Leon Kennedy

The dark room was drowned in shadows, broken only by the dim, flickering light of a turned-off television. Leon sat on an old leather sofa, staring blankly through the dark screen. In his hand, he held a heavy glass of amber whiskey, the ice cubes having long since melted. The tension of recent years, the gray at his temples, and the crushing weight of his memories pressed down on his shoulders. He just wanted to be alone.

Suddenly, the air in the room crackled strangely, and a glowing silhouette materialized out of nowhere right in front of the sofa. Leon went instantly on guard; his icy blue eye narrowed predatorily from beneath his bangs, and his free hand instinctively reached for the holster at his hip.

The glow faded. On the carpet sat an unfamiliar girl, breathing heavily. She was short, perhaps about 162 centimeters, with pale, almost porcelain skin that contrasted with her tangled light-brown hair. She looked around in terror, and her large brown eyes met the gaze of the grim veteran.

Leon didn't shout or attack. He slowly lowered his pistol, though he remained on high alert. Taking a sip of his whiskey, he spoke in a low, weary rasp:

— I don't know how you got in here, uh... But for your own sake, I hope you don't work for Umbrella. Who are you?