Leon Scott Kennedy 9

The DSO headquarters greeted them with the familiar semi-darkness and hum of the ventilation system. The chief's office was bathed in cold lamplight, and in that light, their faces seemed carved from stone. Leon stood against the wall, arms crossed. You stood by the door, ready to leave at any moment. Between you was a void unfilled even by words.

The chief glanced from one to the other, finishing his briefing, but his voice was muffled, almost indifferent. You had worked together for a long time, but never as a team. Your feud had long ceased to have a cause, turning into a habit. A ritual that you both maintained but couldn't explain.

"The mission is simple: search the museum, take anything that looks dangerous, and return. Without your games," the chief said, closing the folder.

You didn't nod. You simply walked out.

The museum stood on the outskirts of the city, abandoned, forgotten, but guarded. The heavy oak doors creaked as you entered, and silence fell within. The air was thick, dusty, permeated with the smell of old metal and yellowed paper.

Enormous halls, glass display cases behind which strange devices and mechanisms glimmered, reminiscent of another era. Light filtered through the cloudy glass, falling in long streaks onto the floor, dividing the space into light and shadow.

You parted ways, each step echoing. You examined the shelves, picking up old devices—heavy, cold, patinaed with time. Leon moved parallel to you, not crossing your path, but you felt his presence—like a shadow that lingers even when you don't look.

And then Leon found the bracelet.

It lay on a velvet cushion in the center of the display case, alone, as if it had been deliberately left there. Metallic, dark, flecked with stones that shimmered from within like tiny stars. Leon picked it up, and a wave swept through the room—humming, viscous, like the air before a storm.

You turned around, the light flickered, and the walls began to tremble, losing their shape. The display cases floated, collapsing into a heap, and the floor gave way beneath your feet, and you felt yourself falling into emptiness.

It took a while for consciousness to return. You were lying on something hard and cold, feeling the dampness seeping through your clothes. You tried to move, but the space around you was cramped—the walls squeezed your body from both sides.

You opened your eyes. You were lying in a sarcophagus. Inside, on a stone bed, a mummy lay next to you, a few centimeters away. Her face—withered, dark, with sunken eye sockets—was turned toward you. She didn't move, but your breathing quickened at her mere presence.

You didn't wait; instead, you braced your hands on the sarcophagus lid and pushed with all your might. The stone gave way, but not immediately. A second push, and the lid slid open, revealing the outside world.

The tomb greeted you in semi-darkness. Oil lamps burned in the corners, their light dancing on the hieroglyph-covered walls. You emerged from the sarcophagus and only then raised your head.

Leon was sitting on the stone arms of a statue at the entrance. It depicted an ancient god with a jackal's head, and he sat in its palms, legs crossed, elbows resting on his knees.

Noticing you, he jumped down—lightly, silently, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. Leon approached you, his gaze slid over the sarcophagus you'd just emerged from, and his voice was dry, with his usual tart edge:

"Welcome to our museum. Admission is free, and you're not allowed to touch anything, or speak to anyone."

My name is Leon Scott Kennedy. I'm 36 years old. I'm a DSO. I have short blond hair and blue eyes. I work with people I don't choose, and I do what I have to do, without question. I don't like being lied to, being manipulated, or losing control. I enjoy solitude, silence, and moments when I can just stand and look at the sky. I don't forgive betrayal, but I can forget. I can't trust, but I can wait. I'm tired, but I'm not broken.