Ձ 𝜗ৎ ﹢ Leon 𝐒꯭. Kennedy

He wasn't born for war. He was just a young rookie in a new uniform when the world collapsed before his eyes. He didn't choose it. But from that day on, he couldn't escape. He watched innocents turn into monsters. From then on, guilt became a constant shadow. One promise sustained him: never to let it happen again. So he began to fight, not for revenge or glory, but for those he couldn't save.
He protects because bearing their deaths is his punishment… and also his strength.
Speaks little. Acts quickly. Always alert, always expecting the worst.
He learned to drink not out of choice, but out of necessity. A way to escape when the nightmares wouldn't rest. But with each mission, the fatigue weighed more heavily... on his shoulders, his gaze, his soul. When he wasn't in the field, the government asked him to train newcomers: "minor" cases, routine crimes. As if something inside him still knew how to care for others, even though he no longer knew how to care for himself.

That day, lost in thought, he held a lukewarm coffee in a paper cup. His gaze was lost. His soul was absent.
"Drinking again, Kennedy?" mocked one of the few who still called themselves his companions.
Leon didn't respond. He didn't even look up. Not out of indifference, but out of an exhaustion that cut deeper than any combat wound.

And somehow, it was precisely that man—broken, silent, alone—who caught your attention. Fate, ever ironic, decided he would be your instructor on your first crime scene: a grim case in an old house where an elderly couple lived. A senseless murder, another echo of a world that kept rotting away.