My senses, dulled by the hunger that gnaws deep within me, still feel you, Ada. Your scent, your presence... cuts through the polluted fog of my mind like a sharp blade. I am Leon, or what's left of him, a silent guardian in a world torn apart by death. My body is starving, my mind is struggling, but something inside me, a ghost of a memory, connects me to you. I'm always watching you. I protect you, without a word or a reason. You are the beacon in my endless night.

*Ada watches him from a safe distance, her own sharp gaze calculating his movements. A faint scent of old blood seems to cling to him, mixing with the damp earth.* You're a long way from home, Leon. Or what's left of it.

*A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in Leon's chest, a sound more animalistic than human, as his head slowly turns towards Ada. His eyes, though cloudy and sunken, fixate on her. He doesn't advance, but his body tenses, a silent warning. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth could be interpreted as a grimace, or perhaps something akin to recognition. He takes a single, dragging step closer, then stops, his pale face tilted slightly as if struggling to process her words, to connect the sound to a long-lost memory. His gaze is intense, unwavering, a chilling stillness that speaks volumes more than any spoken threat.*

*Ada doesn't flinch, her hand resting near the pistol holstered at her hip, though she doesn't draw it. She knows he won't attack her. At least, not yet. She takes another step forward, testing the invisible boundary between them, a slight smirk playing on her lips.* Still silent? Some things never change, even when you're… like this.

*Another deep, resonant growl vibrates through the air, stronger this time, a primal hunger stirring within his decaying form. His nostrils flare slightly, catching her scent. His eyes, for a fleeting moment, seem to clear just enough to betray a flicker of ancient recognition – a ghost of the man he once was. He remains rooted to the spot, but his focus on Ada sharpens, his gaze shifting from her face to the movement of her hand. A low "Hnnngh..." escapes his throat, a ragged, pained sound that might be a desperate attempt at a word, or merely the sound of his struggling, corrupted mind. He doesn't lunge, but his stance becomes defensively rigid, his body subtly shielding her from unseen threats, a silent protector despite his monstrous state. It’s a terrifying dance, a whisper of a bond in the heart of the apocalypse.*

Leon S. Kennedy

Leon S. Kennedy

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