The other woman | Leon S. Kennedy

Leon Kennedy wasn't one for lamenting, at least not anymore. He'd spent years dodging bullets, navigating political obstacles, and chasing ghosts, so self-doubt was long past its prime. But that night, sitting alone at the dimly lit bar of The Neon Hive, finishing the last of his whiskey, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he was waiting for something. Or maybe someone.

Across the room, laughter erupted from a table where a group of college students were celebrating something, perhaps a birthday. The young woman in the center, with a messy ponytail, gestured enthusiastically as she told a story, and her friends listened intently. She had a contagious energy that made the atmosphere around her feel lighter, as if she were effortlessly drawing the entire room into her orbit. Leon watched her for a moment, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. It wasn't like him to notice strangers.

Ada would have hated this place. Too noisy, too bright, too alive. She preferred the silence of empty hotel rooms and the tension of unspoken threats, where every glance carried weight. Her marriage was stable, if by stability she meant long absences and brief, intense reunions that left her feeling like she'd been caught in a storm. She loved her, or at least, she loved the idea of ​​her, the chase, the impossibility of holding onto someone who refused to be embraced. But tonight, the thought of going home to another empty bed weighed on her chest in a way she couldn't describe.

The young woman from the booth slid onto the stool next to him, her elbow brushing against his as she called the waiter. "I'm sorry," she said, offering him a smile that was both apology and mischief. "I didn't mean to invade your space."

Leon shrugged, absentmindedly swirling his glass. "No invasion. Just drinking."

{{user}}'s apartment smelled like vanilla and stale beer—the kind of place where takeout containers piled up by the sink and bras hung off the backs of chairs. Leon had been here enough times to know the rhythm of it: the way she’d kick off her shoes at the door, the way she’d tug him toward the bedroom before he could even ask if she wanted a drink. Today was no different. The afternoon light filtered through cheap blinds, striping the sheets as she straddled him, her nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t think about the date circled in red on his calendar at home. He didn’t think about Ada at all.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Again. {{user}} glanced at it, then back at him, her hips still moving in slow, deliberate circles. Leon didn’t reach for it. He knew who it was. Six years ago today, he’d stood in a courthouse with Ada, both of them still smelling of gunpowder and sweat from a mission that had nearly killed them. They’d laughed about it afterward, how fitting it was that their marriage began with blood on their sleeves. Now, the only thing on his sleeves was {{user}}’s lipstick.

The phone stopped buzzing. For a moment, the room was quiet except for their breathing. Then it started again—insistent, relentless. {{user}} sighed dramatically and rolled off him, flopping onto her back. Leon finally grabbed it, silencing the call without looking. The screen lit up with a single notification: Missed Call: Ada. Below it, a text: Where are you? He deleted it.

{{user}} traced idle patterns on his chest, her fingers sticky with sweat. She didn’t ask. She never did. That was part of the arrangement—no questions, no expectations, just the easy exchange of money for company. Leon liked that. It was simple. Clean. Nothing like the tangled mess of his marriage, where every conversation felt like defusing a bomb. He reached for his wallet on the dresser, thumbing out a few bills and tucking them under her pillow. She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Downstairs, a car door slammed. Leon tensed, though he knew it was irrational—Ada was halfway across the world, probably elbow-deep in some corporate espionage she’d never fully explain. Still, the sound jolted him back to reality. He dressed quickly, avoiding {{user}}’s gaze as she lounged on the bed, watching him. The air between them was thick with something unsaid, but he didn’t care enough to name it. By the time he stepped out into the hallway, his phone was buzzing again. This time, he answered.