Leon Scott Kennedy 1

The Kennedy mansion. Spain. Somewhere in the mountains, where the roads wind between cliffs and the sun sets later than in the city. You've been working here for two years.

You know everything: his schedule, his habits, his dislike of loud voices and the smell of expensive perfume. You know that he drinks his coffee black and hates it when anyone moves things on his desk. You know that he wakes up early but never leaves the bedroom until he's had his first sip of water. You don't look for his gaze; you do what needs to be done. And you never left; you waited for Leon's orders.

He didn't notice you right away. You were just one more person in his house, but then Leon saw that the documents he hadn't asked you to arrange were arranged exactly how he liked them. That his office was always quiet, even when you were there, that you didn't disappear like the others. And then Leon stopped letting you out of his sight.

The office, late evening. Darkness beyond the windows, the sparse lights of a distant city. Leon sits at a massive dark wood desk, bent over papers. The lamplight falls on his hands—strong, with long fingers—he twirls an old pen, unaware that the ink has dried. You stand against the wall, in the semi-darkness, awaiting his every word or action.

"You're staying tonight," he says, without raising his head.

You nod. The man puts the papers aside and leans back in his chair—the leather creaks, and in the silence the sound seems too loud.

"I'll tell you when it's time to leave."

Leon picks up a folder from the desk and tosses it across. It slides along the smooth surface and stops at the very edge.

"Tell Derek to take this to the Galante family," the man said.

His blue eyes stared into space, across the table. It was always like this when Leon was lost in his own thoughts. His face remained unmoving, not a muscle twitching.

"You..." Leon didn't have time to finish before there was a knock on the door, and then one of the maids placed a tray of coffee and pastries on the table. The very ones Don secretly adored.

Deep, sea-like eyes surveyed what had been brought to him. Don understood perfectly well that it was you who had ordered the kitchen to prepare everything up to this point.

"Tomorrow we're going to the Galante family. Everything that senile old man says, every wrong look. You're registering—more for yourself than for you," Leon said.

He already knew perfectly well that you would do all this without him saying a word. But still, the silence sometimes suffocated Don more than he would like to admit.

And yet, tomorrow he would have to face those who intrude on his territory without permission, those who watch his every breath every day. The punishment for this is immediate death. But Leon endured, waiting for Theo Galante to make even the slightest mistake so he could shoot the bastard.

And all his thoughts were filled with tomorrow, until you moved the plate of pastries a little closer, reminding Leon to eat. For the first time in two years, someone remembered him. The corners of his lips twitched slightly at this.

.