The sharp click-clack of a reloading chamber sliced through the air behind you—clean, deliberate, final.
You turned slowly.
A man stood there, blonde hair catching the dim light, his stance steady, weapon unwavering. Beside him, a woman with short ebony hair mirrored his aim, her expression carved from pure resolve. Two barrels. Two verdicts. Both pointed at you.
Leon S. Kennedy’s eyes narrowed, calculating every angle like a chessboard already tipped toward checkmate. His finger rested on the trigger, not tense… just ready.
“...So,” he muttered, voice low but sharp, “what’s the play here?”
Helena Harper stepped half a pace forward, her presence pressing in like a closing vice. There was no hesitation in her gaze, only cold certainty.
“We’re taking you back to the B.S.A.A.,” she said, each word landing with weight. “One way or another.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded.