly and embarrassed.

'You're great, cariño. Not all men are lucky enough to have a policeman, plumber, pasta cook, and dog whisperer like you.'

The Leon in the video laughed and turned his back on the camera to focus on his own things.

The gallery was still filled with those homey, tender, warm moments, but the more he looked at the photos and heard Luis's voice, Leon's smile faded, his eyes watering.

His body moved slowly, leaving his phone beside him to sit on the bed, staring at the floor.

For once, his thoughts were calm. Despite the silence, he didn't hear the noise hammering against his head. He felt sadness. An immense sadness. But there was nothing darker in the background. There were no intrusive thoughts. There was no pressure around him, no looks or whispers.

Just him and his sorrow.

And also, finally, he felt he could let go. Without having to be strong. Without having to hold back in front of anyone.

Leon covered his eyes with his hands and began to sob softly, his shoulders moving as the crying grew louder.

But he allowed himself to feel, and he allowed himself to grieve his loss with dignity.

For a long time—He couldn't say whether it was minutes or an hour—but he let out everything he had inside, without screaming or holding back, but everything he'd bottled up to face this journey and a new stage in his life. He let out as much as he could, until his breathing stopped being erratic and became much calmer.

Until at some point, he lay back down on the bed and fell asleep, exhausted, mentally and physically.

                                                                                                                                                          ----

Morning came too soon for Leon's liking.

He blinked a few times, groaning with his face pressed against the sheets and his hair disheveled.

He tried to go back to sleep, closing his eyes, but after feeling like his body wouldn't sleep anymore, despite himself, he slowly sat up in bed, looking around disoriented.

The room was unfamiliar, lacking the color and sparse decor that Leon already had in his Harvestville apartment.

He frowned for a moment, moving his lips to get rid of the sticky feeling of having just woken up, before closing his eyes for a second.

Oh...right...he was in Raccoon City now.

He looked down at himself and saw that he was still wearing the same clothes as yesterday; he was so tired that he hadn't changed into something more comfortable to sleep in. He pressed his nose into his shirt. Yes. He needed a shower and a change of clothes.

Lazily, he got out of bed and searched the duffel bag for a change of clothes, a towel, and a small amount of shampoo as he headed for the shower.

He stopped halfway, watching the light stream in through the uncurtained window; the day was overcast but bright enough.

He observed the emptiness and how necessary it was to clean up before placing anything on that floor.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering something crucial.

Right... he still had to go get the rest of his moving supplies from the car.

He actually arrived back at the apartment yesterday so exhausted that he'd decided to delegate everything to his present self, damn Leon from the past.

But that was the thing about procrastination. Don't complain to your present self, but to your past self for not deciding to do everything at once.

Once he checked that the bathroom was decent, with no bugs or surprises in the toilet, Leon did his basic business and got in the shower when it came out warm. He rested his hands on the wall as he let the water fall over his head, closing his eyes to relax for a moment.

His eyes felt heavy, a little sore from crying.

At least his wish had been granted; he hadn't had any dreams, or didn't remember them. Whatever the case, he hadn't woken up in the middle of the night screaming.

Simply the thought that everything in his life had shifted came like a wave over his body, sweeping up many things from the past and moving everything forward, making him feel somewhat tense, uncomfortable.

He snorted loudly.

"...This is what it is now, Leon," he told himself, a way of convincing himself. "You have to adapt. Like you always have. It's the only way to survive."

The only way to stay sane.

After a little more time in the shower, to clear his head and relax his tense muscles, he washed his face, brushed his hair back, and finally stepped out, ready to dress in more comfortable clothes. A white elbow-length shirt and dark sweatpants.

Today was going to be a busy day, so he'd better be comfortable, just like his footwear was simple sneakers.

With his hair still damp, he headed to the kitchen to open the refrigerator and stopped dead in his tracks when he remembered something crucial.

"Of course, genius... there's no food." He grimaced.

He didn't buy anything because a certain overly critical blond man in black had 'kindly' forced him to stop to eat. Plus the extra time they spent talking. Of course, Leon completely forgot to stock up on the basics for living.

He rubbed his eyes.

Okay, change of plans. Priorities first, bring the boxes. Second, he'd go shopping for supplies to allow him to exist as a functioning human.

But then the sound of someone knocking on the door brought him out of his own thoughts.

Puzzled, because he wasn't expecting any visitors; literally no one knew he lived here, and he doubted he'd bothered anyone during his short stay, he left the kitchen and approached the door.

His mind suddenly imagined that the person behind the door was none other than Wesker, standing behind it, under the pretext of telling him he'd made sure he'd made it home alive. With that serious face and those unnecessary sunglasses, he might even be carrying a shopping bag.

The image was too vivid and realistic, making him snort in amusement, though he then questioned himself. Wait, why had he pictured the captain in particular?

He shook his head with a smirk.

That eccentric and mysterious man really left his mark on him yesterday.

His surprise and (disappointment?) was to see that behind the door wasn't who he thought he'd been, but on the contrary, a smiling woman.

Brunette, with very pretty light eyes, perhaps his age or a little younger, dressed in a red jacket and a light-colored shirt underneath, a pair of jeans and boots, almost like an adventurer. She was holding a box in her hands.

When he made eye contact with her, she smiled genuinely; he swore he saw her eyes sparkle with excitement.

"Welcome, new neighbor!"

Leon raised his eyebrows, impressed. Okay, he hadn't expected this. Were people like that in Raccoon City? So spontaneous and direct with strangers?

"Wow... thanks? I mean, yes, thanks." He smiled, somewhat nervous and curious. "How did you know I'm the new guy?"

She smiled mischievously, amused, almost pleased that he'd asked her that question and that she could explain herself like a true detective.

"You see, Raccoon City is a small town, and we all know each other. It's not hard to notice when someone new shows up. Aaand...I know you're a cop."

Leon's smile faded, replaced by a confused frown.

"You know?" How alarming was that? Did she mean she already knew Leon was accused of murder? Would rumors spread that quickly?

Or were people here just that gossipy?

Perhaps she could see his internal debate and discomfort, and certainly his concern about being harassed, since it wasn't that common for a neighbor to welcome you, much less know he was a police officer. She quickly raised a hand to signal him to wait.

"I'm not some weirdo spying, I swear. Take that frown off," she warned, earning a raised eyebrow from Leon, who crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

"Okay, so you're a detective or something? Should I be worried that I'm in your sights?"

She shook her head.

"No. You see, my brother is a police officer too, here in Raccoon." She smiled again, charmingly. "And he told me a new member was coming in, and..." She pointed at Leon's door. "They took down the sign yesterday that this apartment was for rent, so, well, I just added 2 + 2, and I knew my brother's future partner lived here!" she announced triumphantly. Then her smile faltered. "Oh, please tell me it's you and I wasn't mistaken..."

Leon gave a small laugh, uncrossing his arms. Okay, she earned points for looking charming and fun, and it quickly erased the growing concern Leon was beginning to feel at being watched.

"Yes, it's me. Don't worry." Something about her... gave him a good feeling. He didn't know what it was, but he felt comfort and complicity. He waved his hand toward her, smiling softly. "Leon Kennedy. Nice to meet you."

She smiled wider, shifting the weight of the box in her arms to reciprocate the handshake.

"Claire Redfield, nice to meet you too, Officer Kennedy." She gave a small military salute, making him laugh again.

"Just Leon, neighbor. I'm not on duty yet, not even settled in."

"Quite a hassle with the move, huh?" She tilted her head in understanding.

He nodded with a hum as he stepped back from the door a little to let her see the empty, depressing, and almost deplorable state of the apartment.

Claire leaned forward and nodded twice with a grimace that tried to feign approval of the state of the place.

"Fascinating... I like your style, Kennedy."

"Thanks, it's called: 'I arrived so late I didn't even take out a box, and now I pay the price for my consequences'  minimalist version." He tossed his hair a little with his hand, still staring at how empty it was and how long it was going to take to make it his home.

She sympathized with him.

"A tough road, huh?"

Something about that sentence made him sigh, leaning back against the frame.

"You bet." He turned back to her, returning his soft, tired smile.

Then Claire beamed again and lifted the box in her hands.

"That's why I brought this!" She opened the lid to reveal a varied collection of donuts inside. "Ta-dah~! Nothing fills the stomach and lifts the mood in the morning like good donuts!"

Leon looked from the box to her and raised an eyebrow with a smirk, amused.

"Is it because I'm a cop?"

Claire looked confused for a second, before looking at the donuts, and suddenly stopped smiling, her eyes widening.

"Oh, no! No, no, no! That's too stereotypical!...Pfft, no!" She waved her hand to downplay it, but then looked at him almost with puppy dog ​​eyes. "...I'm sorry, too familiar? Did I offend you? Can I take them and exchange them for a sandwich or..."

Seeing her concern, he put a hand to his chest, frowning.

"A lot. Honestly. It hurts and offends me too much. Deeply. I'm hurt, no, worse, but disappointed," he said in a serious tone, causing her to stop and stammer apologies. Then he moved his hand to take the box of donuts, lightly dragging it towards him like a thief. "But I accept them, thaaaaank you so much...~"

She rolled her eyes and gently touched his arm, making him chuckle.

"You're terrible! For a second there, I thought I'd upset you!" She didn't seem bothered either, sharing that small moment.

Then Leon looked at her with genuine appreciation for the gesture and a sideways smile, tilting his head.

"No, seriously, thank you for the welcome and the box. It's not very common where I come from, so it means a lot, really." He spoke warmly, feeling like he could open up to her a little, so she'd understand he wasn't rejecting the hospitality. It was just strange for him to receive it. It didn't bother him at all. He opened the box so she could take some, but Claire shook her head, raising a hand. "Really? I feel bad for not having anything to offer you back."

"Don't worry, another day you can give me sugar or salt, but for now, those are all yours." She put her hands in her pockets, shrugging with her charming smile. "If you need anything, you can ask me, okay? I live upstairs on the third floor."

He nodded twice, tossing his hair to smile again.

"Okay, thank you very much. I'll thank your brother too when I meet him, mhhm... Redfield, you said?" He pointed at her with a finger.

"Yeah, his name's Chris. Ask him to give you a tour of the place; he loves feeling smart and interesting." She smiled amusedly and headed for the stairs, raising a hand. "Well, I have to go now. See you, Leon!"

"See you, Claire, thanks again!" He walked in after saying goodbye and stared at the box of donuts for a few moments.

He thought to himself, as he gave a soft smile.

Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all if the people here were like Claire Redfield.

Now he was curious to meet his brother.

He picked up one of the donuts and put it in his mouth, making a sound of delight as he placed the box on the counter, and decided to get started on organizing his life.

A tougher day awaited him later.

                                                                                                                                                      ----

After a few hours, Leon had not only managed to bring his things into the apartment but also started cleaning it.

He had made a quick trip to a nearby cleaning supply store to get the basic necessities.

He looked around where the boxes were stacked and open. He'd taken out everything he had inside and set the boxes aside just to make some space until he could fill the living room with something.

Sooner or later, he was going to need a sofa.

He needed a place to lie down after long shifts, and to be able to watch the old television, which at least worked.

Afterwards, he'd cleaned everything.

God knows how much bleach he'd used on the floor and in the bathroom, trying to get the stains out. He wasn't sure who had lived here before him, but they certainly hadn't put much effort into leaving everything clean. He'd had to open the windows to avoid choking on the products.

With a deep sigh, he checked the time. It was almost five in the afternoon. He'd really spent most of the day cleaning and opening boxes.

He'd survived hunger thanks to Claire's donuts, but he couldn't put off the most important thing anymore: going to buy food and other items he needed. It would be dark soon.

Just thinking about going made him lazy, but that's what being a responsible adult meant.

So he made his shopping list, checking off everything missing from the apartment, and went back to his car to go to a nearby supermarket.

He paused for a moment when he saw the scratches and dent on the car... and right, he'd have to take it in for repairs at some point; it was too conspicuous during the day to drive around in the car like that.

Mentally, he thought it would be something for later. Priorities first. He could always say he'd been attacked by a puma.

The trip was short; the supermarket wasn't far, as Claire said. The town was small, and so most of the businesses were more centrally located. Although this one in particular was somewhat isolated, already touching the part of the forest that surrounded Raccoon City.

Leon got out and got in, greeting the person at the checkout counter, and set off on what would be a nearly hour-long journey, gathering all the necessary items, filling the shopping cart, and subsequently carrying at least four paper bags piled high in his arms.

It was already getting dark, even though the day was already overcast, when he dumped the bags in the back of the car and blew a long breath.

"That's it... okay, one more thing, now let's go home and..."

A pricking sensation on his neck made him tense his whole body, his eyes slightly open. That sensation... he'd felt it before, at the cemetery.

He would have let it go, as simply a chill from the weather, but something wasn't right...

Instinctively, he looked around while running his hand over his neck.

What the hell had that been? He thought, as his eyes darted around, searching for something he still didn't know what it was. He just felt like he had to find some kind of... threat?

Then he saw something strange. Behind the supermarket, in an alley that was supposed to be used for garbage collection, he saw someone stagger into it.

Leon frowned. Maybe it was a homeless person looking for food scraps, or someone drunk who didn't even know where he was going.

But something wasn't right, and he didn't know how to explain it.

So he reached into the glove compartment for his police weapon and tucked it into his jacket. He wasn't planning on using it on a civilian, but the feeling he had... It was almost the same as when he had to handle complicated cases in Harvestville. He locked the car and headed toward the alley at a brisk pace. No one else was around to see him enter.

The same alley was dark and unlit, as long as the adjacent building was wide, turning a corner to the right.

Leon moved forward cautiously, taking a flashlight out of his pocket to illuminate the surroundings. But there was no sign of anyone, not even in the trash cans.

He swore he saw someone come in here, though now he was starting to wonder if it was just some kind of...paranoia?

He needed to make sure.

"Hello?" he tried his luck, and was answered with noises up ahead. "Hey, is anyone here? Are you okay?"

He asked as he got closer. The sounds were strange, half human, half slimy, and maybe he'd find someone vomiting. It wasn't the most desirable thing, really.

But when he turned the corner with the flashlight raised, Leon's eyes opened wide, gasping, and his heart pounded against his chest.

In front of him in the alley, a man was lying on the ground, kneeling, arms outstretched, muttering apologies with his eyes rolled back in his head, while a strange mass was emerging from his chest. The mass was dark in color and clung to the man, who was slowly drying out, his bones becoming more pronounced.

Leon began to breathe heavily, trembling, his heart racing, sweat running down his forehead, as his dilated eyes tried to process what he was seeing.

A monster.

His senses felt clouded, and his mind vaguely reminded him of Wesker's words, about things that weren't normal, things that could make him lose his sanity.

Things like this were making Leon question whether what he was seeing was real.

But then he remembered that this very thing...this very thing could shed light on what happened to Luis. Maybe this thing could explain it to him.

Then, he reached into his jacket for his gun and pointed it at the creature.

"HEY!! SIR! ANSWER ME! GET AWAY FROM THAT THING!" he yelled, frowning as he pointed the pistol and flashlight at the mass.

The man babbled, not really hearing Leon yelling for him.

The mass moved slowly, turning what would have been its head toward Leon, and for a second it remained silent, before roaring ferociously with a shrill sound.

Limbs sprouted from its sides, several of them like some kind of spidery legs. They were misshapen and slimy, but the tips looked sharp and solid.

The man's body was pulled into the mass itself, trapped and absorbed, joined by the mass of its chest.

Leon screamed again to the man, aiming at the thing and firing to force it to release the person, but this only angered the creature further, which, after absorbing the man, began to mutate into something more solid, more deformed, and grotesque.

Bigger.

A huge creature with spidery legs and a toothy mouth that opened into three segments, turned toward him, rising much taller, imposing.

Terrifying.

Leon opened his mouth, raising his eyebrows in horror and confusion.

"Oh shit...!!!" he yelled as the creature roared again and lunged at him.

He fired twice, missing, or rather, maybe not hitting, and started running as if his life depended on it, and in a way, it literally did!

The creature leaped and grabbed onto the brick roof, squeezing its legs to outrun Leon, managing to outrun him and jump, cutting him off from the exit.

He stopped dead in his tracks and fired again, only making whatever it was angrier.

"FUCK!" he growled, agitated, jumping and rolling to the side to dodge a claw that lunged at him. "I have to get out of here!"

He was in too tight a space, he had no advantage, and he didn't know how to hurt that thing.

He looked back, back toward the alley again, seeing the fence that separated the woods from the supermarket. That's it! Wider terrain. Harder for a big thing to move through the trees, and more cover for him!

He dodged another claw, rolling to the side again, before running backward, putting his weapon away to ready his hands. He felt the creature roar and run after him, sending a sense of panic through him as he thought that if he missed, one wrong move would catch him.

He pushed those thoughts aside and gave his best sprint, then jumped and scaled the fence in a matter of seconds, crossing to the next side, only to feel the iron give way behind him as the creature charged toward the fence.

Leon stumbled forward, cursing, looking back as the thing roared and threw itself off the fence, busy untangling its legs.

It was his time to gain distance.

He started running again, heading deeper into the woods with that thing following him once it was free, bumping into trees, which slowed it down and gave Leon a little time to think about what to do.

How to kill that thing!

The roars faded into the depths of the woods, and shortly afterward, the supermarket employees and some customers came out after hearing the commotion, frightened.

Many looked at each other in confusion, seeing that the alley was empty, except for the damage caused. And the destroyed fence in the background.

One of the employees decided to call the police, claiming vandalism. But then his colleague touched his arm and pointed out the scratch and claw marks on the floor and wall.

They both felt scared, so when the police answered the phone, they not only requested a police unit for the incident, but also requested that the Unidentified Risk Unit be dispatched in their direction.

Chapter Text

 

 

He remembered the soft, fresh breeze, tinged with the scent of salt, caressing his skin, and the sun’s rays warming his face, shining through the leaves of the trees that sheltered him—offering a contrast between warmth and coolness.

 

He remembered lying back against the roots of an ancient tree, shaped perfectly for his comfort, with a view of the distant sea and the sound of waves in the background.

 

A scroll lay lazily across his lap, unrolled to his hand, which held it idly as he enjoyed this brief moment of peace.

 

The city, just below that mountain, peeked through the trees, vast and glorious, thanks to his effort and work, with towering pillars nearly touching the sky and the grand temple rising in the distance.

 

And still, he felt it should be more.

 

That everything was moving too slowly, and all he had done, he could have done more if it weren’t for the limitations. Despite all he could achieve, it felt as though people looked him in the eye and dismissed him.

 

Structures? He could imagine and create new ones, more intricate or less, with refined details or different arches. Buildings with designs that evoked culture and grandeur, breathtaking in their execution.

 

Land? He could sow it and make grow the greatest variety of plants ever seen. A garden unlike any other, one that would feel like a paradise only described in books and paintings.

 

Food? He could conceive exquisite, elaborate dishes and bring them to life, feasts only dreamt of in fantastical tales sung by bards. Plates that would never empty, and no one would go hungry in that hall.

 

But people...?

 

He grimaced.

 

What good was power and the ability to improve everything if he couldn’t improve what was most flawed? If he couldn’t improve that creation that was weak, that died before it even truly contributed to the world? Why invest effort in them?

 

Their lifespan was too short to enact true change, their violence too prone and misdirected, and he wouldn’t even begin to discuss their intelligence. They could barely function without him overseeing their every step, like a watchful eye they feared. Guiding them with clear, precise instructions—and still, even then, some had the audacity to contradict him, claiming what he said was impossible.

 

Suffice it to say—it was an insult.

 

The limitations of having to restrain his creativity just because they couldn’t handle it, as if that mattered? The world was growing, evolving, improving, and they were there, enjoying the marvels he created like useless parasites. Ungrateful worms devouring every bit of wealth, gorging on everything he had built as if it were a right they had by merely existing. They were barely helpful even when he gave them a project to keep their small minds busy with something to build or craft.

 

It was simply irritating.

 

The most useless creation he had ever seen. They were fragile, irritable, clumsy, and exhaustingly incompetent.

 

All humans were a mistake.

 

Then he heard a branch snap, and felt the sun's rays being blocked out by a larger shadow looming over him.

 

…Well, maybe not all of them were a mistake.

 

He opened his eyes slowly, cold ice blue and bright only to meet another pair of blue eyes, sky-like, full of life and emotion, framed by a curtain of dark blond bangs and a smile tugging at plump lips.

 

Oh, he knew that smile well, that mischievous gleam in those eyes that crinkled with delight.

 

That mischief only ever meant one thing: trouble.

 

And he wasn’t wrong.

 

A few seconds later, he felt something being placed on his head—light yet heavy—a crown made of flowers, the most garishly mismatched flowers he had ever seen, with petals drooping into his face. Poorly intertwined different kinds, a rough job, not to mention some were already half-wilted or broken. A horror that looked like an insult to art and harmony.

 

He frowned.

 

“Do you enjoy seeing me with this horrible abomination of ‘creativity’?” he muttered, raising an eyebrow. His tone was impassive, his gaze accusatory. And yet, he made no move to remove it from his head.

 

He watched as the smile spread, as white teeth flashed while the other laughed, warm a sound that pierced through his perfectly maintained armor, though so easily cracked by him. And the echo of that laugh, with that sweet, honeyed voice, it hit him inside in the most pleasant of ways.

 

“Yes, honestly, I do.”

The culprit laughed more, still leaning forward, against the rays of the sun that kissed the edges of his blond hair, casting a kind of halo that maked him looked like something not of this world. A true divinity made flesh.

 

Something that simply... suited him.

 

He let out a soft, low growl from deep in his throat, not out of anger or real annoyance, and raised an arm to grab him by his chiton, pulling him down onto his lap, earning a loud yelp and a burst of laughter as he trapped him in a powerful hold.

 

Then his captive squirmed, causing the scroll he’d been working on to brush against his chiton. The younger man groaned, letting out a high whine as he saw dark ink stain his clothes.

 

"Look what you've done! I washed it yesterday!" he complained, tugging at the fabric where a single black ink stain had formed, not invisible, but not exactly eye-catching either, almost pouting like a child.

 

He merely hummed in amusement, lifting his chin with a finger that brushed the fine line of his jaw.

 

"Don't cry over a stain you brought on yourself."

 

The boy simply rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips again as he gently took his wrist and moved it away from his chin, leaning in closer until their noses barely touched.

 

"I'll cry if I want to," he replied, each word spoken while holding his gaze, so close in that unique intimacy between them. The hand resting at his waist caressed along his side, pulling him in even closer.

 

A purr rumbled from his throat. He quite liked that rebellious tone, that sharp tongue always poking and pushing, craving a reaction.

 

"Defying your god? How bold of you," he smirked, his grip on the other's waist tightening as he leaned in even more to capture his lips.

 

The younger man chuckled under his breath, pressing his hands to his chest and gently pushing him back just before their lips touched. That earned an intrigued look, but he still wore that mischievous, playful grin. There was something in his eyes—he was hiding something, plotting—but he would find out. Still, the other’s hands pressed against his body, keeping him at bay, even though both knew he could easily overpower him.

 

He tried more than once to steal a kiss, but the younger man dodged him each time, his wide grin betraying the fun he was having. Despite the growing irritation at being denied what he wanted, he remained patient.

 

Then, to his surprise, his lover grabbed his chin between his fingers, something he had never done before. He had never dared so much. It was an arrogant gesture, and one that showed just how lenient he was with him. Anyone else would have lost every limb for such insolence.

 

"Who said you’re my god?" he murmured close to his lips in a teasing tone, placing the honey just close enough and pulling back when he leaned in for it. "I never swore loyalty~"

 

"Hhmph..." he growled lowly, with a dangerous tone, but not out of anger. Quite the opposite. He was drawn to this challenging attitude, to this attempt at dominance over him—a superior being—who in turn also sought to dominate this stubborn, rebellious man. His touch, his gaze, his entire presence disrupted the carefully ordered existence he had built for himself. He drove him mad, made him feel anxious, irrational, out of control, craving a kiss from those soft lips like a fish needs water to breathe. But he knew it was nearly impossible to truly tame him.

 

Nearly.

 

Amidst the failed attempts to steal a kiss, his obstinate obsession dodging him and laughing, his slippery little lover finally broke free. Jumping away, he managed to escape his arms. Only because he allowed it, of course, now far too intrigued by the other's overly excited behavior.

 

He tilted his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips as a strand of blond hair fell across his forehead, breaking the usually pristine image he always carried, escaping the prison of that awful flower crown.

 

"You think yourself clever and powerful, don’t you? How long do you think your little, insignificant granted victory will last?"

 

"I escaped your deadly embrace! It doesn't matter if you let me, my resistance is incredible," he replied playfully, his voice full of confidence. He smiled wider, raising his hand to wave a brush. "And I got this, so now you won’t be burying your nose in those papers for the rest of the day without one~"

 

Oh… cunning little creature…

 

The gears in his mind quickly pieced together the reason for this ambush.

 

Of course, he’d been busy for several days, locked away in his tower with his scrolls, creating and calculating the success rates of upcoming projects. He had certainly neglected to feed the entertainment needs of his young and restless lover, who now seemed willing to even steal his tools, just to force his attention away from work.

 

He couldn’t deny it, it was rather adorable. Like a puppy demanding pets, tugging at its master’s clothes.

 

His smirk deepened.

 

So, he wanted to play, huh…

 

"Very well, pet, if you so desperately want my attention..."

He straightened up, squaring his shoulders, watching as the other groaned at the nickname.

"You have seven minutes."

 

The boy's expression changed to one of surprise, eyeing him up and down, trying to figure out what he meant.

 

"Seven minutes for what?"

 

His lips twisted into a dark, wild, and hungry smile that made the younger man shiver. And he loved making him feel that way.

 

"Seven minutes head start—to run as far from me as you can. Or I’ll hunt you down, and I won’t let you go even if you beg for mercy."

 

The boy’s blue eyes widened, sparkling with both excitement and thrill at the challenge and the threat. His lips pulled into a toothy grin—and then he bolted into the forest, agile and fast, quickly vanishing from sight.

 

He hummed, squaring his shoulders again, calmly counting in his head, eyes closed.

 

And when he reached seven, his icy blue eyes snapped open with a predatory glint—
—and in a blink, he was gone.

 

It didn’t take long to catch up, despite the great distance his lover had covered.

 

And that beautiful laughter, echoing through the woods, warmed his cold, cold heart.

 

 

Wesker opened his eyes, the echo of that laughter slowly fading, lost in a distant whisper, leaving only absolute silence in its wake—only to find himself staring at the ceiling of his office, with the static of radios buzzing outside. A place entirely different from what he had just glimpsed in his dreamlike vision.

He let out a low growl, recognizing that he had fallen asleep, even though that was never part of his plan.

He rubbed his eyes—sharp, glowing rubies—before leaning back further in his chair and exhaling through his nose, arms dropping lazily to the armrests for a moment.

Falling asleep wasn’t unusual, but it wasn’t necessary either—it seemed more like a whim of the body rather than something his physiology required. It usually happened when he relaxed, which was rare. Other times, he would doze off while lost in thought. Normally, if he chose to rest, it was brief, necessary, and practical. Free from distractions. But lately, all his dreams led back to the same man.

His fingers grazed the fabric of the armrests, tightening slightly.

That same warmth would return—clinging to him desperately, tearing at his chest. Or rather... he was the one clinging. Maybe even both of them were. The memory of the dream evaporated as reality—the now—wrapped around him in a cold that clung to his skin. He twisted his mouth in distaste.

Loneliness had never been a problem in his life—at least not before. But now, he was cursed with an emptiness he had long grown used to and yet, somehow, it remained devastating.

The problem was when that man came into play—entering the twisted game that was life, when the curtain rose and all the actors were in place. And that emptiness became a black hole—tearing him apart from the inside out, swallowing his entire world, destroying the set, wiping out the supporting cast, and leaving only one spotlight in the center. That person becoming his entire focus, making everything orbit around him.

He turned in his chair to face the open file in front of him—the summary sheets and the photo of Leon S. Kennedy spread across the desk like the Holy Grail, the most important case on the table, greater than any criminal attack or even full-scale war.

Because to Wesker, it was.

Every letter, every word written—he had memorized them all.

Wesker slowly closed his eyes, reviewing each act and situation again in his mind—the most important events and how to proceed next. Weaving all of it together to decipher this new scene.

He had known of Leon Scott Kennedy’s birth years ago, in a small town. He tracked his whereabouts throughout his entire childhood—knew which school he went to, which friends he played with, which places his parents took him to—all just to keep away. To avoid even the chance encounter. Not even a glance in the same direction.

The itch in his body always warned him of Leon’s existence—a tingling, dizzying anticipation that seduced him like a siren’s song.

That invited him to draw near. But he never did.

He had to keep his distance, no matter how much his gut burned. No matter how his fingertips itched to drag him closer across the grain of the wood.

If he held this position—at the top of a prestigious police department—not only was it to keep control over the matters involving the Unidentified Risk Unit, it was also to gain access to anything and everything related to Leon.

He knew his story. He knew that Leon had passed through many foster homes after an accident. His life hadn’t been easy. And nothing enraged Wesker more than knowing that man’s life hadn’t been any kinder in this one. Never, in fact. It was as if he were destined to carry the weight of emotional and physical suffering on his shoulders. And being unable to act—to fix it—was maddening.

Unable to intervene or try to improve his life without altering the threads of fate. And if Wesker had learned anything from past experiences, it was that interfering did no good. In fact, it only made things worse—or accelerated the end.

He couldn’t afford to lose him again.

He frowned deeper, lips twisting into a grimace as unwanted memories invaded his mind. All his failures. The consequences of tempting fate, of trying to bend the events in his favor. It had all backfired—and remained a thorn buried in his pride and soul—if he still had any soul left at all.

But fate could not play against him like this. Not if he stayed two steps ahead. Not if he had full knowledge of his entire life. A chessboard where every piece would move to Wesker’s rhythm.

Even if that meant watching from a distance as that man—since he was a child—was discarded by so many.

Betrayed by others.

And trampled by even more, who used him before discarding him. People Wesker would’ve gladly dismembered, limb by limb, had he been allowed within reach.

It wouldn’t have surprised him if Leon had turned bitter early on—if he had chosen to hate the world and spiral into complicated, darker decisions. He had every reason to. Deep down, selfishly, Wesker wanted to believe that at some point, Leon would let go of his morality and give in to defending himself against the hostile world around him.

But then...

His long, elegant fingers moved over the photograph of Leon. Wesker stared again, drinking in every detail of the image—from the soft curve of his jaw to the skin just beneath his eyes.

Then came the news: Leon had joined the police force. The damn police. Of all the professions he could’ve chosen, the cruel irony was this one. But of course—it suited him.

Because that’s who he was.

With that righteous spirit, unwavering morality, and that infuriating inability to hate—even after everything—he still stood back up and chose a profession meant to protect others. Even though no one had ever protected him.

His goodness was both frustrating and alluring. His altruism and sense of justice bordered on the absurd—it was almost unreal—but it existed. It was there, rooted deep in his being and his blood. It tugged at the thread of control Wesker held so effortlessly. He hated that trait as much as he admired it.

And yet—it was a profession that brought them closer in some way. But there were too many risks. Too many variables. Any mistake, any unforeseen event could bring consequences Wesker refused to allow.

So, he used his power to pull strings again—to send him far away.

To Harvestville, a practically closed-off, remote city with an incompetent police department under the command of a self-important idiot.

It would be like locking him in a cage—but that was the price to pay for survival. For not watching him disappear from his life again. Wesker left clear orders. He spent days and nights for years studying Leon’s cases, watching him thrive, seeing the promise he carried.

He was leagues above the rest—capable, resilient, tenacious—he had everything it took to shine. And undoubtedly, he did.

Wesker manipulated every social event, every case and mission that kept Leon trapped in that nest. He left clear instructions to Irons, along with a fat monthly envelope the pig happily pocketed. Even if that meant Leon remained caged in that place.

It wasn’t satisfying, because he knew Leon was born to stand out, to shine, to find his own path—beyond any expectations. Even Wesker’s.

Like a flower forcing its way up from beneath the filthy earth—pushing past rocks and roots—searching for the sun that would nourish it to grow strong.

Wesker didn’t want to pluck that flower. He didn’t want to destroy his future the way he had before.

He let out a sigh through his lips, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

But… what else could he have done?

What else, when the alternative was to repeat the cycle over and over? When only the cold, dark promise of a certain death remained?

Wesker refused. Absolutely. To allow that.

He stared intently at the file.

Then… the news came.

Leon Scott Kennedy—arrested for murder.

Wesker remembered placing his coffee on the table—dryly, expression unreadable—as he reread the case.

Over and over.

In an endless loop.

Presumption of homicide against his partner. Cause: spontaneous combustion—no body available for autopsy.

The mere words spontaneous combustion were enough to trigger internal alarms in Wesker, but that wasn’t what truly knocked the air out of his lungs for several seconds. What did was understanding what the report truly said. The most important, the most impactful point for him:

Leon was alive.

Alive.

The word hammered in his head, echoing through his body, pulling a sharp breath of uncertainty from his lips. And in that moment, he’d admit—he was nervous.

He had looked again at the dates in the police file Irons had sent him, the day Leon arrived at his precinct. The numbers matched. He had to be twenty-five years old—it was the date, the exact age. And yet, all this had happened far away from Wesker’s direct reach? More specifically, to someone else?

Something didn’t fit in the puzzle. Too convenient. Suspicious. Even... tempting.

A trap? He had immediately wondered.

He never approached during the course of the trial. But he was aware of every detail that unfolded in that courtroom. Leon was declared innocent by the attorney, and the jury couldn’t convict him either. There was insufficient evidence. It had been a spontaneous, unexplained incident with no biological or criminal cause. And the man in question had no history, no psychological profile to indicate a sociopath. The fact that it happened in a small town was what drew attention—but with no conclusive proof, it wasn’t prosecutable.

And so, Leon was released.

Albert had asked himself—Should I take the risk? Was this some kind of cruel bait from fate, just to laugh in his face again, like so many times before?

He shook his head.

Past experiences had taught him to stay away for a while longer.

But then, as if fate truly wanted to mock him—to laugh in his face in response to his arrogance, his belief that he was always steps ahead—not long after, an email arrived on his computer. A report—or rather, an order—stating that thanks to the influence of Judge Brown, who had given decision-making power to Brian Irons, the question of whether Officer Kennedy’s presence was still required in Harvestville fell to him.

The report read that Irons was relinquishing Leon Kennedy’s position at the department, and due to the surrounding scandal and the special nature of his case, he would be transferred to Raccoon City immediately.

To say Wesker was enraged would be an understatement.

He remembered every nerve exploding—his eyes burning, the hairs on his neck standing up, his jaw aching from how hard he clenched it. And the growl—he remembered it—before he threw the computer violently to the floor, earning stares he couldn’t care less about.

He was furious.

How had that disgusting rat forgotten their agreement?! How dared he go against him?! Did Irons actually believe he had any kind of say when it came to Leon?!

He remembered how quickly he composed himself after.

Time was running against him. So he left his office—ignoring his team as they tried to ask what was happening—and left for Harvestville without uttering a single word. No one had the courage to ask him about his intentions.

Within minutes, he was in the so-called “nest city”, standing in Irons’ office. At first unnoticed. But the pig’s peace ended the second Wesker grabbed him by the throat—ready to kill him. Not without first reminding him who had given the orders to keep Kennedy far from Raccoon City. Far from any event that might bring him near.

And now this bloated, incompetent worm had defied him?

The consequences of such arrogance were severe—and Wesker was eager for a bloodbath before even deciding how to keep Leon from leaving Harvestville.

His mind was racing—plotting new plans, discarding others—while the urge to dismember Irons and scatter the pieces across the floor consumed him. Maybe he should forge documentation claiming mental illness, or a mistake caused by mass hysteria. Or stage an incident that would shut down the roads to Harvestville. Or perhaps Wesker himself would have to leave his post and relocate from Raccoon City altogether.

Anything. Anything was acceptable to avoid that terrible end.

But it wasn’t until Irons screamed—claiming that Leon Kennedy had been there far longer than reported—that Wesker reconnected to reality.

He remembered frowning, his lips curling.

Liar.

That’s what he thought. The voice in his head hissed like a furious snake, full of venom ready to be unleashed. Anything coming from Irons could be a last-ditch effort to survive. But the pig was desperate—desperate enough to shout again that Leon’s birthday had just passed, and the dates had been recorded wrong from the beginning.

Wesker didn’t want to believe him.

But the curiosity—no, the intrigue that maybe, just maybe, he was telling the truth—and what that would mean—pushed him to give in.

One more minute of life for Irons wasn’t much, compared to what Wesker cared about most.

When he let go and grabbed Leon’s updated file, the complete and revised information on the man...

Wesker could barely contain his reaction. It was subtle—barely visible to Irons—but it was there. His eyes widened slightly. His slit pupils narrowed into a thin line. His pulse, racing—just two beats faster, but unmistakable.

He couldn’t resist brushing his fingers over the photo. Admiring. Breath stolen.

A photo of Leon, thirty-six years old.

Beautiful—more than ever before.

Over a decade older than he should have lived.

His features were more mature, but it was still him. A face marked by time, stronger, and more defined. A sight that no photograph could truly capture.

His mind spiraled then—frozen in place, hypnotized for a few moments. Something inside him simply awakened. It burned, but didn’t hurt. It suffocated, but didn’t choke.

Humans would call it: Hope.

He was alive. He had lived over a damn extra decade. And not just that—

He had survived a combustion.

Survived…

The word echoed again in his brain—this time stronger. Knowing this changed everything.

Something had changed.

The gears of fate had twisted. Something had happened, even if Wesker didn’t know what. But something had overwritten the cruel, twisted reality.

A need flooded through him, sudden and overwhelming—like a drug hitting the bloodstream of a long-time addict.

He needed to see for himself. He needed to know this was real. Even if it was a trap—he didn’t care anymore.

He needed to see him.

Now.

After he dealt with Irons—who had at least been useful enough to tell him Leon was already on his way to Raccoon City—Wesker knew he still had time to intercept him.

He took his car and sped faster than ever—maybe even used a few tricks to push beyond normal limits.

He tore across the highways—past the forest and city—onto the open road.

And then he saw it.

A massive creature—an entity that had manifested and now slithered over a stopped car in the middle of the road. He didn’t know yet if it was Leon’s vehicle, but he chose to handle it regardless, now that he was there.

He jumped from his car and charged, slamming into the thing with such force it crushed against the vehicle—then he hurled it across the trees of the forest.

Wesker turned to watch the creature twist, struggling to get up—his hand already rising to draw his weapon.

But then—the creature saw him.

And something strange happened.

As if it recognized him—it recoiled, and fled quickly into the shadows.

He raised an eyebrow beneath his glasses.

Intelligent. A rare trait—but not one he was willing to waste time on. Not with something of such low rank.

Not when he needed to see if the person in the car was—

Leon. Who, still in shock, didn’t seem fully aware of what had just happened. But the blow jolted his senses—his feline reflexes snapping back into place.

As Wesker leaned closer, he noticed Leon’s hand move fast—trained, instinctive—reaching for a weapon.

He saw Wesker as a threat?

But in that moment—for Wesker—time stopped. As if moving in slow motion.

He remembered parting his lips, breathing audibly in the silence that surrounded them, eyes slightly wide, his pulse pounding in his throat.

The moment their eyes met was brief—too brief—yet the emotion crawled over every inch of Wesker’s skin, like air returning to lungs that hadn’t realized they’d been holding their breath. And as beautiful as the fantasy was, he needed to know how real this man truly was.

Why had he lived longer than the others?

Was this some kind of forgery? A clone sent to distract him? By now, he expected anything—and he would not falter. Armored with the walls he had built over the years, he spoke.

His tone was curt, impolite—pushing boundaries. At first, Leon was docile, unresponsive. So Wesker pressed harder. Because that passivity didn’t match the man he knew—not at all.

Then Leon gave him that look.

That burning look, unflinching, without fear, like a wild dog baring its teeth before it bites.

...He liked it.

He liked it a lot.

It awakened something dormant inside Wesker. A beast, jaws wide open, wanting more—desperate to taste more of that fire, hungry for reactions like that. From there, their exchange continued—long enough for Wesker to study him, to read his state of mind.

He was tired. Hungry. Irritable. But above all—broken.

It wasn’t a side of Leon that suited him. Seeing him so downcast—even if he played along momentarily—only fed that primal hunger inside Wesker.

He saw it clearly even after they reached the restaurant.

That moment they stopped at the entrance—he saw him more closely than he had dared in years. He stepped closer, as close as his self-control would allow—without touching him, though he craved it.

That brief moment tugged at something deep in his chest. The sight was exquisite.

Seeing his eyes, framed by still-long lashes, his features more mature yet no less striking—in fact, even more so. His beauty couldn’t be captured by any painting.

The half-smile that briefly flickered on those full lips—he would kill to see it again, to draw more of them out. The freckles, hidden beneath a short beard he longed to touch, no matter its roughness.

He was perfect.

And it hurt. His chest ached.

Because he couldn’t touch him. Couldn’t pull him into his arms and keep him there. Not yet—not when the risk of losing him was still so high. The mere fact that they were standing together now was already tempting fate. Even with all the contradictions—especially the age—he wouldn’t risk losing this.

He had wanted this for so long. To be together—without counting down the minutes like a deadly clock.

No deadlines. No rush to escape. No daily rerouting, no dodging glances or whispers at their backs.

He craved Leon’s company. Just the two of them, alone in that restaurant that was slowly beginning to empty.

And yet, even as he reclaimed a piece of him, Leon resisted.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but you don’t know what I need.”

That small defiance amused him. But it was also a dagger to the chest.

A sliver of pain piercing through the armor.

Leon wasn’t to blame. He didn’t know. He couldn’t possibly know. And yet the words that followed struck a little too deep—pulling at nerves and stirring conflicting emotions.

“No, you don’t. You don’t know me. And I don’t know you. All I know is that you’re a cop because you showed me your badge. And, by the way, I don’t know how normal it is for a police captain to personally take someone to eat at a restaurant I didn’t choose, order food I didn’t ask for, and keep reminding me I made one mistake on the road!”

His spirit—unyielding, combative—was still there. He wouldn’t let himself be trampled. Wesker admired that.

But if Leon only knew... if only he knew.

Their conversation drifted into territory that made Leon retreat again, closing himself off. Wesker remained calm. On the surface, at least. Inside, the storm raged beneath the still waters of his control.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want a Leon who avoided him, shut him out. He had to break down that wall—brick by brick—until he could step through again.

Of course, one of the differences this time was that Leon wasn’t in a stable place in his life.

He had lost his lover.

The grip on his cup had tightened—ceramic cracking ever so slightly in Wesker’s hand.

A lover. Someone else in his life. Someone who wasn’t him. The very thought boiled his blood. How could there have been someone else? Who could have held his attention like Wesker once did?

He wanted to rip the memory of that man from Leon’s mind. Wipe him clean. Make it so that he only ever looked at—

...

Wesker went quiet.

Reflecting on his own thoughts.

Right now... Leon was feeling what he had felt. So many times.

To lose the one you love most. In your own hands. Without being able to stop it. Living with a guilt that burns, with the tormenting question of what could have been done differently.

The difference was—Wesker would always remember everything. And move forward. Always searching for a way to break the wheel of fate. Knowing everything.

It didn’t make it hurt any less.

But he had no choice.

While Leon—Leon was still human. Dealing with grief the only way he could.

No... not quite dealing with it.

If he were truly grieving, he wouldn’t have left Harvestville.

Wesker’s expression softened further.

This man—defiant, moralistic, hopelessly stubborn—he was reaching for something. Knowing him, it was probably connected to figuring out what happened to Luis Serra.

He wanted to make sense of the death.

No—jealousy didn’t take over Wesker. But something greater did. Because right now, he saw a reflection.

A mirror of himself. Of how he felt.

It was admiration.

Even if he couldn’t tell him everything, he did speak honestly. He told Leon he was sorry for his loss—because, deep down, he was sorry he had to go through this.

He also told him something else:

That he was innocent.

And that he was strong.

Swallowing his pride, his possessiveness—it had been worth it. Just to see that spark in his blue eyes. To see his body relax.

To finally see him return to himself—not just the hollow shell he'd been.

Leon S. Kennedy was made to shine.

And Wesker intended to keep him safe so he could shine.

Confining him hadn’t worked. Locking him away and keeping him from danger wasn’t the answer. Of course not. This man was made to endure more—though Wesker didn’t know how much more Leon’s mind could take, how much sanity he had left to withstand what lay ahead.

He couldn’t stop the danger looming over Leon—but he could prepare him for it.

He had signed the transfer papers. Leon would now be under his direct watch, under his protection—and he would train him. Prepare him to face and overcome what was coming.

With that in mind, once everything was set, he moved his hand to initiate Leon’s integration into the force.

But then—his phone rang.

With a growl of irritation at having his priorities interrupted, he picked up.

“Wesker speaking. What is it?” —he kept his tone professional as he turned, searching for his sunglasses.

The voice on the other end belonged to a police dispatcher—one of the few allowed to relay high-priority calls.

“Captain Wesker, we’ve received an emergency call. Unidentified Risk Case. Grade 3. Location: 16 Breckster Street—near the Hooters supermarket.”

Wesker blinked as he slid on his sunglasses. A Grade 3? That deep inside Raccoon City?

They were getting too close. They had never crossed the city borders before—and this one was in the heart of the city.

Something had happened. Something had drawn it in.

...

“Understood. I’ll handle it.”

He hung up and immediately contacted his right hand—Jill Valentine, who was out on patrol. He sent her the location, along with a brief but precise description, and got ready to head out himself.

He had a feeling. He couldn’t explain it, but it pulsed under his skin like a warning—this couldn’t be ignored.

The drive was short. Fast. Efficient. He cut through streets with the precision of a scalpel until he reached the scene—already surrounded by yellow tape and patrol cars.

A crowd had gathered—human nature, after all. The need to see, to understand, to witness. Wesker clicked his tongue. He’d have to push through them. Luckily, his presence alone was enough to part the sea.

At the line of tape, he adjusted his gloves and scanned the area—spotting the alleyway, the knocked-over fence, and the trail of claw marks leading into the forest.

So it had fled, huh…? Valentine would already be on it.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, Jill appeared at his right side.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare—too many people rushing to see what the fuss was about. The other officers are keeping the press hyenas at bay,” she said, loading her weapon. “Did it flee?”

Wesker stared at her for a moment, then turned his gaze back to the destruction left behind.

Curious.

He was starting to discard the idea that it was running away.

“A Grade 3... next to a supermarket... a crowd of potential targets…” he muttered, turning slowly to glance at the people standing behind the barricades—safe. Unharmed.

“No casualties?” he asked.

“I asked Sergeant Branagh—none reported. They only heard the crash, and the sensors confirmed it was Grade 3,” she replied, frowning as she studied the tension in his face. He wasn’t really looking at her. “Captain?”

He answered each word with careful precision, his mind racing, reconstructing the scene.

“I thought you were the reason it ran. But you’re here. A Grade 3 wouldn’t abandon a buffet of victims so easily.”

He started walking toward the alleyway behind the lot, Jill falling into step just behind him.

Then he stopped dead.

His eyes locked onto a vehicle. Not just any vehicle. A familiar one.

Not just the license plate. Not just the make, or the worn-down paint.

But the deep scratches along the side.

His pulse surged.

“Which means it’s not running,” Jill murmured beside him, weapon raised. “It’s hunting.”

Wesker didn’t move.

For a moment, his eyes glowed behind his glasses—bright red, dilated, flaring with intensity.

She noticed, frowning in alarm.

“Wesker? Look at me—don’t tell me—?”

But by the time she finished the sentence, he was gone.

She cursed under her breath—she hated when he did that. But something told her she already knew why. She broke into a sprint, heading in the same direction. She couldn’t see him—but she knew where he was going.

Wesker dashed through the trees, sprinting, leaping, moving like a shadow with a mission—deep into the forest.

And with the wind rushing past, the memories struck him—hard.

The laughter.

The smile.

That figure running through the woods as he chased him down.

"You have seven minutes."

 

His jaw clenched, fangs grinding behind his lips.

His brow furrowed.

"Seven minutes head start. Run as far as you can... because if I catch you, I won't let you go. Not even if you scream for mercy."

 

A single drop of panic pierced Wesker’s heart, when a scream tore through the forest, rising to the sky and echoing through the trees.