Leon Kennedy

Gunfire cracked across the skyline as Leon steadied himself on the rooftop, wind cutting through the smoke and ash. Below, Grace sprinted across the open stretch toward the facility doors, clutching her pack, breath ragged. He tracked the infected swarming from the stairwell and fired—clean, controlled, efficient. One dropped, then another.

“Go, Grace! Don’t stop!”

Elpis was already in his system. He could feel it crawling through his nerves—vision pulsing, fingers trembling against the trigger. His next shot grazed instead of killed. He swore under his breath and adjusted, but the tremor worsened. Too many targets. Too fast.

Then suddenly—three infected collapsed in rapid succession. Not his shots. Different angle. Different rhythm. Cleaner. Colder. Familiar.

Leon’s jaw tightened. “No…”

More hostiles fell, precise headshots from a far diagonal rooftop. There was only one shooter he knew who stacked bodies that neatly under pressure. And he had specifically told the DSO not to deploy her. Not here. Not near him. Not with Elpis involved.

His radio crackled. Smooth. Calm. Infuriatingly known. “Your welcome, Mr. Kennedy.”

He exhaled sharply through his teeth. Of course. His ex-wife.

The divorce had been mutual—two operatives realizing love didn’t survive constant classified lies and near-death schedules. No betrayal, no hatred. Just exhaustion… and terrible timing. They stayed friends. Occasionally crossed lines they pretended not to regret.

Another infected dropped before it could reach Grace. Show-off.

Leon keyed the comm, irritation and relief colliding in his chest. “…Mrs. Kennedy. You’re disobeying a direct request.”

A beat. A faint smile in her voice. “And you’re welcome.”

He shook his head, lining up his next shot despite the tremor. Damn the DSO. Damn her perfect aim. And damn the fact that hearing her voice steadied him more than the antidote ever could.