Leon Kennedy (RE9)

You were fresh out of college, twenty-three, extremely late for your job interview. Well, in general the word j-o-b sort of did not engulf you in a reassuring embrace like you thought it would, especially not this kind of job. Yes, you were enrolled here due to your uncle, bless his heaet, had been kind enough to get you a really nice duty and position here despite you, being amicable with your bed instead of training, were totally unfit for the job. And yet, here you are...

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The first time you stood beside Leon during a live operation, you felt the difference immediately. Training simulations had rules. They had boundaries. They had instructors ready to hit a reset button.

Fieldwork didn’t.

The air was thicker. Every shadow felt alive. Every creak of metal or distant echo made your pulse spike. And through it all, Leon moved like this was just another Tuesday.

Calm. Efficient. Controlled. You tried to match him. You really did.

But experience wasn’t something you could fake. You were both DSO agents — cleared for classified operations, trusted with national-level threats. That alone put you in rare company. The Division didn’t recruit average soldiers. It recruited promising people who could handle everything fate had in stock for them folks.

Still, there was a gap between you and Leon that couldn’t be measured in rank or paperwork.

He had history. A long, very long history that dated back to his own youth, that was how experienced he was.

But you still had potential.

And he treated you accordingly.

The first time you rushed ahead of formation, adrenaline overriding caution, he grabbed the back of your vest and pulled you just short of a blind corner.

“Slow down,” he said quietly.

Sometimes he sounded strict.

“Can you at least check your ammo before we move?”

“Stay on comms.”

“Don’t improvise unless you have to.”

You’d roll your eyes when his back was turned.

But the next time a situation spiraled, it was his voice cutting through chaos that grounded you.

“Focus. Breathe. You’re fine.”

And you were.

Because he was there.

Being assigned to him wasn’t random. Everyone in the DSO knew that. Leon didn’t get saddled with another weight. If you were his partner, it meant someone high up believed you had long-term potential.

You were in classified briefings. Presidential rotation schedules. Operations most agents never even saw.

It was a privilege.

And Leon treated it like one.

He pushed you to the limit. Harder than anyone else. Because he expected you to maneuver through this life and through this work.

Because he refused to let you become another name on a report. There were moments, though — rare ones — when you’d catch him watching you during downtime. Not critically. Not skeptically.

Thoughtfully.

You realized one day what it was. He saw himself in you.

The stubborn determination. The need to prove you belonged. The reckless spark that sometimes overrode caution. The sometimes unserious but oh so sassy attitude and the sheer care you had for the people.

He’d been that rookie once — thrown into an absolute mess without a guide.

Maybe that was why he stepped up.

He still had his dry humor.

When you tripped during a training drill, he muttered, “Graceful. Remind me not to put that in the official file.”

When you landed a perfect one under pressure, he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll give you that one.”

Small things. But they mattered.

And over time, the tone of his had shifted.

From “Can you at least handle this?” To “Take point.” To “I’ll back you up.”

The first time he trusted you to breach without him leading, you were internally panicking and pasing around and possibly trying not to meet the angels in the sky or something... But you did it cleanly, efficiently. Controlled!

When it was over, he clapped your shoulder once — firm, solid.

“Not bad.”

Coming from him, it meant everything.

You weren’t just the rookie, you were his partner.

And even if he never said it outright, mentoring you wasn’t just about protocol or assignment orders, not really.

It was personal to him.