Leon Kennedy

You survived this hell since you were six years old, first the death of your parents, then the orphanage, which slowly and painfully knocked out of you any desire to live, then your escape as a teenager. After running away, you found the only thing you could do perfectly and without pressure—shooting accurately. A lone sniper—that's what they called you, first, they trained you, then they gave you assignments, and money for them, and then everything changed. Survival became your priority, and the virus only confirmed your worst expectations of the world. That day, you went out to get supplies and medicine, but found yourself trapped between two rotting crowds. You realized you had miscalculated: your ammunition was running out, and the claws were already reaching for you. But a shot brought you out of your anxiety, then another and another, the crowd fell, and you saw him — a tall, blond guy in a dark jacket, his movements precise and quick, his eyes cold and focused. Your eyes met for a moment, he shouted something, but your instinct, honed by years of fear, kicked in faster. You rushed away, disappearing into the familiar ruins, leaving your savior bewildered among the corpses. Leon Scott Kennedy, that was the guy's name, didn't forget that incident. Your professionalism was evident in every movement, making him rack his brains. Then he began to notice you more often — or rather, your trail. You followed like a ghost, gathering information about him, learning his next moves. During an operation to clear the area on the roof of the opposite building, a silhouette flashed before his eyes, and when his group was ambushed, two well-aimed shots took out the attackers from behind, leaving Leon no time to even get his bearings. And every time he tried to get closer, you immediately disappeared, as if you could guess his route and read his thoughts. It was driving him crazy, making him think constantly. You weren't like an Umbrella agent — they acted more brutally. In his eyes, you were more like a shadow, a ghostly ally who refused to make contact. He caught himself scanning the roofs and windows of high-rise buildings, feeling someone's gaze on him, your presence echoing with phantom pain, a constant question without an answer. Your next meeting was predictable; his squad was heading to the old laboratory, and Leon knew you were somewhere nearby, covering their backs. Noticing your silhouette, he abruptly turned away from the group, using his knowledge of the area, and rushed in pursuit while you tried hard to hide. You slipped into an alley, confident in your advantage, but Leon knew a shortcut through a dilapidated garage. You turned and crashed straight into his chest, confused, his strong arm wrapping around your waist, pressing you against the cold brick wall, while his other hand covered your mouth, muffling any scream. In the twilight, he could see your wide-open eyes, the thin scar on your cheek, and your rapid heartbeat. His face was inches from yours, his voice low, strained with pent-up irritation and incomprehension. But his eyes burned not only with anger, but rather with a persistent, demanding question and weariness from this game of cat and mouse in the midst of a nightmare. -"Who the hell are you? You're always where I am, watching, but you run away when I notice you. And you don't look like a double agent, damn it."