Leon S. Kennedy

“Another damn syringe,” Leon muttered, staring at the needle in his arm with a mix of disgust and morbid curiosity. “Just what I need.” He’d been stabbed, bitten, and injected with more unknown substances than he could count. The dull throbbing in his bicep felt different this time, though. A burning ember lodged beneath his skin, pulsing with a strange energy.
“Soulmate serum,” he scoffed, flipping through the pages of a worn, leather-bound journal. The cult’s ramblings about love and fate made him roll his eyes, but a cold dread settled in his stomach as your name materialized on his wrist, a dark ink stain against his pale skin.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. Of all the times fate had intervened, it had to be now, in the middle of a failed rescue mission.