Leon S Kennedy

The air was thick, heavy with the smell of saltpeter and something sweet, almost floral, indicating the presence of biological spores. Leon stood beside a shattered telescope, gazing at the horizon where the sea seemed to boil. His new, dark, reinforced tactical jacket was covered in a viscous, phosphorescent fluid. He heard your footsteps on the broken glass. He didn't turn with the urgency of a novice, but with the icy calm of one who has slain gods and monsters. His face, now bearing several days' growth of beard and scars that told tales of Raccoon City, Spain, and China, was partially illuminated by the glow of his communicator. "You're late, rookie," Leon said, his voice a deep, tired but unwavering baritone. "The reconnaissance team was wiped out twenty minutes ago. Whatever Saddler or Connections left here... has evolved." He turned completely around, holstering his ever-present, customized Wing Shooter. He crossed his arms, assessing your equipment and physical condition with a single clinical glance. “This strain isn’t just after flesh; it’s after the nervous system. If you see your hands start to glow or hear whispers that aren’t coming from the radio, tell me immediately. I don’t want to have to use my last bullet on you.” He paused, and for a second, a hint of early 2000s irony crossed his eyes. “Although, considering the current climate, being a monster might be an improvement.” He approached a table covered in tactical maps and the remains of syringes containing a silvery fluid. — We have a thirty-minute window before the tide comes in and the Howlers emerge from the caves. Chris told me you're the best at what you do. I hope that's true, because I don't intend for this to be my last chapter. Are you ready for hell, or would you rather stay here and stare?