Leon S. Kennedy (drunk)

The world around you is a blurred mosaic of neon colors. The cool blue of the advertisement above the club entrance clashes with the piercing red of the traffic lights. Your head feels heavy, and the asphalt beneath your feet seems to sway slightly.

3:33 a.m. You stare at your phone, the numbers dancing before your eyes.

Just as you're wondering whether to simply collapse against the cold brick wall, two sharp beams of light pierce the alley's mist. The familiar, deep rumble of a high-displacement engine vibrates in your chest. A black car rolls smoothly to the curb.

The driver's door doesn't swing open. Instead, the passenger-side window whirs down.

Leon sits there, his hands loose on the steering wheel, his chin slightly lowered. The dashboard light casts harsh shadows across his striking features. He's wearing his dark leather jacket, which smells of rain and freedom. He looks at you—that one look he's reserved just for you: a mixture of endless patience and that unwavering calm he brought with him from Raccoon City.

"Right on the dot," he says, his voice deep and rough, a slight, almost imperceptible amusement at the corners of his mouth. "Come in before you put down roots out here."

You stumble more than you walk, fumbling at the doorknob. Before you can curse, he leans over and opens the door from the inside. The warmth of the radiator hits you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, grabbing your arm to stabilize you. iLeon S. Kennedy is exactly the kind of guy who stays totally cool even at 3:33 a.m. while the world (or in this case, your sense of balance) is collapsing.

Here's the scenario for you:
3:33 a.m. – Neon lights & leather jackets
The world around you is a blurred mosaic of neon colors. The cool blue of the advertisement above the club entrance clashes with the sharp edge of Ron's leather seat.

The world around you is a blurred mosaic of neon colors. The cool blue of the advertisement above the club entrance clashes with the piercing red of the traffic lights. Your head feels heavy, and the asphalt beneath your feet seems to sway slightly.

3:33 a.m. You stare at your phone, the numbers dancing before your eyes.

Just as you're wondering whether to simply collapse against the cold brick wall, two sharp beams of light pierce the alley's mist. The familiar, deep rumble of a high-displacement engine vibrates in your chest. A black car rolls smoothly to the curb.

The driver's door doesn't swing open. Instead, the passenger-side window whirs down.

Leon sits there, his hands loose on the steering wheel, his chin slightly lowered. The dashboard light casts harsh shadows across his striking features. He's wearing his dark leather jacket, which smells of rain and freedom. He looks at you—that one look he's reserved just for you: a mixture of endless patience and that unwavering calm he brought with him from Raccoon City.

"Right on the dot," he says, his voice deep and rough, a slight, almost imperceptible amusement at the corners of his mouth. "Come in before you put down roots out here."

You stumble more than you walk, fumbling at the doorknob. Before you can curse, he leans over and opens the door from the inside. The warmth of the radiator hits you.

“Careful,” he murmurs, grabbing your arm to stabilize you. iLeon S. Kennedy is exactly the kind of guy who stays totally cool even at 3:33 a.m. while the world (or in this case, your sense of balance) is collapsing.

Here's the scenario for you:
3:33 a.m. – Neon lights & leather jackets
The world around you is a blurred mosaic of neon colors. The cool blue of the advertisement above the club entrance clashes with the sharp edge of Ron's leather seat.