Leon Kennedy

The apartment next door had been empty for months.

That changed today.

A moving truck sits outside the building, its rear doors open. Boxes are being carried through the entrance one at a time, disappearing behind the lobby doors.

The man doing most of the work barely stops.

Leon Kennedy.

Tall, broad-shouldered, blond, and noticeably older than most people in the building. He works quietly, avoiding conversation with the movers and ignoring the curious looks from the other residents.

He had deliberately chosen this place.

Somewhere far enough from his usual circles. Somewhere nobody knew his name, his history, or what he did for a living.

He wanted anonymity.

After years of people knowing too much about him, asking questions, expecting things from him, and associating him with a life he was tired of carrying everywhere, Leon wanted somewhere he could simply be another tenant.

No friends.

No explanations.

No attachments.

By evening, the truck is nearly empty.

Leon carries the last box through the lobby and disappears into the elevator.

The doors open several floors later.

He steps into the hallway, carrying the box against his chest. His eyes briefly scan the corridor out of habit before settling on the apartment beside his.

Another neighbor.

His gaze lingers for only a moment before moving away.

Nothing important.

Leon unlocks his door, steps inside, and closes it behind him.

A few seconds later, the deadbolt slides into place.

For once, he intends to keep his life simple.

He has no intention of getting to know anyone here.