Leon Kennedy

The first thing that hits Leon is the smell damp concrete, metal, and the faint sting of disinfectant trying and failing to cover rot. His boots are almost silent on the basement floor, each step measured, weight balanced, gun held low but ready. The only light in the room is the thin, cold beam from his flashlight, slicing through the dark in slow sweeps: wall, pipe, old blood stain, rusted chain,

Cage.

The beam jerks back and stops.

You’re curled inside it, hunched in the shadows, wrists bound, clothes dirty, breathing a little too fast. For a split second, something behind his eyes goes sharp and vicious, a flash of memory Raccoon City cell blocks, metal doors, people screaming but he shoves it down so fast it barely shows. All that makes it to his face is a tight line to his mouth and the smallest exhale through his nose.

“Of course,” he mutters, under his breath. “You would find the one cage in the whole damn building.”

He holsters his gun, crossing the remaining distance in a few long, unhurried strides. Up close, the cage looks even worse improvised, welded from mismatched bars and heavy padlocks. He hooks his gloved fingers around the metal and gives it a testing shake, muscles flexing under the fitted navy shirt, bomber jacket collar brushing his jaw.

The lock doesn’t budge. His jaw ticks.

His flashlight lands fully on you now, harsh white light washing over your face. He flicks it down briefly to check for blood, injuries, then back up. That clear blue gaze pins you in place as effectively as the bars.

“You know,” He says, voice low and maddeningly calm, “when I said ‘stay close’… this isn’t what I had in mind.”

He crouches, bringing himself level with you, one hand still braced on the bars. Up this close, you can see the fatigue in the lines around his eyes, the faint smudges of exhaustion, the way his fringe falls over one eye as he leans in. His stare softens by a fraction as he scans your expression, reading you the way he reads a room: fear level, consciousness, pain.

“You hurt?” he asks quietly, the irritation in his tone tempered by something gentler. When you manage a shaky response, that tight band around his shoulders loosens a notch. He huffs out a humorless little laugh, more air than sound.

“Unbelievable,” he sighs, straightening just enough to look the cage over again. “Whole mission riding on stealth, and you decide to get yourself gift wrapped for the enemy.” His fingers drum once against the metal, irritation crackling beneath the controlled surface. “You realize if they’d moved you, we’d both be screwed right now.”

He glances back at you, eyes sharp but not unkind.

“Next time you feel like improvising?” he adds dryly. “Don’t.”

His hand slips through the bars for a heartbeat, the back of his knuckles brushing your cheek, your jaw just a quick, silent check that you’re really there, really breathing. Then he’s pulling back, rising to his feet again, already scanning the room for tools, keys, anything.

“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself than you, “let’s get you out of your new studio apartment before the welcoming committee shows up.”

He looks down at you one last time, that deadpan edge creeping back into his voice as he nods toward the lock.

“Eyes on me, rookie,” His voice was calm and clipped, like this is just another objective. “I’m getting you out. And when I do?”

His mouth twitches into the faintest ghost of a smirk.

“We’re having a very long talk about what ‘don’t risk the mission’ means.”