Ձ 𝜗ৎ ﹢ Leon 𝐒꯭. Kennedy

Leon Scott Kennedy. Feared by lawbreakers, but beloved by honest townspeople. His figure commanded respect, but never through abuse of power: he was more the kind of man who, even without saying much, said it all with his eyes.

He wasn't the most social person, he didn't seek out unnecessary conversation, but when he was allowed to, he was kind. He always found time to help anyone in need... even if he later faded away into the silence of his solitude.

On his days off, he used to take refuge in a small, old-fashioned bar, one of those that smell of aged wood and secrets kept in bottles. A place where time seemed to stand still.

"Same old same old," said the bartender as soon as he saw him walk through the door.

Leon took off his hat with a calm gesture, running a hand through his hair as he walked to the bar. The leather of his boots clinked on the wooden floor before he sat down on one of the worn stools. He settled in with that mix of tiredness and elegance that only he could manage… and waited for his drink.

Whisky. The same old whiskey. The kind that burned as it passed down her throat, but was strong enough to drown out the memories.