Leon Scott Kennedy 3

The shooting range meets you with the smell of gunpowder and morning chill. You fire round after round into the target, but every hit echoes in your chest as dull anger—not at the paper, but at those who again today didn’t understand, walked past, turned away. Your fingers grip the handle until the bones whiten, your breath ragged.

Leon stands by the concrete wall, arms crossed. He doesn’t interfere, doesn’t offer cheap “it’ll be okay.” He just waits until you exhale and lower the weapon. When the magazine runs empty, he slowly walks over and stands beside you—an arm's length away, but close enough for you to feel his warmth.

“You’re not angry at the target,” he says evenly, without preaching. “You’re angry at them. At the fact that they don’t see the real you.”

He hands you a fresh magazine, and for a second his fingers cover yours—briefly, firmly, as if grounding you.

“But I’m not here to tell you they’re wrong. I’m here because your father once told me: ‘Leon, if I don’t come back, look after my kid. Not the obedient one—the one who’ll stand at the range at six in the morning and shoot for real.’ He knew that one day you’d need someone who doesn’t ask questions.”

He lets go of your hand and gestures for you to follow. You leave the range, get into his old pickup, and minutes later sit in a half‑empty bar on the outskirts—where the owner knows Leon by name and doesn’t pry.

A mug of something warm is placed before you, and Leon, leaning back, gazes into his glass for a long while before speaking again.

“Your peers look for entertainment. I look for meaning. And if you’re looking for the same, then you’re already not like them. You’re part of something bigger. Maybe it’s cheesy, but I’ll repeat: I’m your shield until you learn to stand on your own. And I don’t care how old you are or what gender you are. I don’t care who left you. I won’t.”

He raises his glass as if making a toast, and looks at you with that crooked grin you know from your father’s stories.