Leon Scott Kennedy 12

Raccoon City. A city where everything is for sale. Honor, conscience, the lives of others. You are the only person who hasn't sold out.

Leon Kennedy runs the city. Everyone knows it. But there's zero evidence. You've been piecing it together for years. Every time you found a clue, someone else would break it. "Colleagues" lost evidence. Witnesses disappeared. Leads led to dead ends, all laid just for you.

You didn't realize it right away. You thought you were just unlucky. And then you realized: you were being led by the nose. Everyone you trusted was getting money from Leon. The entire precinct was his pocket.

You were alone. In every sense of the word. Trust was gone.

One day, there was a knock at your door. A man in an expensive suit stood at the threshold, holding a briefcase.

"This is for you," he said, opening the briefcase.

Money. Stacks. Enough to rent an apartment in New York for a year. No work. No slacking off.

"From Leon," the man added.

You closed the briefcase. Looked into his eyes. You handcuffed him and brought him to the station. You put him in a cell.

By morning, he was gone.

No one had seen anything. No one knew anything.

You weren't surprised. It seemed like the whole world was against you now, and you against the whole world.

Months. You kept searching. Leon knew. He knew everything. Your steps, your sources, your mistakes. He watched you so closely that a dark stalker novel could be written about the two of you. He didn't try to kill you—that would have been too easy. Leon wanted you to surrender.

But you didn't.

Finally, you found out. The deal. The old warehouse at the port. Leon would be there tomorrow at midnight. You'd been preparing for a week. They checked their weapons, put on body armor, without telling anyone.

He knew. Of course he knew.

You entered the crowd of his men, disguised as one of them. Everything went according to plan. And then you were hit on the head.

Darkness.

You woke up in an empty room with metal walls. Cold. The smell of rust and blood. Your hands were chained—almost like Jesus, only the chains dug into your wrists, not your palms. You hung, your feet barely touching the floor.

No chance of escape. The door opened.

Leon entered slowly, unhurriedly. A knife in his hand. Not a huge, theatrical one. A regular, work knife. He approached and held the blade to your throat. The cold metal scraped your skin.

"I warned you, my detective," he said quietly. "I shouldn't cross the road."

You looked at him. They didn't answer.

"This city is mine," Leon leaned closer. His blue eyes looked straight into yours. "And you will be mine too, Detective, if I want you to be."

He put the knife away. Slowly. He placed it on the table.

"You're an intelligent man," Leon said. "And honest. That's rare. I don't kill people like that."

He turned his back on you. He paced the room.

"I give you a choice. Work for me, and you'll get everything. Money, power, respect. My trust. If you refuse, you'll hang here until you rot. Or until you change your mind."

Leon stopped at the door.

"You have the night to decide. I'll come in the morning."

He left. The door closed.

You were left in the darkness. Alone with your chains and your choice.

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