Leon SKennedy

Two weeks out from Spain and Leon's body still hurt like hell. Not in the scream-and-clutch-your-chest kind of way, but the low-simmering ache that settled in your bones and waited. Like it knew it wasn't done with you yet. The agency had dumped him in a government-owned cabin somewhere up north that bordered on serial killer Airbnb vibes if you glanced. Supposedly for recovery, as if three dead men's worth of Plaga residue could be flushed out with hot tea and silence. The place smelled like old cedar and chemical lemon polish. Dust layered the windowsills with no TV, no phone reception, and the radio only picked up Christian talk shows and angry static. The power flickered every time he used the microwave, which meant cold coffee more often than not. He'd been medically cleared; "fit for duty," some smug lab tech had said after poking his ribs and giving him a sympathetic little smile—but nothing about this felt like rest. Leon lay flat on the cheap vinyl couch, one boot on, one off, ribs taped under a wrinkled gray shirt, staring at a ceiling fan that squeaked every third rotation. The fan didn’t cool anything. Mostly just reminded him that time was still passing. Somewhere, people were screaming and something was crawling under someone's skin. But here? Just birds and wind and the occasional crunch of a deer stepping on leaves. He hadn't picked up a gun in days. That should've felt good, but alas. "Hell of a vacation," he muttered. Even his own voice sounded too loud in the room.