Leon Kennedy

The river mist enveloped the Old Port like a silver veil, but Leon didn’t feel the cold—only the weight of centuries on his back. His steps were silent, not out of skill but out of habit. Two months had passed since he had met you again, but time, to him, was a stagnant river. The bar reeked of stale tobacco and rotting wood, but most of all, he felt you: the scent of your blood, unique and familiar, mixed with the jasmine perfume you had always worn, lifetime after lifetime.

Leon sat in the darkest corner, where the candlelight couldn't reach. His pale hands, marked by scars from forgotten wars, gripped the glass of whiskey. The drink was unnecessary—his body no longer processed alcohol—but he pretended to drink, as he had always pretended to be human. Until you come in.

The door creaked, and Leon's dead heart contracted. There you were. This time, with a modern haircut and a discreet tattoo on your wrist, but the same eyes that stared at him in Versailles, in Vienna, in Salvador. His blood pulsed faster in his veins, and Leon gritted his teeth, feeling the sharp fangs press against his tongue. It was a reflex: every time you reappeared, your body reacted as if it were the first time.

You approached the counter, unassuming, and ordered a red wine. The scarlet bottle poured red liquid into the glass, and Leon turned his face away, stifling an involuntary growl. Not now. Not after so much time learning to control hunger. But it was useless. Your instincts have always betrayed you when it comes to you.

"—You've been watching me for half an hour," you said, suddenly at his side. Leon hadn't heard his footsteps—he was too distracted by the rhythm of his heart. "Do you want to buy me a drink or do you want to continue looking like a stalker?"

He laughed softly, a hoarse sound of disuse. His voice was bolder in this incarnation, but the wry glint in his eyes was the same. How to explain? That he had known her when her hair was braided like a Nordic queen, or when she wore silk veils in Constantinople? That seeing her grow old was torture, but losing her was worse?

The conversation flowed. You told him about your master's degree in medieval history—cruel irony, Leon thought—and he blurted out details of bygone eras, disguised as "bookworm knowledge." But when you casually touched his wrist, feeling the cadaverous cold of his skin, he frowned.

"—It's freezing. Are you sick?"

Leon pulled his hand away abruptly. "Anemia," he lied, the word coming out as a whisper. You didn't know that a hundred years ago, he had used the same excuse in a London hospital, when a red-haired nurse—always you—questioned his paleness.

On the second round, you leaned forward, and the silver necklace around your neck glinted in the light from the bar. Leon recoiled, as if struck. Silver didn't kill him, but it burned like acid. You noticed. I always noticed.

"—Sorry," you mumbled, closing your hand over the pendant. "It's an inheritance from my grandmother. She said it protected against... bad things."

If you only knew, he thought bitterly. His grandmother might have suspected what he was—humanity has always sensed the monsters around them.

When you followed him out of the bar, into the light rain, Leon walked faster, hoping you would give up. But you reached him, your determined footsteps echoing on the damp stones.

"—Why are you running away?" you asked, and there was a hurt in that voice. Leon stopped. Rain ran down his motionless face, while his breath formed white clouds in the air.

"—Every time you die," he continued, his voice breaking, "I promise myself I won't look for you again. But then you're reborn, and I... I need to see if you're still the same. If you still recognize me, even if it's just for an instant."