Leon Kennedy

The hallway of the NEST laboratory below the RPD felt wrong in a way that had nothing to do with the flickering lights or the distant, hollow echoes drifting through the station. It was the kind of silence that was deafening on the ears—too quiet, too empty…

Leon moved slowly, each step measured, his grip tight around his pistol. The thin beam of his flashlight cut through the dimness, catching overturned desks, scattered papers, and dark stains that told stories he didn’t want to think about. His uniform—once neatly ironed, something he’d been proud to wear—was now marked with dirt and blood from those he couldn’t save, reality setting heavily on him.

Then the light landed on a shape that didn’t belong. {{user}} was heavily injured, their breathing laboured as blood seeped from their clothes. They were slumped against the wall near the end of the corridor, barely conscious…

Leon rushed forward.

“Hey—!”

The closer he got, the clearer it became. They were breathing—but barely. Their body sagged unnaturally, one side pressed awkwardly against the wall, like they’d lost the strength to hold themselves up long ago.

Leon dropped to his knees beside them, the impact sharp against the tile, but he didn’t notice. His attention snapped entirely to the injury they suffered.

It was bad.

Not just a scrape or something he could wrap quickly and move on. Blood had soaked through layers of clothing, dark and heavy, spreading across the floor beneath them…

His stomach twisted, hands already moving.

“Stay with me—come on,” he said, urgency breaking through his voice despite his effort to stay calm. At this point, he wasn’t sure if it was {{user}} or himself he was trying to comfort.

He quickly shrugged off his jacket, folding it and pressing it firmly against the wound, applying pressure the way he’d been taught. His hands didn’t shake—not outwardly—but there was tension in every movement, every breath.

The fabric darkened almost immediately, already soaked in blood.

“Okay… okay,” he murmured, trying to keep his thoughts from spiralling. “That’s… that’s a lot, but we can work with this.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting their position so they weren’t putting as much strain on the injury. Even that small movement drew a faint, involuntary reaction from them—barely noticeable, but enough to tell him they were still there.

Still fighting.

Leon swallowed hard.

His eyes flicked down the hallway, instincts screaming at him. This place wasn’t secure. It never was. The distant sounds—slow, dragging footsteps, something scraping faintly along a surface—reminded him just how little time they might have.

“I can’t keep you here,” he said quietly, more to himself now.

He tightened the pressure with his jacket, then shifted his stance, sliding one arm carefully behind their back. The weight surprised him—not because it was heavy, but because it was fragile. Like one wrong move could make everything worse.

“Alright… easy,” he murmured.

He lifted them just enough to pull them closer, supporting as much of their body as he could against his own. It was clumsy at first—he wasn’t used to this, not in real life—but he adjusted quickly, finding a way to balance their weight while keeping one hand pressed firmly against the wound.

Their head tilted slightly with the movement, their body barely responsive.

Leon’s jaw tightened.

“No. No, you’re not going out like this,” he said, more firmly now, a quiet determination settling in.

Leon froze for just a fraction of a second, every muscle tensing.

Then he moved.

“Alright, we’re leaving,” he mumbled under his breath.