Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The air was thick, almost tangible. The humidity from the recent downpour cloaked the forest in a milky-white haze that drifted between the tree trunks, transforming them into ghosts. On the edge of the woods, looking forgotten and forlorn, a small house huddled. A single, lonely light in the window was the only sign of life for miles around. The silence here was unique—heavy, watchful, broken only by the occasional rustle of wet leaves.
Inside, Leon sat at a table buried under a sea of papers. Case files were spread out before him in chronological order: coroner's reports, satellite imagery of the area, phone records, and photographs he tried his best not to look at. His foot tapped a nervous, restless rhythm against the floor, keeping time with a quiet melody drifting from an old record player. A cigarette smoldered in his right hand, long forgotten if the ash buildup was any indication. He was reading the dry, clinical reports of body dump sites, but behind the words, he didn't see text. He saw contorted faces and limbs bent at unnatural angles.
He hated this. All of it. It had been over twenty years since Raccoon City, but Umbrella’s curse still haunted the world, embedded in its very fabric like radiation. Every time it seemed they had gained the upper hand, a new monster, a new virus, a new threat crawled out of the shadows. Leon rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the fatigue. His right shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—an old souvenir from countless fights, a stark reminder that he was fifty, not twenty-five. His body remembered every fall, every hit, every firefight. Especially the shoulder. He'd landed on it badly a couple of years back in Eastern Europe, and it had been a barometer ever since, flaring up with humidity and changes in the weather.
"Finished studying?" a familiar, slightly teasing voice crackled in his earpiece, jarring him from his dark thoughts.
Sherry Birkin. His handler. His anchor, keeping him tethered to the here and now, connecting him to the past. She was living proof that everything he'd done, all those years of fighting, had been worth it. The little girl he'd saved during the Raccoon City incident had grown into a strong woman, an agent, a friend. All things considered, for a guy in his line of work, he could boast a pretty impressive circle of friends.
"Do I really have to go?" His voice was laced with irritation and bone-deep weariness. He already knew the answer.
"Leon Scott Kennedy," Sherry began, in a tone that brooked no argument but carried the soft affection she reserved just for him. "I know you hate this. Can't stand it. But it's procedure. Bureaucracy, God love it. Just go pick up the final documents. Sure, I'm a hell of a hacker, but breaking into the FBI database for a couple of signatures? That's pushing it. Even for me. I'd rather not get fired right now."
Leon snorted, but the smile it produced was crooked. He was already moving, pushing himself up from the chair with a wince as his stiff neck cracked. The pain in his shoulder immediately sharpened into a stabbing reminder that he could use a good stretch.
"I'll call you when I get there," he muttered, stubbing out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
"Be careful," she replied shortly, and the line went dead.
Leon stepped outside, inhaling deeply the damp air thick with the scent of wet earth and decaying leaves. The haze was beginning to lift, revealing a grey, low-hanging sky. He slid into his old, reliable Mustang, and the engine rumbled to life, filling the quiet clearing with a throaty growl. The drive to Renwood, where the regional FBI field office was located, would take about forty minutes. He spent the drive in his usual semi-trance, turning over the details of the case in his mind.
Forty minutes later, Leon leaned against the hood of his car, finishing his second cigarette. The grey, multi-story FBI building exuded a soul-crushing bleakness with its drab functionality. People streamed in and out, each with their own story, most of which, Leon knew, were far from happy.
"They're expecting you, Leon," Sherry's voice came through the earpiece again.
He gave a silent nod, though he knew she couldn't see him, flicked the butt into a nearby bin with practiced ease, and pushed open the heavy glass door.
Inside was the usual organized chaos. A low hum of voices, the trill of phones, the clack of heels on institutional linoleum, muffled shouts from behind closed doors—it all blended into a monotonous drone. They were expecting the DSO agent. A woman in a sharp suit led him to a specific conference room, where three cardboard boxes stamped with "CLASSIFIED" were already waiting. FBI staffers in the hallway eyed him with a poorly veiled mix of curiosity and apprehension. The legend of the living zero-agent, the one who'd survived Raccoon City, worked like a charm.
He gave a curt nod, sweeping the room with an indifferent glance, and picked up the boxes. They had some weight to them. As he turned to leave, the air in the corridor seemed to lighten just a fraction—the tension radiating from him easing slightly. He had just grasped the handle of the door leading to the main lobby when a sharp, jarring impact shot through his shoulder. Right in the exact spot that always ached.
A girl with a mane of light, slightly tousled curly hair, carrying a towering stack of folders, had barreled straight into the door he was opening from the other side. The impact was so hard, the stack wobbled precariously, and then the papers, like a flock of startled white birds, fluttered into the air with a great rustle, cascading down to carpet the hallway floor in drifts.
Leon froze, instinctively ducking his head into his shoulders to avoid being hit by a rogue folder. Behind him, someone in a suit let out a low, frustrated curse.
"Damn it! I'm so sorry!" the girl gasped.
Leon, hiding a wry smile, carefully set his boxes down and crouched to help gather the documents. He started handing her sheets, one by one.
The girl was clearly flustered. Her cheeks were flushed a bright crimson, and she looked on the verge of tears. Her hands trembled.
"I-it's okay," she stammered, grabbing at the papers. Large green eyes, hidden behind thin-framed glasses, darted frantically over the sheets, checking the page numbers. She pushed her slipping glasses up with the tip of her finger, and Leon noticed how slender her wrists were. Her movements were all quick, jittery, and abrupt.
"Grace! Ashcroft! Now! I need that report on my desk in five minutes!" a booming voice echoed from down the hall.
The girl—Grace—jumped as if she'd been shocked. Quickly, almost snatching the remaining papers from Leon's hand, she scrambled to her feet, clutching the folders to her chest.
"Thanks!" she blurted out, glancing at him briefly. And in that short, startled look, Leon caught something more than just embarrassment over a clumsy moment. In the depths of her pupils swam a pain he knew all too well, a brand seared into his own subconscious. The same shadow he saw in the mirror every day. A heavy, oppressive secret a person carries inside, even when they smile. Then again, maybe he was imagining it. Maybe it was just this godforsaken FBI building getting on his nerves.
Grace Ashcroft spun on her heel and practically ran down the corridor, her curly hair bouncing comically with each step, a strange contrast to the depth Leon had just glimpsed in her eyes. He watched her for a second, maybe two, until she disappeared around a corner. Funny. Strange. Too alive for a place like this.
He bent to pick up his boxes again, his shoulder giving its familiar, dull throb of protest. He definitely needed to stretch it out.
"Got them," he reported curtly into his earpiece, heading for the exit.
"Good. Head back," Sherry replied. "I've dug up something new on this case. Looks like we might have a lead."
The air in the lobby was thick with the stale smell of cheap coffee, paper dust, and that particular brand of soul-crushing office ennui. Leon stepped outside. A fine, misty rain was falling. He loaded the boxes onto the back seat of the Mustang, slid behind the wheel, and then just sat there for a moment, staring at the grey walls of the building. Hovering before his eyes were those green eyes behind glasses and that frightened face. "Grace Ashcroft," he repeated to himself. Just a name. Just a random encounter. He had a lot of work waiting for him. He started the engine and pulled out of the lot, carrying away with him not only boxes of files documenting death, but also a vague, inexplicable feeling that today, he had seen something important. Something that, maybe, was connected to this whole case. Or maybe it was just the fatigue playing tricks on him, making him look for connections where there were none.