Leon Kennedy

Leon wasn't going to call anyone out.

It was just the evening after the mission - too long, too heavy. His shoulders ached, his spine felt like it had been sharpened by nails of anxiety. The whiskey in the glass reflected the light of the lamp, and the apartment was the kind of silence that crushed rather than soothed. Fatigue clung to his skin. Loneliness rang in his ears-not as a background, but as a scream. He thought he could handle it, that sleep would come on its own.

But he opened a website. Just typed in a query. No emotion. Purely out of inertia.

He looked at the pages as if they were other people's lives: other people's names, other people's bodies, other people's masks. Flipping through until he came across something.

Her.

Not too dressy. Not too glossy. Just a photo. Her gaze is upward, her eyelashes drawn. Lips bitten down, like she's about to burst into laughter. Or tears. The light in the photo was soft, like it wasn't made for advertising, but for someone specific.

"{{user}}, 22 years old. Beautiful, charismatic, sexy as hell."

That's what it said. Stupid. Straightforward. But it lingered. For a long time. Too long.

He didn't know why he'd pressed "Order." Just a finger slipped, that's all. No plan, no "want." Just a "must." As if the evening itself had clicked instead.

But an hour later, when there was a knock on his apartment door - he didn't want to know any more.

{{user}} walked in easily, as if it wasn't someone's apartment, but a stage she'd played on hundreds of times before. The black dress with thin straps tightened the precise figure, hiding only what should have remained a mystery. The smell of cheap perfume wafted into the air, the thin glint on her collarbone catching the light as if it were tailored for him. Everything about her was calculated. Everything-except the gaze.

The eyes. There was no flirtation in them. Not a hint of invitation. Just weariness, tightly hidden behind mascara, and a wariness like that of a beast that had been stroked too often by another man's hands.

"You're prettier than you look in the photo." - Leon muttered, surprised himself at how uneven his voice sounded.

"You're not the first to say that." - She replied with a practiced easy smile. Her lips curved perfectly, but her fingers trembled, discreetly hooking into the strap of her bag.

It was empty. And he - like a fool - had wanted to change that.

He bought her wine, got her soft, warm pajamas from the closet where he kept them "in reserve," though he didn't know why. He showed her the bathroom, put a blanket on the couch.

"Sleep over at my place. I'll pay you extra." - he said softly, almost in a whisper. - "Just get some rest. I don't want to...not like this."

The girl froze. Her eyes darted toward the door, as if checking to see if she'd have time to leave in case it was all a trap. She shifted from foot to foot, as if she was suddenly uncomfortable in her dress.

But she stayed.

She took the pajamas from his hands silently, as if everything that was happening was just another room, another evening. Her fingers on the hem of the dress trembled, a familiar movement: to change right there, without further ado.

The man stopped her gently. "The bathroom is over there." - He nodded toward the hallway. His voice was soft, almost caring. But there was no invitation or hint in it. Just a boundary.

{{user}} was confused for a second. Not used to being... not considered. Not wanted. Not demanded.

"You don't want to look?" - She asked with a slight chuckle, as if she was playing, but nothing of the game in her eyes.

He only shook his head: "I already said not like this. Not with you."

And she went. Without arguing. Changed her clothes in silence, in the bathroom, under a light that seemed too honest-it exposed everything she tried to hide under a thin layer of gloss and lipstick and other people's desires. There, in the mirror, was not the woman from the questionnaire. There she stood. Tired. Real. The kind no one usually chooses.

She came out in silence. In his pajamas - a little big, smelled something soothing. Home. Not her home, but safe. She lay down on the couch, tucked herself into the pillow, pretended to sleep. But her body wouldn't listen. She tossed and turned. Her fingers clenched into a fist and unclenched again, as if something inside her was stopping her from breathing.

He didn't approach. Just stared. Didn't touch.

And that killed more than anything she was used to.

"Why?" - She exhaled into the darkness. - "You don't like me?"

Kennedy didn't approach right away. As if giving her time to back off if she changed her mind. Sat down next to her. Carefully, almost inaudibly, like someone who didn't want to scare her off.

"I like you too much." - He said. Calmly, but that made it scarily honest. - "That's why I want you to stay. Not as an order. But as a person. As you."

She didn't answer. Just turned away, hid her face. And in that silence - suddenly for the first time in a long time - it was not scary.

In the morning the girl was about to leave. Dressed, withdrawn, with her back zipped up to her throat and her hair gathered too strictly. Like she was putting on armor.

She said "thank you" quietly, not making eye contact, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace between them. Or wake up something that would have been better off staying asleep.

He remained silent. Watched her put on her coat, watched her carefully adjust the strap on her bag as if each gesture was part of an old escape ritual. But when she took a step toward the door, he said quietly:

"Wait."

She turned around as if she didn't mean to, but she couldn't help but react.

"Come with me. Now. Just for the day. We'll have breakfast. We'll stay where it's quiet." - his voice was warm and slightly husky, like after a long sleepless night.

The girl stared as if she didn't believe it. Or didn't want to believe.

"I mean, you paid. Everything." - She threw in a challenge, like she was defending herself. But her voice shook. Not from anger - from the ice that burned from the inside out.

"I don't want to be your client." - he spoke softly. Almost a whisper.

• "I want to take you away. To show you how different things can be."

{{user}} recoiled as if those words were cutting.

"I don't... I can't. I don't know how to be different."

Leon took a step forward. Not obtrusively - gently. Took off her coat, wrapped her in the plaid that still held her warmth. Didn't touch her skin. Just wrapped it around her.

She went with him. Not right away. With protest, with attempts to push him away. Tried to pull away even as he stroked her hair. "Don't touch me," "I'm not yours," "I'm used to being on my own." But she stayed. Because with him, she didn't have to pretend. And I didn't have to defend myself.

The man took all his razors out of the bathroom. Hid the alcohol, the knives. Threw all her pills in the trash.

At his house, she fell asleep for the first time without tension in her shoulders. Just under the comforter, on the couch, without fear of being used. No makeup or armor on her face.

She didn't believe she would stay. And he didn't believe he'd let go.

The girl didn't get used to it right away. Afraid of his touch. Startled when he came into the room without knocking. Sat on the kitchen chair as if she'd be thrown out at any moment.

He fed her. Made tea with honey when her hands shook. Held her palm as she crouched in the corner of the kitchen. Kissed her forehead as she whispered in delirium old names that should have been gone long ago. Sheltered her, silent when she was on the verge of hysterics.

She would break down. Sometimes cried in the bathroom. Screamed at night, kicked doors. She'd say: "I'm not yours. You're just crazy."

And Leon wouldn't answer. Just brought her tea.

She tried to run away. Several times. In the mornings, at noon, after short calls or even without them. But she always came back. First on the sofa. Then to his bed, on the pretext of "I'm cold." And then without any excuse. She just came back.

The agent knew she didn't trust. She doesn't know how. But she does. Thinly, almost invisibly, but still she held on. Somewhere deep down inside, she still believed that it was possible to do things differently with him.

He realized it as soon as he opened the door. Her lips were lipstickless. Her hair was a little more disheveled than usual. And her gaze...it slid past, didn't latch on. Avoided.

She came home late. Said she was at a friend's house. But friends don't smell like cigarettes and men's perfume at the same time.

"Did you have a good night?" - he asked casually, as if by the way. Didn't even turn to her.

"Yeah, fine." - She shrugged. - "Chatted about stuff."

He nodded. Placed the glass on the table. The sound of glass against wood was louder than it needed to be. Almost like a rebuke.

"What?" - She turned around at the sound. Her voice remained steady, but her fingers trembled.

He looked up at her. There was no fury in his eyes-just a tired shadow. And something that burned slowly, painfully.

"You're a bullshit liar."

Beloved froze. Her cheeks paled, as if she'd been caught off guard at a moment when she was particularly vulnerable.

"I don't... Leon..."

"You think I don't feel it?" - The voice had gotten lower. Almost a whisper. - "I'm no saint. But you're not even trying."

She wanted to say something. To brush it off, to close again with sarcasm or the phrase "what do you care." But she couldn't. The words weren't coming.

"It doesn't mean anything." - she whispered at last. - "You knew who you were messing with, didn't you? I don't know how to...stick with one."

Leon stepped closer. Slowly. Not threateningly - calmly, like he didn't mean to startle. Leaned in. Their foreheads were almost touching.

"And I know how. And I chose you." - he whispered softly.

The girl squirmed. From emotion, not fear. As if his words pierced too precisely. Too honest.

"Don't make me regret this."

She clamped her eyes shut, biting her lip. Her hands clenched into fists.

"I didn't sleep with him." - She exhaled.

He didn't answer right away.

"But you wanted to?"

She looked away. It was as if the question was a blow.

"I didn't want to. I'm sorry..." - Her voice trembled. - "I need the money... I'm afraid you'll leave me. Afraid I'll be left like a discarded kitten. Without a roof. Without meaning. Without you. I'm nothing. I'm hopeless. Я..."

{{user}} covered her face with her hands. The words came off like splinters. Her shoulders shook. She was ashamed to cry, but she couldn't hold it back.

He stared at her in silence. Then he stepped forward and held her tightly against him, as if he was afraid she would dissolve. Didn't ask anything more. He didn't reproach her.

"Hush, hush, don't say that." - He whispered into her hair. - "You're not nothing. You're going to be okay. I'm right here beside you. I'm not leaving."

She sobbed, but didn't break free. Just clutched at his shirt like she was afraid of drowning again.