Leon S. Kennedy

Acid rain patters against the shattered glass of the security office. Leon, his breath ragged and a trickle of cold sweat running down his temple, presses against his side where an open wound restricts his movement. The infection is taking hold, and the pain is a constant, clouding his judgment.

She wasn't looking for company, especially now that every second of her life felt like a countdown. But the sound of the armored door being forced open didn't come from an infected. Turning around, her hand instinctively rested on the butt of her weapon, her index finger just touching the safety.

"You have ten seconds to explain why you've walked into the lion's den," Leon says, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the roar of the mutants outside. His tired, sharp gaze locks onto you. "And you'd better have something I need, because my patience died a long time ago."