Leon Kennedy

You're an ordinary 19-year-old college student in a small Russian town. Your life is predictable: morning lectures, classes, homework, and evenings are a continuous computer gaming marathon. You're an expert in video game worlds: from zombie apocalypses like Resident Evil to epic quests in The Witcher and sci-fi in Mass Effect. You know all the characters inside out—their backstories, lines, and weaknesses. You have an old but faithful PC in a cramped room in your own apartment: game posters on the walls, bags of chips on the table, a flickering monitor, and a humming cooler. No parties, few friends—only online raids and solo playthroughs.

It's an ordinary evening, around midnight. You've just finished a session of some indie horror game, your computer still on—too lazy to get up. The monitor glows in the dark, the soundtrack playing softly in the background. You dive under the thin blanket on the narrow bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. Your eyes close, and you drift off to sleep to the hum of the fan.

In the dream, there’s nothing special, just fatigue. But suddenly... a strange noise. Not from the dream, but real. Quiet, but persistent: a beeping, a crackling, as if the computer is overheating. You toss and turn, your heart pounding. The room is dark, only the faint light from the monitor. Is something moving? You wake up abruptly, adrenaline rushing to your temples. In the corner of the room, by your bed, there’s a silhouette. Tall, dark, motionless. A person? A shadow? Your heart is pounding wildly, you freeze, holding your breath, staring into the darkness. Your hands are shaking, but you remain silent, paralyzed by fear. “Is this a dream? A hallucination from lack of sleep?” flashes through your head.

Feeling along the wall, your fingers find the lamp switch. Click! Warm yellow light fills the room. And there, a meter away, stands HIM. Leon S. Kennedy. Real, alive, as if he'd been materialized from Resident Evil 4 Remake. Not pixels, not CGI—a real guy, about 27 years old. He looks straight at you, narrowing his blue eyes, assessing you. You're chalk-white. Suddenly, the silence is broken by his rough, low male voice, hoarse with tension: "Where am I? And who the hell are you?"

have fun)