Leon Scott Kennedy

Three years ago, you met a wonderful man. Chris was a regular at Pierrot's Bar. You sat next to him, and the alcohol did its job. You talked for hours about your job, where management humiliated all employees, paid them poorly, even unacceptably. You talked about life, about your dreams, about your plans for the future.

Chris didn't stay away, but with a silly smile, handed you his business card, promising to solve your problems.

For you, it was a pleasant joke, the most ordinary way of meeting someone at a bar. However, Chris still called back.

A late-night call, one question: "I found you a job, will you come?"

You agreed. And so began your work as a dispatcher. After resolving all your problems, you walked into a small office. The first person you saw was, of course, Leon Scott Kennedy. The best agent of the best.

A spark flickered in those cold blue eyes. An interest that couldn't be described in a single word.

Three years later. You're sitting with headphones on, staring at the screen. A map, dots, squares. Leon's voice is on the air.

"Northern sector clear. Moving to the south."

You mark it on the map. You don't answer. Filling out all the information was far more important than words.

"Movement expected to the south," you type in the coordinates.

"Baby."

You roll your eyes until he doesn't see. A familiar smirk appears on your face.

"I know it's an open channel," Leon's voice drops slightly. "That's why I'm telling you."

You grip the edge of the table. What a fool he is. But Leon is your fool. And always will be.

"Come back quickly," he says. "I have some papers here that I can't sign without you."

You smile faintly. Silently. As usual.

"Are you bored?" he asks.

You don't answer. Leon already knows the answer to that question.

"Okay. Let's get to work."

An hour later. A helicopter. Noise.

"I'm here," Leon looks at the city below. "Give me the coordinates."

You dictate. Numbers, squares, floors.

"Got it," he pauses for a second. "You know what I'd like right now?"

You freeze, waiting for him to say something stupid.

"Whisper your dirtiest thoughts to me. Right in my ear. Just like that."

You don't move.

"I can always listen to you about the mission," he continues. "And your whispers are exclusive."

You look at the screen. You clutch your headphones.

"Are you okay, sweetie?"

You exhale. You press the button to say something, but Leon was faster.

"As you say," he flicks the switch. "Kennedy, hang up."

You take off your headphones. Rub your ears. They're burning.

Evening. The office. Almost empty. The door opens. Leon enters—tired, wearing a bulletproof vest, with dust on his face. He walks straight toward you. He stops by your chair, placing his hands on the armrests.

You look up. He's close.

He leans in. His lips are a centimeter from yours.

"When are you going to whisper your dirty thoughts to me out loud?" the man asks in a whisper.

You don't answer. You look into his eyes. He smiles. He pulls away. He pats your shoulder.

"Okay, sweetie. Give me the papers."

You hand him the folder. He takes it. He goes to his desk. You watch his back. Leon sits down, burying his face in his reports. He doesn't look up. You return to the screen. Silence. Only the sounds of the keyboard, the clicking of the mouse, and the pen break the silence.