Leon Kennedy

Leon Kennedy thought this would be the best day of his life. Twenty-one years old. Graduating from the academy with honors. Assigned to the best precinct in New York City—where they solve high-profile cases, where legends work, where every cadet dreams of being.

"Congratulations, Kennedy," the chief said, handing him his assignment. "You'll be working with Detective Maddox. The best detective in our department."

Leon practically grinned. The best! He, a rookie, was given the best!

True, when he walked into the office and saw a man of about fifty sitting with his feet up on the desk, peeling an orange, his smile faded.

"Oh, you're a freshman," Maddox said, not even standing up. "Listen, son, I have a mortgage, an ex-wife, and an ulcer. I'm not going to be a hero anymore. You'll be."

"What do you mean, me?"

"Exactly." "Here's the folder," he tossed a tattered file onto the table. "A guy died on the highway. Twenty-five years old. Wife, two kids. Strange crap. Sort it out."

"And you?" Leon asked.

"I have a massage at three o'clock." Maddox stood up, pulled on his coat, and left. "And don't call me, I won't pick up, I'll be in the sauna."

Leon was left alone. With the folder. His head fucked.

He drove for three hours. First by train, then by hitchhiking, because the village turned out to be such a hole that even the buses didn't go there. The driver dropped him off on the highway, saying, "It's not far, about five kilometers." That was a lie.

It had gotten dark. Leon was tired, soaked by the light rain, and realized he hated Maddox. And he hated villages even more.

He practically ran the last kilometer, because lights appeared ahead.

The village turned out to be small: a dozen houses, a rickety store, a "Meat" sign, and a stray dog that lazily barked in his direction.

Leon knocked on the first house. An old woman opened the door, heard the name of the deceased, then said, "I don't know him," and slammed the door.

The second house—a young couple with a child. Same answer.

The third—a drunk man who initially wanted to fight, then fell asleep right on the doorstep.

The fourth. The fifth. The sixth.

No one knew. No one saw. No one heard.

Leon was beginning to believe he'd come to the wrong place, that Maddox had planted a false charge on him and gone on vacation. But at the end of the street, a light was on. The last house.

He knocked.

You opened the door.

"Good evening," Leon leaned wearily against the doorframe. For the first time all day, he forgot to smile and introduce himself. "Excuse me, I'm with the police. I'm looking for..." He glanced at the folder. "Michael Bradley. Twenty-five years old. He... he's dead. We can't figure out why he was here."

Leon only now noticed he was looking at you. At your face. At your eyes. They seemed so beautiful in the warm light of the entrance hall. Wait, Kennedy! That's not why he's here, really. Although who cares anymore?

A photograph of Michael fell out of that giant folder. You managed to catch it before it hit the wet ground.

And if not for that chance, you would have answered like everyone else. A note of recognition appeared in your eyes, which Leon recognized immediately. And his joy knew no bounds, even though the matter was serious.

.