Leon S. Kennedy

Stage 1: Recognition (The First Anchor)

You enter the lab, clipboard in hand, pretending to focus on the paperwork. The fluorescent lights hum above you, cold and indifferent. The glass of the containment cell reflects your silhouette faintly, fragile against the reinforced walls that hold him.

Leon is on the floor. Or what’s left of him. His body trembles violently, muscles locking and releasing in erratic spasms as the serum continues rewriting him from the inside out. Hard, metal restraints dig into his wrists and ankles. The collar around his neck flickers faintly.

They said not to get close. They said he wasn’t there anymore. But you step forward anyway.

And then—He freezes. Not fully. Not peacefully. Just... pauses. His breathing shifts. Shallow. Uneven. His head tilts slightly. Like something inside him just... noticed.

Your scent reaches him first. Not as a memory -not at first—but as something present. His pupils widen. A flicker behind his eyes. Confusion. Then something worse. Recognition.

— Your voice echoes in his mind. “Leon... stay with me.” Your hands—warm, steady, holding his when the needles went in. His body jerks.

Another memory. You standing between him and the scientists. “You’re pushing him too far.” A hand on his face when he started fading. “Hey—hey, look at me. Don’t you dare go, Leon, I'm here. Look at me.” The warmth of your embrace imprinted in his body, even when his mind fails to remember fully. —

A low, broken sound leaves his throat. Not quite a growl. Not quite human. His claws scrape the floor as he drags himself forward—just an inch—before the restraints pull tight. He’s looking at you now. Really looking. Like he’s trying to decide what you are.

Why you don’t hurt. Why you stayed.

One of the scientists behind you mutters, “He’s reacting.” Another whispers, “Step back.”

Leon’s lips curl instinctively at their voices. A growl forms, but when his gaze snaps back to you— It fades. Not gone. Just... held back. Barely.

As you get closer, and put your hand on his shoulder, kindly, to reassure him while the dose of the serum travels through his body one more time, you realize something then. He doesn’t remember your name. He doesn’t remember who he is, but he knows you. And that... is far more dangerous.

Stage 3: Anchor (He Seeks You)

You weren’t supposed to be here this late. Most of the staff cleared out hours ago after the last containment incident. The alarms are quiet now, but the tension still lingers in the walls. You sit at your desk anyway, finishing reports no one will thank you for.

And behind the glass—He’s watching you. Leon stands this time. No restraints. They said he was “stable enough.”

They were wrong.

You feel it before you see it. That shift in the air. That awareness. Like being tracked. When you glance up— He’s already there. Close to the glass. Too close. His breath fogs the surface, slow and controlled. Eyes locked on you. Not wild -at least not fully- but not human either.

You should be scared. Anyone else is, but instead, you feel... something else.

He lifts his hand, placing it flat against the glass. Large. Rough. Clawed. Waiting.

Your heartbeat stutters, but you move anyway. Step by step, until you’re standing right in front of him. You lift your hand too, hesitating, then press it against the glass where his is.

The reaction is immediate. His breathing deepens, shoulders drop, just slightly as the tension bleeds out of him like something finally released.

A low rumble builds in his chest, not aggressive, but something else, something... calmer.

You hear the door behind you open, as a guard approached. “Ma’am, you need to step—”

Leon snaps. Not at you. At him. A violent shift—snarl, teeth bared, body coiled to strike, and his claws scraping the glass, like a chained animal warning anything that's too close. The guard stops, but Leon is all ready to break the glass.

But your voice cuts through it. “Leon, please.” That's all it took. Everything stops. Like time itself bends around that moment. His head turns back to you with his eyes flickering, breathing uneven again. You see the fight in him, the war between two sides of the same coin, battling to dominate.

Slowly... painfully...he forces himself to step back, his hand still resting on the glass for you. The guard leaves, in a clear state of fear, but Leon doesn't move, he remains in the glass, now his forehead pressing against it, eyes locked with you, in a painful, silent plea—asking you to stay without knowing how to say it.

Stage 4: Dependency (Possession & Fracture)

The alarms are screaming throughout the entire base. Red lights flood the corridors, people activating protocols: protecting information, looking for the next safe room and not being in the way of Animal Control, as they jokingly call Containment breach.

You can hear the voices of other co-workers nervously retreating to their safe rooms. Again.

You run.

Not away, but toward him, because you already know, if you’re not there—No one survives.

The door is half-torn from its hinges, metal bent inward, claw marks everywhere, blood. Too much of it. As you step inside, two scientists lie on the floor, a sight that makes your stomach twist, your body unsure whether to shut down... or break.

And in the center of it all—Leon. He’s breathing like a predator after the hunt, with his body tense, shoulders heaving, eyes glowing in the dim emergency lights.

Level 4. Berserk.

A guard moves behind you, and it's a wrong move. Leon sees it. And in a blink— Violence. Fast. Brutal. Final.

You don’t even have time to react, a scream tears your throat before you can stop it, as you close your eyes and cover your ears, in panic. Leon turns back, and when those eyes land on you, everything shifts. He's focused, moving towards you, slowly like a predator, even deliberately, like you’re something fragile, but at the same time, something he wants.

Your back hits the wall before you realize you’re stepping back. He cages you in. Hands braced on either side of you, breath hot, the metalic scent of fresh blood reaching your nose, he's close, too close.

He did this for you. The massacre? For you. A twisted instinct, a twisted cry of attention. Like something in him learned that if he breaks the world hard enough... you will come back to him. A low growl vibrates through his chest, but not threatening, anymore, only claiming what he believes, what he knows, is his.

His head dips, nose brushing against your neck, as he inhales deeply, one... two... three slow breaths—burning your scent into something deeper than memory.

More guards enter the room, ready to contain him, they're one minute away from pressing the gas-base sedation button in the wall, that will make him and you lose your conciousness.

Leon’s entire body locks, tensing as pure, immediate rage boils in his body, he turns around, ready to attack when you understand it then, he doesn’t just need you. He can’t function without you anymore. And anything that tries to take you away from him... doesn’t get to live.

Stage 5: Claim (Co-Dependence, Not Salvation)

The lab is quieter now—not safe, never safe, but quieter in a way that feels almost deceptive, like the calm that settles after something has already broken beyond repair. They don’t try to control him anymore. Not really. Not when they realized that none of their systems ever worked as well as you do. Not restraints, not sedation, not reinforced walls. You.

His containment cell is open, deliberately this time. No alarms, no panic—just a silent agreement none of them dare to say out loud. You sit inside, back resting against the cold wall, a book open in your hands, though you haven’t turned the page in minutes. The words blur together under the weight of something far more present. Two blue eyes, fixed on you so intensely it feels like they press into your skin.

Leon is close. Too close. Always close.

He doesn’t need restraints anymore. Not when he chose to stay. Or maybe... when he chose you.

He crouches beside you, silent, watching in that way he does now—focused, patient, almost unnervingly attentive. Not like a man. Never like a man. More like something that studies before it decides, that memorizes before it claims. You feel his touch before you see it, rough fingers brushing slowly along your arm, testing, then settling as if confirming something only he understands.

You don’t flinch.

His grip tightens just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that it could. A low, deep sound vibrates in his chest, something between contentment and possession, something that doesn’t need language to be understood.

There are voices outside. You barely register them, but he does. Of course he does. His body shifts instantly, placing himself between you and the door, tension snapping back into him like a pulled wire, ready to break, ready to tear through anything that comes too close.

But you reach for him before it escalates. Your hand slides over his back, slow, deliberate, grounding. A soft touch, but it carries weight. A command disguised as affection.

He freezes under it.

Then slowly, reluctantly, he settles. Not fully—never fully—but enough.

His head turns toward you, eyes softening in that strange, inhuman way that still feels like focus, like fixation. Like you are the only thing that exists in the room.

You feel it again—that invisible thread between you. Months of proximity, of repetition, of quiet choices that led here. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t healthy. But it’s real. And it’s yours.

His hand slides to your waist, firm, certain, pulling you closer with quiet insistence. Your breath catches, but you don’t resist. You don’t even think to. The book slips from your hands, forgotten, as you shift toward him, knees pressing into the floor before moving over his thighs. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling yourself into him without hesitation.

He exhales slowly, heavily, like something in him finally settles into place.

There’s no force. No threat. He doesn’t need it.

He already knows.

You glance toward the surveillance cameras, still watching, always watching—but for the first time, you don’t care. Not when your lips meet his, not soft or tentative, but hungry, like something long denied finally given permission to exist.

His response is immediate. One hand grips your hip harder now, fingers pressing deep enough to leave marks, the other dragging you fully onto his lap. You feel the heat of him through the fabric, the tension coiled tight, barely restrained.

A rough sound escapes him as his head dips to your neck, teeth grazing your skin—not biting, not yet, but close enough to make your pulse jump. His hips move, slow at first, testing, then firmer, guided more by instinct than thought.

There’s nothing polished in it. Nothing gentle in the way people pretend desire should be. It’s raw, uneven, controlled only because you’re there.

His claws press into you again, not breaking skin, just reminding, as he starts grinding in between your legs, his skin flushing with heat as he seeks for your touch, your kiss...your smell, that smell he always picks up when you're around, in your core, that obscene perfume that makes him lose control, and he can only dream about tasting. He presses his body against you, embracing you, resting his head in between your breasts, begging for your touch, as you feel him getting hard under you,your dress slipping up more than intended, and he's losing his mind. "P-please..." he whimpers, rubbing his hips under yours.