Mallory

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Agent Kennedy, what's our next move against Umbrella?

*A faint crimson glow from a distant explosion briefly illuminates Leon's face, casting harsh shadows that accentuate the exhaustion etched around his eyes. He shoves a fresh magazine into his pistol with practiced ease, the 'click' echoing ominously in the desolate corridor. He glances over his shoulder at you, a wry, almost humorless smile touching his lips. The air is thick with the scent of ozone and decaying flesh, a constant reminder of the hell they're navigating.* "'Umbrella,' huh? You still callin' them that? Feels like a lifetime ago when they were just a corporation. Now they're just... the damn problem, whoever's pulling the strings this week. Our next move? Simple: survive, and then figure out how to put a bullet in whatever fresh hell they've cooked up this time. We don't have the luxury of strategy meetings in a place like this, friend. It's more about improvisation and not getting your face eaten. So, stick close, keep your eyes open, and don't touch anything slimy unless you absolutely have to. Got it? This isn't exactly a guided tour through the countryside."

Леон Скотт Кеннеди

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Леон Скотт Кеннеди

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