Chapter Text
"I'm guessing today's your first day?"
The woman's voice yanked Jordan from her thoughts so abruptly it was like being shoved back into her body mid-stride—heart skipping, lungs tightening, senses flaring.
She looked up just in time to catch the woman's eyes tracing over her. Not a glance. A sweep. A verdict.
It started at her worn sneakers, scuffed at the toes and soft at the soles from years of track and rushed mornings. Drifted upward over the apron tied a little too neatly at her waist, crisp, untouched, screaming new. And then lingered—just long enough—on her smile.
The pause made Jordan's stomach clench. As if the smile itself had committed a crime. Naïve, misplaced. Something soft trying to exist in a bar built to chew people up and spit them out.
"What gave you that conclusion?" Jordan asked, forcing steadiness into her voice even as her pulse hammered.
Her fingers betrayed her anyway, twisting one of her bubble braids. The motion eased the knot pressing against her ribs—a ritual she'd relied on before races, exams, any moment that felt like judgment waiting to strike.
"The smile." Flat. Final. "It gives you away."
The woman crossed her arms, weight settling on one hip like she'd already written the ending of this conversation. "Have you actually worked in a restaurant before?"
Jordan shook her head.
The woman let out a sharp huff, the sound brittle with irritation. "Yeah. You have no idea what you're in for—especially as a bartender." Her gaze flicked toward the bar, nearly empty, lips curling in faint disgust. "Entitled jerks yelling at you about drinks. Too strong. Too weak. Too slow. Always your fault."
Jordan swallowed, feeling her heartbeat ricochet. She refused to show it. She wasn't new to pressure—she'd raced through burning lungs, screaming muscles, learned to push through without flinching.
Instead, she reached for her notepad and clicked her bright pink pen. The sharp tick in the quiet bar grounded her. Solid. Hers.
"It's okay," she said, holding her smile even as her cheeks burned. "I'm used to yelling. I run track for my university."
The woman snorted. "Your funeral, not mine." She shrugged dismissively. "And that notepad? You won't need it. That's for waitressing."
"Oh—sorry, I didn't know—"
"No offense," the woman interrupted, eyes narrowing, "but I don't see you lasting longer than a month." Her gaze lingered, measuring again. "You're too... happy to be a bartender."
The words landed like a weight in Jordan's chest. Not cruel—just final. A verdict passed before she'd even started.
"Oh, leave her alone."
The interruption came from behind the bar.
Another woman stepped forward, tying her apron with fluid motion, silver-streaked black hair catching the overhead lights. She moved with ease—confident, unhurried. Like the bar bent to her rhythm instead of the other way around.
"If she wants to write drinks down, let her," she said calmly, firmly. "It doesn't slow anything."
She turned sharply toward the first woman. "Why don't you worry about your quota, Louise? Lord knows you're behind Jacob—and he started last week."
Louise scoffed, rolling her eyes in theatrical exasperation, before stalking off. Her heels clicked across the floor, irritation trailing like smoke.
The second woman exhaled, pulling her hair into a ponytail with a claw clip. "Ignore her," she said lightly, as if she hadn't just disarmed someone with precision. "She shouldn't be talking anyway. Only here because she's dating the manager's son."
Jordan clapped a hand over her mouth as a laugh escaped. "Sorry. I'm an awkward laugher."
The woman chuckled, washing her hands behind the bar. "You're fine." She glanced over her shoulder. "I'm Natalia."
"Jordan."
Natalia nodded, drying her hands before leaning against the counter like she owned the rhythm of the space. "So," she asked, "what made you want to work here?"
"I need to pay for school," Jordan admitted. "My parents... aren't really helping me anymore."
Natalia's expression softened, just a fraction. "Must be nice," she said with a crooked smile. "Mine smothered me. I didn't even have to ask. At this point, I just... take advantage."
Jordan exhaled slowly, the tension finally easing a little.
Maybe this place wouldn't be easy.
But maybe—just maybe—she wouldn't be completely alone.
"So," Jordan asked, "any advice so I don't drown out there?"
Natalia nodded. "First rule—breathe before responding to angry customers. Thinking before reacting saves write-ups." She paused. "And don't let charmers talk you into free drinks. They'll expect it every time."
Jordan nodded, committing every word to memory.
"I should get going before Louise tattles," Natalia said. "You know where to find me."
"Thank you," Jordan said, smiling this time without forcing it.
Natalia nodded and walked away.
❀❀❀The next day:❀❀❀
Jordan dropped her bag beside the track, the worn nylon strap sliding off her shoulder with a dull thud. The early morning air was sharp, clean, carrying the mingled scent of damp grass, rubber, and asphalt. It bit at her lungs as she inhaled, grounding her in the ache of routine she knew so well.
She scanned the empty field.
No teammates stretching. No coach pacing with a whistle. Just the quiet hum of the stadium waking up, the distant hiss of sprinklers mingling with birdsong.
Her brows knit as she checked her watch. Too early. An hour too early.
"Great," she muttered, tugging absently at one of her braids. "Love that for me."
With a resigned sigh, she crouched beside her bag, rummaging until her fingers closed around the IT band. The elastic snapped softly as she stretched it, then she lowered herself onto her back on the track. The surface was cool, slightly damp through her jacket, but it barely registered.
She drew her knees toward her chest, rolling gently side to side. The tension bloomed along her hips and thighs in a controlled burn she welcomed.
Her eyes fluttered shut. For a single, fleeting moment, there was peace.
Then—
"I really do love when you lay on your back," a voice drawled. "It's my favorite sight to see."
Jordan's eyes shot open.
Of course.
CJ leaned against the railing, arms crossed, sunglasses perched low on his nose like he'd planned this moment. The morning sun caught his hair, outlining him in a halo of careless charm. That crooked smirk—always there, always dangerous—played at his lips, promising mischief and irritation in equal measure.
She groaned, irritation flaring hot and immediate. "You know I don't like it when you talk to me like that," she said, voice clipped as she kept stretching. "It's... degrading."
CJ tilted his head, amused. "Love bug," he said smoothly, as if the nickname were a gift. "You take everything way too seriously. You know I say these things with love."
Light. Teasing. Predatory.
"That doesn't make it okay," Jordan shot back, jaw tight.
He pushed off the railing, sauntering closer, flipping his sunglasses up into his messy hair. "I've told you how I feel about you being sensitive," he said, shrugging. "It's... kind of a vibe killer."
Jordan pulled her legs free from the band, snapping it loose with a faint thwack, tossing it over her shoulder. "No one uses the word vibe anymore," she muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face as she stood.
CJ scoffed. "Just because you don't doesn't mean other people don't."
"Right," she said flatly. "Forgot—you're the authority on everything."
She stepped toward her bag. "What do you even want, CJ?"
He watched her like he was enjoying the question. "Still mad about that girl thing?"
Her grip tightened on the strap.
"You mean when I caught you checking out another girl," she said evenly, "while we were out with my family, celebrating the track meet I won?"
"Oh my god," he sighed, rolling his eyes. "You're jealous. You always read too much into things."
The words slid into place smoothly. Practiced.
Jordan exhaled, just as a teammate jogged onto the track, oblivious to the tension coiling between them. CJ didn't flinch, his focus locked on her—on her reaction, on the way she carried herself.
"See?" she snapped, crossing her arms. "You're doing it right now."
"Oh, love bug," he said again, stepping closer. "You're proving my point."
Her glare could've stopped traffic. Gaslight much? The realization twisted her stomach.
CJ didn't flinch.
Instead, he reached for her hand with careful gentleness, fingers warm as they curled around hers. He lifted it, brushing his lips against the back of her knuckles.
Her pulse betrayed her, hammering, traitorous.
"Look," he murmured, voice dropping to something soft and convincing, "how about I take you out to dinner tomorrow night?"
She arched a brow, skepticism wrestling with something dangerously close to hope. "Just you and me?"
"At that Italian place you've been talking about," he said, eyes glinting. "The fancy one."
"The one with twenty-dollar appetizers?"
He grinned. "That one."
"And why the sudden generosity?" she asked.
"I'll remind you why you fell for me," he said easily. "From the beginning."
And just like that, the memory surged forward.
Freshman year. Exhausted from practice, sprinting toward the restroom before class. Hair a mess, damp hands, too focused on not being late.
A tap on her shoulder.
Heart in her throat, she turned to see him. CJ. Casual. Smiling.
"Your skirt's tucked into your—"
Her face flamed. "Oh my god—thank you."
He laughed, warm and disarming. "It's okay. I've done it too."
"I see you're a flirt," she teased.
"I usually'm not," he admitted, almost shy. "But... have you seen yourself?"
She rolled her eyes, smiling anyway. "Now you're lying."
"I'm not," he said softly, hands raised. "I just... don't know how to talk to girls."
"I find that hard to believe."
"It's true. In high school, I was kind of an outcast. Freckled. Awkward. Pimply. Who would want someone like me?"
Something in her softened. Honest. Vulnerable.
"I would," she whispered.
The memory dissolved.
CJ still leaned against the railing, still watching, still unshaken.
Jordan tugged her jacket tighter, shaking off the chill—and the doubt.
"Maybe," she said slowly, "I'll survive this morning. And tomorrow... we'll see about that dinner."
She adjusted her bag and broke into a light warm-up jog, sneakers hitting the track in a steady rhythm. Around her, the world filled back in—teammates arriving, voices carrying, the sun climbing.
But her thoughts lagged.
On CJ's crooked smile.
On the warmth of that first spark.
On the quiet, unsettling question lingering at the back of her mind:
Were some things really worth the chaos they brought... or had she just learned to excuse it?
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The night had settled over the city like a velvet blanket, the bar's neon sign flickering softly against the darkened street. Inside, the chatter was steady but subdued—enough to feel alive, but not loud enough to rattle Jordan's focus. She wiped down the bar in small, deliberate circles, her movements slow and methodical, letting the rhythm of the space seep into her bones.
It was quieter than she expected. Maybe she had imagined it—this idea that bartending was all sparks and flirtations and movie-like encounters. Maybe that only happened in films.
During a lull, she pulled her Property Law textbook from beneath the counter and set it open on the polished wood. The soft smell of lemon polish mingled with the faint tang of alcohol and the warm hum of the overhead lights. Jordan flipped through the pages, highlighting passages, scribbling notes in the margins. The low murmur of conversation around her became something almost soothing, a background soundtrack for concentration.
She tapped her pen against her cheek, rereading the same paragraph for what felt like the fifth time:
Property law establishes the rights and responsibilities associated with property ownership...
The pen stopped mid-tap when a voice sliced through the quiet—a low, gravelly sound that carried an edge of fatigue.
"Whiskey. Neat."
Jordan lifted her gaze. A blond-haired man had settled onto a barstool, phone tucked under one arm as though the day's weight clung to him and refused to let go. His shoulders slumped slightly, but his presence had a sort of quiet command that made the surrounding air feel a little denser.
"Any whiskey in particular?" she asked, her voice neutral but alert, scanning the shelves with practiced precision.
"The strongest one you have," he said, voice clipped.
Jordan's eyes flicked over the bottles, landing finally on a dark amber bottle of Booker's Bourbon. "Sixteen dollars a pour—"
A wad of cash landed on the bar. Not gently. Not placed. Thrown. Jordan's brow shot up, but she said nothing, simply pouring the glass with deliberate precision. She slid it toward him, already turning back to her notes when—
Tap. Tap.
"Another."
More cash hit the bar, this time clattering against the wood. Jordan inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"You don't have to throw money like that," she said carefully.
A dry, gruff chuckle was the only response.
"Rude in general", she sassed, rolling her eyes but fighting the hint of curiosity that had begun to creep in.
He finally looked up, sharp eyes assessing her with calm, almost predatory precision. "I just want my whiskey."
She let a small, ironic smile tug at her lips, shaking her head as she poured two glasses this time. "I'm giving you two so it keeps you busy."
Her gaze flicked to his wrist. Sleek watch, understated but expensive. "Nice watch," she added lightly. A hint of sass, just enough to let him know she wasn't intimidated.
He scoffed, unimpressed. "You talk to everyone like that?"
"Nope," she said sweetly, tilting her head. "Just the grumps."
He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing, then took a long, deliberate sip.
Jordan didn't notice the servers whispering nearby until Natalia nudged her shoulder. Quick and precise, she caught the tail end of their conversation.
"We weren't staring at you," Natalia said quickly, eyes darting toward the man. "We were staring at him."
"Him?" Jordan asked, frowning.
"We call him Whiskey. No matter what we ask him, he won't give us his name," Natalia explained, voice dropping to a whisper.
Jordan tilted her head, incredulous. "Why would you want it? He's rude."
Natalia shrugged, thoughtful. "I don't think he's rude. More like... doesn't see the point in talking."
Jordan muttered under her breath, unconvinced. "Still not an excuse."
"Well," Natalia added, leaning closer with a conspiratorial tilt of her head, "he disappears sometimes. Days. Months. But he always comes back. Same stool. But maybe you won't see him so often."
A server gasped behind them. "He's leaving."
Jordan watched him rise, moving toward the door with the same quiet intensity. Phone pressed to his ear, every movement precise, economical. Her mind churned. No small talk. No lingering looks. Who is this guy?
She turned back to the bar and froze. Two glasses stacked neatly. Cash beneath them. A crisp hundred-dollar bill on top.
"What the—"
Natalia gasped, tray in hand, teasing and incredulous at the same time. "He tipped you how much?"
Jordan blinked, staring at the money, baffled. "But I was kind of rude."
Natalia shook her head, laughing softly. "Apparently, he liked that," she said, striding away to check another table.
Jordan's fingers hovered over the bar, her mind racing. Who was that?
For a moment, the hum of the bar faded, replaced by the clinking of glasses and the faint echo of her own heartbeat. Something about him lingered in the air—like a story she hadn't started reading yet.
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
Leon slammed the car door with a force that rattled the cupholder, sending his phone clattering against the console before it landed crookedly. The sharp clack echoed in the confined space, too loud, too final. His jaw tightened as he reached for it, brushing absently over the worn leather of the steering wheel while flicking the phone upright with a frustrated thumb.
Ingrid's voice still rang in his ears—urgent, clipped, unmistakable.
We need you back at the DSO base. Now.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, the breath heavy with irritation and resignation. A night off had been laughable from the start; he should have known better than to expect anything else. Umbrella didn't take breaks. Neither did he.
City lights streaked across the windshield as he leaned back in the seat, the glow reflecting off rain-darkened streets and glass storefronts slipping past his periphery. Somewhere between the traffic lights and the empty intersections, regret twisted low in his chest. He should've stayed at the bar a little longer. One more glass of whiskey—just one—might've dulled the edge of the day, smoothed the sharp corners grinding against his nerves.
But duty waited. Always impatient. Always unrelenting.
Leon adjusted the rearview mirror with practiced precision, turned the key, and the engine growled to life, filling the quiet night. His left hand settled on the gearshift, fingers flexing unconsciously. The muscles there still ached, a lingering reminder of his last deployment.
It hadn't been a mission worth writing home about—not in any way most people could recognize. Investigating Umbrella's T-Virus had become routine. Different locations, same horrors. Each assignment another reminder that some things never truly stayed buried.
A year and a half had passed since Operation Javier.
And not a single day had gone by without the memories clawing back to the surface:
Burning villages.
Desperate villagers.
Infected wildlife tearing through what little humanity remained.
The images came uninvited, vivid, merciless.
He remembered the church—the dim light filtering through cracked stained glass, the girl whose father had unleashed devils upon the world. The tremor in her voice when she spoke of the cure. The unbearable cost it demanded.
The truth she should never have had to carry.
City lights thinned as he merged onto the highway, darkness stretching wider between passing lamps. Wind tugged at his jacket, a cold reminder of the speed pulling him forward. Each mile carried the weight of the past—and yet, beneath exhaustion and guilt, a quiet determination burned.
He had survived before. He would survive again.
Leon and USSOCOM operative Jack Krauser had uncovered evidence that Umbrella employee Javier Hidalgo was trafficking illegal bioweapons. By the time they reached the remote village tied to the operation, it was already too late.
The inhabitants—and even the surrounding wildlife—were infected. The land itself warped and poisoned.
Their guide hadn't made it far. Mortally wounded by Javier's wife, Hilda, he'd been dragged screaming into the depths below. Killed before he could escape. With his dying breath, he'd warned Leon and Krauser that the girl had brought devils to their village.
They found her later.
Manuela Hidalgo—hidden inside a church, guarded like a secret too dangerous to release. It quickly became clear she, too, was infected. Confirmation came during a brutal confrontation with her father in the sewers, where desperation and obsession consumed him.
Through Manuela, the truth surfaced.
A cure existed.
But at a devastating cost.
Anyone near her would slowly become infected—sacrificed so she could survive. Her mother had already fallen to the virus, and Javier's frantic attempts had twisted Hilda into something monstrous—a creature born of love warped by terror.
When Manuela realized the price of survival—the deaths, the experiments, the village reduced to ash—she fled the mansion, horror in her eyes, back toward the place she had unknowingly doomed.
What followed were brutal battles fought to save what little remained. Blood. Fire. Screams echoing long after gunfire stopped.
In the end, Javier—consumed by guilt and desperation—begged Leon to kill him. Not for mercy. But so Manuela might finally be free.
Leon granted the wish. Flames consumed Javier's body as Leon, Krauser, and Manuela escaped by helicopter, the ruins of the village shrinking beneath them.
Later, seated on the edge of the aircraft, Manuela spoke softly, barely louder than the wind:
"I should've died... with my father."
Leon knelt before her, weight of the mission pressing down as he placed a steady hand on hers.
"No," he said. "No one should have died down there."
She looked at him—truly looked.
"And besides," he added quietly, "you have an obligation to live. For the sake of the girls living inside you."
She said nothing more, only nodded, eyes fixed on the scarred land below.
The memories never left him.
Raccoon City haunted the edges of his mind, a constant, uninvited presence. Every life lost. Every scream he couldn't answer. They clung like a second skin. No whiskey, no reckless night could wash them away.
He had saved some. That much was true.
But the faces of those he couldn't lingered longer. Sharper. Accusing.
The negative always outweighed the positive—a truth he carried like lead in his chest.
The bright glow of the DSO base lights finally pulled him from the spiral. Neon-white beams cut through the thinning fog, illuminating the toll booth ahead. Leon slowed, engine humming beneath him, reaching for the window crank. Cold night air rushed in, biting, clearing his head just enough to ground him.
The toll worker barely glanced up. "Can I help you?" Fingers still moving over the keyboard.
When her eyes lifted, recognition struck instantly.
She gasped. Hand to mouth. "I—I'm so sorry, Mr. Kennedy! I'll let them know you're here right away."
Leon gave a short nod. No words needed.
The gate slid open with a smooth mechanical hum. Headlights cut through mist and shadow, asphalt glistening with rain, wet concrete scent sharp in the air.
Even here—surrounded by sterile lights and order—the ghosts followed. Curling at the edges of every shadow.
Leon tightened his grip on the wheel, exhaled, and steeled himself. Tonight, like so many before, there would be no pause. No reprieve.
For now, only the soft purr of the engine—and the distant hum of the base awakening to his arrival.
✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰
Later that night, Jordan's room had settled into a hushed stillness, broken only by the distant hum of the city outside. Somewhere below, a car passed, tires hissing against pavement still warm from the day, the bass of its music thudding faintly through the walls. Streetlights cast long, amber fingers through the slightly cracked blinds, reaching across her textbooks and sticky notes, making the thin pages glint like they were aware of her exhaustion.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, back hunched, surrounded by evidence of a long evening spent trying—and failing—to be productive. Open casebooks, flashcards half-slid beneath the comforter, neon-yellow highlighter perched precariously behind her ear. Her pencil tapped against her cheek in a steady, absent-minded rhythm, murmured definitions falling from her lips:
Consideration. Offer. Acceptance.
The lamp's warm glow softened the edges of the room, turning clutter into shadow, making everything smaller, quieter, safer. Usually, it helped her focus. Tonight, it didn't.
Her phone buzzed suddenly against the comforter, vibration sharp enough to make her jump. Heart skipping, she blinked at the screen.
Valentine.
"Hello?" Jordan answered, tucking a loose braid behind her ear as she pressed the phone to her shoulder.
"Jordan! Guess what!" Valentine's voice crackled through the speaker, electric, urgent, like it couldn't wait to spill out all at once.
"Chicken butt," Jordan said automatically, a tired smile tugging at her lips despite herself.
"No! You goof!" Valentine laughed, and it was bright enough to almost cut through Jordan's fatigue. "I just saw the hottest guy—like, the hottest guy—known to man."
Jordan froze mid-tap, pencil hovering near her cheek. Her gaze drifted from the open textbook to the far wall, thoughts spinning. Slowly, she slid the books aside, clearing a small space on the bed. Her pulse quickened for reasons she wasn't ready to name.
"Yeah..." she said cautiously. "Tell me about it."
"Ew, you're moody! What's wrong with you?" Valentine teased, affectionate but sharp—like she could hear the weight Jordan hadn't said out loud.
"Nothing," Jordan murmured, then sighed. "I just remembered I have a test tomorrow."
She reached over and clicked off her lamp. Darkness spilled across the room, swallowing the clutter. Only the streetlight glow traced faint outlines across her ceiling. Shadows wrapped around her like a cocoon, making it easier to breathe.
"Oh my gosh, are you kidding me?" Valentine groaned. "That means I have a test tomorrow too."
Jordan smiled faintly, sinking deeper into her pillows. "I still don't get why you're studying law when you finished the police academy already."
"It doesn't hurt to have something to fall back on," Valentine replied lightly, as if it were obvious.
"True," Jordan murmured, staring at the ceiling.
"And honestly," Valentine added, voice bouncing higher, "I'd drop out of school just to see this cutie again!"
Jordan laughed softly, a sound that felt foreign in the quiet room. "You're ridiculous."
"I sent you a photo!" Valentine announced.
Jordan quickly switched her phone to speaker and opened the message.
Her breath caught.
He was there, standing between two other guys, arms slung casually over their shoulders. All three smiled—but it was his smile that pinned her gaze. Open. Unfiltered. The kind of smile that reached his eyes, softening the sharp edges she remembered from the bar. Behind him, a crowd celebrated a graduation, frozen mid-cheer, caps halfway in the air.
The man in the photo felt... lighter. Human. Whole.
The spark she hadn't placed earlier—the one missing behind his silence, his clipped words—was suddenly there, full force.
"Um... hello?" Valentine prompted.
"Nothing," Jordan said quickly, shaking her head as if to clear it. "It's just... funny."
"Funny how?"
"I served him today. At the bar."
Silence.
"You met him?!" Valentine squealed, sharp enough that Jordan pulled the phone a few inches from her ear.
"Yeah," she said slowly. "But he doesn't look like that anymore."
"Even better looking now?" Valentine laughed. "It's been six years."
Jordan traced her thumb along the phone's edge, eyes flicking back to the photo. The warmth in his expression, the casual confidence—it felt like a window into a life she hadn't seen.
"Crazy," she murmured. "How much someone can change in six years."
"Oh! And his name is cute too," Valentine added, barely able to contain herself.
Jordan's stomach fluttered. "What's his name?"
"Leon. S. Kennedy."
The name settled in her chest like something heavier than it should have been.
Jordan leaned back against her pillows, staring at the glowing screen as if it had become a portal. Her mind replayed the bar—the gravel in his voice, the way he barely spoke, the measured movements, the effortless authority, the exhaustion masking something deeper.
It didn't match the photo. Not entirely.
She set the phone beside her and stared at the ceiling, thoughts spiraling.
Who was he, really?
And why did it feel like she'd just brushed the edge of something far bigger than a quiet night behind a bar?
❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀
The room was quiet—too quiet—save for the steady, mechanical hum of the air conditioner cycling through stale, recycled air. It rattled softly in the corner, an uneven rhythm that never quite synced, like it was constantly threatening to give out. Leon had learned its pattern the way he learned most things: unwillingly, over time, until it lodged itself into the background of his thoughts.
He lay sprawled on his back across the narrow bed, one arm bent beneath his head, elbow digging faintly into the thin pillow. The other rested loosely over his chest, fingers splayed as if anchoring himself there—like if he didn't, he might drift apart.
The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, springs protesting every small shift. The sheets smelled faintly of detergent and something older beneath it—bleach layered over wear. Temporary. Impersonal. The kind of place designed for sleeping bodies, not restless minds.
His eyes traced the ceiling.
He knew it by heart now. The hairline crack that split off near the corner like a lightning bolt. The water stain shaped vaguely like a continent. The discoloration where someone had once patched something and never bothered to repaint. He followed the same paths every night when sleep refused him, like a ritual he hadn't chosen but couldn't stop performing.
Tonight, it didn't help.
The meeting earlier barely registered anymore. Briefings blended together after a while—new faces on screens, redacted names, words like containment and extraction said in voices that pretended they were clean. He'd nodded in the right places. Asked the right questions. Played his part.
But that wasn't what kept his chest tight.
It was Javier.
The memories didn't knock. They never did. They slipped in the second his guard dropped, sharp and intrusive, dragging the smell of smoke and rot with them like a stain that refused to wash out. Burning villages. The crackle of fire eating through wood and bone. The way the air had tasted—metallic, wrong—coating his tongue until he couldn't tell where fear ended and ash began.
Gunfire echoed in his head, swallowed by screams that didn't sound human anymore. Wildlife twisted into something feral and desperate, eyes wrong, movements jerky and unnatural. And faces—always the faces.
Girls too young to understand why their bodies betrayed them.
Villagers who hadn't known they were already dead.
All of it traced back to one man.
A man who had convinced himself love justified anything.
Javier Hidalgo hadn't seen himself as a monster. That was the worst part. He'd been desperate. Obsessed. Terrified of loss. And in that fear, he'd opened a door that should have stayed sealed, infecting his own daughter in the process—turning an entire village into collateral damage for a miracle that never existed.
Karma hadn't come gently.
It had come with teeth.
Leon rolled onto his side, the bed creaking softly beneath him. The sound felt too loud in the quiet room, like a confession. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant and old fabric, sterile and lifeless, just like every place he passed through between missions. Hotels. Safehouses. Barracks. None of them ever felt like somewhere you stayed—only somewhere you waited.
His hand reached out blindly, fingers brushing the cold laminate of the nightstand until they found his phone.
The screen flared to life, harsh and white, cutting through the dark. He squinted, jaw tightening, but didn't turn it down. He unlocked it without thinking, thumb moving on instinct alone, and began to scroll.
Photos.
A life that felt borrowed now.
Him as a kid at the orphanage—too thin, too tall for his age, smiling like he'd practiced it in the mirror. Group photos with other kids whose names were fuzzy now, their faces half-forgotten but still tugging at something behind his ribs. A school field day. Mud on his jeans. A crooked grin he didn't recognize anymore.
He paused on one image.
He looked... light.
Not fearless. Not untouched. Just unburdened in a way he hadn't felt in years. Before Raccoon City. Before the first time he'd realized that doing everything right still wasn't enough. Before saving one person meant losing another.
Before Javier.
Leon swallowed, throat tight. His chest felt heavy—not sharp, not panicked. Just tired. Bone-deep exhaustion that sleep never seemed to touch.
A quiet breath slipped from him, more a release than a sigh. His grip loosened, and the phone slid from his fingers, landing softly against the mattress beside him.
The screen dimmed. Then went dark.
Leon rolled onto his back again, eyes returning to the ceiling. The air conditioner hummed on, steady and indifferent. Sleep still hovered just out of reach, as it always did. If he was lucky, he'd get two hours. Maybe three. Enough to function. Never enough to rest.
And when he did sleep, the dreams would come.
Fire.
Blood.
A girl's voice, hollow and resigned.
I should've died... with my father.
His jaw clenched, muscles tightening for a moment before he forced himself to breathe again. In. Out. Controlled. Measured.
He closed his eyes anyway.
For a brief moment—just one—he let himself exist in the quiet. No orders. No weapons. No expectations. Just the rise and fall of his chest and the fragile illusion of stillness.
Even if it wouldn't last.
✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰