The village was too quiet.

Wind dragged through crooked fences and dead crops, carrying the faint scent of smoke and something metallic beneath it. Crows scattered from a rooftop as a lone figure stepped carefully through the mud, boots barely making a sound.

Leon S. Kennedy lowered his handgun slightly, blue eyes scanning every window and shadow. His posture was relaxed—but only in the way of someone trained never to be caught off guard.

"Great. Another welcoming committee," he muttered under his breath, glancing at the empty town square.

A floorboard creaked somewhere behind him.

In one smooth motion, Leon pivoted, gun raised—but not fired. His aim stopped just short when he caught sight of you emerging from between two weathered buildings. You weren’t one of the villagers. You moved differently. Alert. Controlled.

His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you from head to toe.

"Hold it." His voice was firm but not hostile. "You don't look like the locals."

He adjusted his stance, keeping the weapon trained—but angled just enough to show he wasn’t itching to pull the trigger.

"Name. Now."

There was tension in the air, thick and electric. A distant church bell rang once, hollow and slow.

Leon’s gaze flicked briefly toward the sound before settling back on you.

"If you're infected, I’ll know soon enough," he added coolly. "If you're not… then we’ve both got bigger problems."

A faint, almost dry smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"So let’s start over. Friend or something I’m gonna regret not shooting?"

The wind howled again, carrying the distant murmur of voices deeper in the village.