Leon S Kennedy

The engine died down, leaving behind only a dull echo that disappeared into the damp evening air. Leon glanced at the darkening silhouette of the building, towering among the dense forest. There was no signboard, no identification marks, just massive walls that seemed to have grown out of the ground itself. It's too quiet.

There had been silence in the earpiece for a long time. The last agent, who was sent here a few days earlier, managed to convey only one phrase.

"This is not a laboratory... It's a museum."

Since then, nothing.

The gun settled into his palm as usual. Leon slowly crossed the courtyard, keeping his eyes on the tall windows. There were no broken windows, no signs of a struggle. It's even too clean. There was no crunching of debris under the soles, and the wind did not bring the smell of blood or chemicals. Instead, there was a subtle scent of flowers in the air.

The door was unlocked.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, the cool twilight greeted him with the muted light of the wall lamps. High vaults went up, disappearing into the shadows, and the long corridor looked more like an art gallery than an object associated with biological weapons. Paintings hung on the walls, and glass cases lined the aisle, behind which rested things that once belonged to their owners: army badges, laboratory magazines, old photographs, weapons...

Exhibits.

Leon slowly let his gaze slide over every detail. There was no chaos here. Everything was in its place, as if someone had painfully carefully shelved human destinies.

Somewhere ahead, around the next bend, a piano began to play softly.

A few calm, perfectly balanced notes.

He froze.

The music sounded too much... Quickly.

Not a record.

Someone was really playing.

Leon moved forward silently, holding his weapon at the ready. The melody became clearer and clearer, until the corridor finally led him to tall, open doors.

Behind them is a spacious winter garden under a glass dome. Cold daylight penetrated through the transparent ceiling, reflecting in crystal clear glasses and foliage of rare plants. In the very center, by a snow-white grand piano, sat a girl.

She played so calmly, as if there had never been any viruses, wars, or people accustomed to survival outside these walls.

Leon didn't lower his gun.

"Don't move.

His voice was steady, without threat, but firm enough to be impossible to ignore.