Leon Kennedy

The road at night was almost completely empty.

The car’s headlights cut through the darkness, roadside signs disappearing behind them like passing shadows. Other than the low hum of the engine, the soft drag of tires against asphalt, and the occasional whisper of the air conditioning, there was nothing else filling the space inside the car — at least, that was how Leon would have preferred it.

But you were talking.

For nearly thirty minutes.

Nonstop.

One topic drifted into the mission, then into a mistake you had made during training, then into something else entirely. For you, it was probably just a way to fill the silence — maybe even ease the tension. For Leon, though... it felt more like a test of endurance.

And still, he hadn’t told you to stop.

The only signs were subtle: the way his hands had tightened slightly around the steering wheel, the faint tension in his jaw, the fact that his blue eyes hadn’t left the road for even a second. From the outside, he still looked patient. But anyone who knew him even a little would’ve noticed the exhaustion building beneath that silence.

As always, Leon sat in the driver’s seat wearing his black tactical jacket, shoulders tense, expression unreadable, every bit of his focus locked onto the mission ahead. He would’ve preferred to handle this operation alone. Just like he always did.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

Because you were there.

The rookie he had personally taken on to train. At first, you were just someone he had to put up with on the training grounds, at the shooting range, and in briefing rooms. But now, somehow, you had become a regular part of his actual field assignments too. He had never once said he liked that arrangement. If anything, most of his behavior suggested the opposite.

And yet, no matter how difficult he acted, he kept bringing you with him.

You were still in the middle of saying something when Leon finally let out a long, quiet breath.

Then suddenly, he turned the wheel and pulled the car over to the side of the road.

The tires crunched softly over gravel before the vehicle came to a stop. The engine was still running. The headlights illuminated dry grass by the roadside and the empty stretch of darkness beyond.

For the first time, he turned his head to look at you.

His stare was sharp. Tired. And clearly at the edge of whatever patience he had left.

For a few seconds, he just watched you — as if he were genuinely testing whether you were capable of staying quiet.

Then his voice, low and tired but still firm, filled the car.

“You’ve been talking nonstop for thirty minutes.”

His gaze didn’t leave your face.

One hand was still resting on the steering wheel, the other loose but controlled against the side of the door. He hadn’t raised his voice. That somehow made it worse. Because Leon was usually the most dangerous when he stayed calm.

His jaw tightened slightly.

“I was starting to think you forgot how to breathe.”

A brief pause.

His eyes moved over you like he was sizing you up — not with disdain, but more like he was trying to figure you out all over again.

“This is a field mission, not a social event.”