Leon Scott Kennedy

The village didn’t feel abandoned—it felt like it was waiting.

Every step I took echoed too loudly against the damp wood and cracked stone, like something out there was keeping count. The air smelled wrong. Rotting, but not dead. Not completely. “Real welcoming place,” Leon S. Kennedy muttered behind me, his voice low but steady. I tightened my grip on the weapon in my hands. “You ever get the feeling we’re already too late?” Leon didn’t answer right away. He was listening—really listening—the way people do when silence starts to feel louder than noise. Then— A door creaked somewhere deeper in the village. Not the wind. Not random. Intentional. Leon shifted beside me, gun raising just a fraction. “Stay close,” he said, sharper now. “This isn’t just a search anymore.”

A shadow moved behind one of the fogged windows. Too fast. Too aware. And for a split second, I could’ve sworn it was watching me—not him. “Leon…” I whispered. “Yeah,” he replied, already aiming. “I saw it.” Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang. Slow. Heavy. Calling something. Or warning it.