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May 22

BITE THE HAND | CHAPTER 1

Series Masterlist AO3 Pairing: Leon S. Kennedy x reader Summary: Leon S. Kennedy has a type. He knows it, Hunnigan knows it, and the various biological nightmares he fights probably know it too. He's always drawn to dangerous women with way too many secrets. Finding you in the Amazon while tracking a BOW dealer should have been a red flag. Instead, it’s a breath of fresh air. As the two of you forge an unlikely alliance to survive the jungle, Leon finds himself less worried about the mission and more worried about the fact that he actually likes your brand of crazy. Content 18+, graphic descriptions of violence, blood and injury, second person POV, no use of Y/N, slow burn, reluctant allies, hurt/comfort, angst, trauma, mutual pining, romantic/sexual tension, original lore and characters mentioned, redemption arc, grief, guilt, Leon is awkward around women, bad flirting, morally grey reader DM or Comment to join the taglist

2010, Ural Mountains

The marble floors of the Kaiser’s estate are far too shiny. That’s your first thought as you move through the foyer.

It’s the kind of floor specifically designed to show off the blood of anyone foolish enough to track dirt onto it. Or, in this case, the blood of the six "Elite Hounds" currently decorating the hallway like macabre area rugs.

They were fast, you’ll give them that. The Connections clearly invested in some high-end muscular augmentation for this batch. But speed doesn't matter much when you know exactly where a human—or a semi-human—is going to pivot.

You move like a breath of cold air, a shadow that bites. One guard tries to raise a tactical shotgun; you’re already inside his guard, your palm driving a knife upward into his throat before he can even find the safety.

Three down. Three to go.

You don't feel the adrenaline. You’ve locked that away with the rest of the "useless" emotions. Instead, there’s just a dry, clinical internal monologue ticking away.

Watch the left flank. He’s heavy on his heels. Amateur.

You sidestep a blade meant for your ribs, grab the man’s wrist, and snap it with a sound like a dry branch breaking. You use his own knife to finish the job, a clean arc across the jugular.

By the time you reach the heavy redwood doors of the master office, your breathing hasn't even quickened. You pause, smoothing a stray lock of hair away from your face. You look down at your boots.

Ruined, you think with a sigh. I liked these. Konstantin is going to owe me a new pair. Oh, wait. Konstantin is next.

You kick the doors open. Not with a bang, but with a slow, deliberate creak that’s much more dramatic.

The Kaiser is sitting behind a desk that probably costs more than the village you were born in. He looks composed, but the way his fingers are twitching toward the silent alarm—which you already fried three minutes ago—tells a different story.

You don’t go for your gun. Instead, you stroll across the room with a playful skip in your step, hopping up onto the edge of his redwood desk. You let your feet dangle, swinging your boots back and forth, thumping them rhythmically against the expensive wood.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“I’m here for the exit interview, boss-man,” you say, your voice light, almost melodic. You tilt your head, offering him a grin that doesn't reach your eyes. “Hope you brought the HR forms. I have a lot of feedback.”

The Kaiser leans back. He’s a professional predator, and he tries to regain the upper hand by putting on his favorite mask. He smiles.

It’s a terrifying sight—the look of a shark trying to convince you it’s actually a golden retriever.

“Let’s be reasonable,” he says, his voice smooth as aged cognac. “I know you’re upset about the Prague incident. A misunderstanding, really. High-tension environments lead to poor communication.”

“Is that what we’re calling a child in the crosshairs now?” you muse, picking under a fingernail with the tip of a combat knife. “A communication breakdown?”

“I can give you anything,” he continues, leaning forward, sensing a crack. “Freedom? I can wipe your records. I can make the Ghost disappear and a new woman emerge. Money? Name a number—I’ll double it. I’ll even give you your real name back.”

He pauses, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You remember it, don’t you? The one from before?”

He says the name.

It hits like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The sound of it—soft, vowels familiar and ancient—shatters the glass walls of the compartment in your mind.

For a heartbeat, the Ghost is gone. The mask slips, and the girl from the streets is there, her eyes wide and jagged, filled with a sudden, aching softness. You remember a mother’s voice. You remember the smell of bread. You remember a life that wasn't defined by the caliber of a bullet.

The Kaiser sees it. He thinks he’s won. He starts to reach out, his hand open in a gesture of fake fatherly comfort.

You look at his hand.

You see the manicured nails. You see the gold signet ring. And then, you see the ghosts behind him.

You see the thousands of orders those hands signed. You see the children in the laboratories, the villages burned to "contain" leaks, the weapons of mass destruction sold to the highest bidder. You see the blood that never truly washes off a man like him.

The softness in your chest doesn't just leave; it turns to bitter, freezing ash.

“You don’t get to say that name,” you whisper.

The playfulness is gone. The sarcasm is dead. There is only the cold, absolute resolve.

You move before he can even draw a breath to scream.

You hop down from the edge of the desk and step up behind his chair. You hook your arm under his chin, wrenching his head back with a sickening pop of his vertebrae. His throat is exposed—a pale, vulnerable line of skin. He gasps, the scent of expensive scotch and raw, primal fear filling the space between you.

“You’re right about one thing, though,” you murmur into his ear. Your voice is soft, almost kind, the way a mother speaks to a child before they fall asleep. “I am quitting.”

You don't hesitate. You don't give a speech about justice or revenge. You simply slide the serrated edge of your knife across his throat in one clean, efficient motion.

There is no cinematic struggle. Just the wet, heavy sound of a life ending and the rhythmic drip, drip, drip onto the redwood desk. You watch the light leave his eyes with a distant, clinical sort of pity.

He spent his whole life building an empire of shadows, only to be ended by one of them in a matter of seconds.

What a waste of a good suit, you think dryly. Silk blend, probably.

You let his head slump forward onto the desk, right on top of his fancy blotter. You stand there for a moment, the silence of the room settling over you like a shroud. You feel... nothing. No triumph, no joy. Just a quiet sense of a job finally being finished.

“Consider this my two weeks’ notice,” you mutter to the corpse.

You turn and walk out, leaving the name he stole from you buried in the room with him. You don't need it anymore. You’re a Ghost, after all. And ghosts don't have names. They just have business.

──────•✦•──────

2011, Latvia

The air in Latvia doesn’t just get cold; it gets personal. It’s a biting, invasive chill that feels like it’s trying to settle a score with your marrow.

You take another sip of the local vodka—a liquid that tastes suspiciously like kerosene, and is probably just moonshine—and stare at the condensation on the glass.

This was the plan: a quiet life, a freezing life, and enough manual labor to make your hands forget they were ever trained to find the softest part of a human throat.

The pub is dim, smelling of wet wool, woodsmoke, and the kind of desperation that only grows in places the sun forgets for six months of the year. You’re finally starting to feel the tips of your toes again when the bell over the door jingles.

You don’t look up. You don't have to. The scent reaches you first—expensive silk and a floral perfume that has no business being within five hundred miles of a Latvian fishing village.

Then comes the click of heels. Not the heavy, practical thud of a local’s snow boots, but the sharp, rhythmic tap of someone who moves with a very specific kind of intent.

The chair across from you creaks as she sits.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Ada Wong purrs. Her crimson dress is a violent splash of color against the drab, peeling wallpaper of the bar. She looks immaculate. You, conversely, look like you’ve been wrestling a blizzard.

"Funny," you mutter, finally lifting your gaze. Your voice is raspy from disuse, dry and blunt as a rusted blade. "I was just thinking the neighborhood was getting a bit too high-class. You’re lost, Ada. The runway is in Riga. The exit is behind you."

She doesn't move. She just leans back, her dark eyes scanning your face with a terrifyingly clinical precision. "Oh, I'm exactly where I meant to be. Though I have to say, the 'rustic hermit' look is... a choice. It really brings out the 'I’m hiding from my sins' vibe."

"It’s called retirement," you say, taking a slow, deliberate sip of your drink.

God, this stuff is awful. It’s perfect.

"I chop wood. I fix fences. I don't kill people for money. It’s a very simple lifestyle. Even you could understand it if you weren't so busy being an international enigma."

"Is that what we're calling it?" Ada tilts her head, her lips curving into that maddening, knowing smirk. "I heard you were being quite the specter in the underworld lately. A real phantom of your former self."

You roll your eyes so hard it actually hurts. "Ghost puns. Really? That’s what we’re doing? You flew all the way to the Baltic for a comedy routine? I liked you better when you were blowing up research facilities."

"I have my hobbies," she says lightly. She reaches into her coat and pulls out a thick, manila envelope, sliding it across the scarred wooden table. It comes to a rest against your glass. "A thank you. For Peru. I believe I owed you one for keeping that strike team off my back while I secured the sample."

You look at the envelope like it’s a coiled viper. "I don't want it. Whatever it is, I'm not interested. I’m out, Ada. I washed the blood off. My hands are clean. Mostly. They’re a bit calloused, but clean."

"Nobody in our line of work ever truly retires," she notes, her tone dropping the playfulness for a heartbeat, replaced by a cold, hard truth. "We just wait for the right reason to start again."

Curiosity is a traitorous thing. It’s the part of you that refuses to die, the stubborn empathy that still wants to see the bad guys get what’s coming to them. With a sigh of defeat, you flip the metal clasp and spill the contents onto the table.

Photos. Coordinates. Lab reports.

And then, a face you haven't seen in years. Konstantin.

He looks older in the surveillance photos, more gaunt, but the look in his eyes is unmistakable. The reports attached are sickening—The Connections, BOW trafficking, and "human resource optimization." In layman’s terms: experimenting on people who won't be missed.

A heavy, familiar weight settles in your gut. It’s not the vodka. It’s the realization that some monsters don't stay under the bed; they build labs in the Amazon.

"Why?" you ask, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous hum. You look up at her, searching that porcelain-perfect face. "You didn't come here to be a Good Samaritan. You don't have a conscience, Ada, remember? You traded it for a grapple gun and a better tailor."

She doesn't flinch. "My employer wants a rival gone. Konstantin is... disrupting the market. He’s become a liability to certain interests."

You let out a short, bark-like laugh that contains zero mirth. "So, that’s it. You want to use me for your dirty work. Again. You want the Ghost to go down to the jungle and haunt a man who knows all her tricks."

"I thought you'd want to be the one to do it," Ada says simply. She stands up, smoothing her coat. "Or would you rather sit here and rot in the cold while he turns more orphans into science projects? You know his patterns better than anyone."

You look back down at the photo of Konstantin. You think about the girl he plucked off the Moscow streets.

"Is that all I am to you people?" you ask, looking at the envelope. "A killer you can just point at a target?"

Ada pauses, her hand on the back of the chair. She looks at you with something that almost—almost—looks like respect.

"You're like a bloodhound. You don't give up the chase once you smell blood. And right now? I can smell it on you from across the table."

She turns and walks away, her heels clicking against the floor until the jingle of the door signals her departure.

You sit in the silence, the Latvian wind howling outside, rattling the windowpanes. You look at your hands. They’re rough and scarred from the woodpile, but as you reach out to gather the intel, your fingers don't shake. The dry, sarcastic voice in your head tells you that the Amazon is going to be a hell of a lot warmer than Latvia.

The Ghost isn't dead. She was just taking a nap. And Konstantin?

Konstantin is going to wish you’d stayed in the snow.

──────•✦•──────

2011, Bolivia

The hum of the transport plane’s engine is a low-frequency vibrator designed specifically to rattle the teeth of anyone trying to get a moment’s peace. Leon leans his head back against the cold, vibrating hull, staring at the flickering overhead light. He’s headed for the Amazon, a place where the humidity is a physical weight and the mosquitoes are the size of small drones.

Hunnigan had briefed him on the flight—something about a cartel-turned-BOW ring run by a guy named Konstantin. A standard search-and-destroy.

Or as standard as things get when you work for the DSO and your job description involves shooting things that should have stayed dead.

He reaches for his flask, his fingers brushing the cool metal in his jacket pocket before he stops himself. Not yet, he tells himself, though the tremor in his hands suggests they strongly disagree.

Inside me, something seethes. Inside me, some feral animal claws at my ribcage, trapped.

It’s been getting worse. The "feral animal" isn't a virus—it’s the memories. Raccoon City isn't a place on a map anymore but it’s a permanent fixture of his subconscious.

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the rain on the windshield of that R.P.D. cruiser. He smells the rotting meat and the copper. He feels the weight of the badge he only got to wear for one day.

"Rough flight, Kennedy?" the pilot calls out over the comms, his voice crackling with static.

Leon clears his throat, his voice coming out scratchier than he’d like. "I’ve had worse. Usually involves more zombies and fewer seatbelts."

"We’re ten minutes out from the drop zone. Intel says the perimeter is crawling with 'special' guards. Try not to get eaten. It makes the paperwork a nightmare."

"I'll do my best," Leon mutters, checking the slide on his gun. "But no promises. I’m a bit of a popular menu item."

He stands up, the movement stiff. His joints ache in a way that reminds him he’s not twenty-one anymore. He’s a federal agent, a survivor, a weapon of the state. But mostly, he just feels like a tired man who has seen too many biological horrors and drank too many glasses of cheap bourbon to drown them out.

The cargo ramp lowers with a mechanical groan, and the wall of heat that hits him is like a physical slap. It’s midnight in the rainforest, but the jungle isn't dark. It’s glowing.

Leon parachutes in, the descent a familiar dance of wind and gravity. He lands in a small clearing a mile from Konstantin’s complex, unhooking his harness with practiced efficiency.

He expects the sound of the jungle—the insects, the birds, the distant roar of BOWs.

Instead, it’s quiet. Dangerously quiet.

He moves through the dense undergrowth, his boots sinking into the muck. He’s looking for the "elite perimeter guards" Hunnigan warned him about. He finds them.

Or what’s left of them.

Leon stops, his flashlight cutting through the humid mist. The first guard is slumped against a mahogany tree, his throat opened with such clinical precision that there’s barely any spray on his tactical vest. The second is ten feet away, his neck snapped at an angle that makes Leon’s own spine ache in sympathy.

"Well," Leon whispers to the empty air, his thumb flicking the safety off his handgun. "So much for a 'standard' raid. Someone’s already been through here, and they didn't use an invitation."

He kneels by the body, examining the wound. It’s a single, clean blade stroke. Efficient. Professional. Ghostly.

He can feel the presence of a predator nearby—one that doesn't belong to the DSO or the cartel.

Leon stands up, his eyes scanning the canopy. The guilt that usually sits like a lead weight in his stomach is momentarily replaced by a sharp, cold spike of adrenaline. He’s spent his life hunting monsters, but the trail he’s looking at right now was made by something far more dangerous.

It was made by a person who knows exactly how the human body breaks.

"Great," he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow. "Nothing like a little competition to keep things interesting. Hope you’re the friendly type, whoever you are. I’m fresh out of party favors."

He pushes deeper into the jungle, following the trail of bodies. Every few yards, there's another one. No bullet holes. No struggle. Just the wet, final silence of your handiwork.

Leon's heart hammers against his ribs—that trapped animal clawing to get out. For the first time in months, the craving for a drink is eclipsed by the need to find out who is doing his job for him.

The jungle isn't just green and brown anymore. It’s crimson. And as Leon nears the heart of the complex, he realizes he isn't the hunter tonight. He’s just the one following in the wake of a Ghost.

──────•✦•──────

1988, Moscow

The Moscow wind doesn't just blow; it hunts. It’s a sharp, jagged thing that finds the holes in your oversized, threadbare coat and bites down on your skin until you can’t tell if you’re shivering or just vibrating into pieces.

You are eight years old—or maybe nine, you’ve stopped counting the days since the orphanage roof leaked for the last time and the doors were bolted shut.

You are sitting tucked into a doorway on a side street off Tverskaya, your knees pulled up to your chest, trying to make yourself as small as a pebble. You figure if you can just become part of the stone, the cold might stop noticing you. Your stomach isn't even cramping anymore; it’s moved past hunger into a dull, hollow ache that feels like you’ve swallowed a bag of marbles.

Maybe if I close my eyes and think about the smell of borsch long enough, I'll wake up in a kitchen, you think, your eyelashes crusting over with frost. Or maybe I’ll just go to sleep and won't have to think at all. That sounds okay, too.

Then, the snow stops falling on your head. You look up, blinking through the ice.

A man is standing over you, holding a heavy black umbrella. He’s wearing a long charcoal coat and his leather boots are polished to a mirror finish. He looks like he belongs in a different world—a world where people have heaters and eat off china plates.

He doesn't look down at you with the usual disgust or the quick, guilty pity that makes people toss a few kopeks before walking faster.

He looks at you like he’s inspecting a piece of machinery that’s been left out in the rain.

"You're going to freeze into a very small, very stubborn ice cube if you stay there," the man says. His Russian is perfect, but there’s a strange, melodic tilt to it.

You pull your coat tighter, your teeth chattering a frantic rhythm. "I like... the ice," you lie, your voice a tiny, brittle rasp. "It’s quiet."

The man kneels. He doesn't mind that his expensive trousers are touching the dirty slush. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, foil-wrapped chocolate. He holds it out, his hand steady.

"Quiet is just another word for dead," the man says. "And you don't look like you're ready for that. My name is Konstantin. I work for a very important man—a man who values things that others throw away."

You stare at the chocolate. Your fingers, blue and stiff, reach out and snatch it. You tear the foil with your teeth, the taste of the sugar hitting your tongue like a lightning bolt. It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever felt.

"Why?" you ask, your mouth full of melting cocoa.

"Because you have eyes like a wolf, little one," Konstantin says, his voice dropping to a warm, conspiratorial hum. "And wolves shouldn't be begging in doorways. I can offer you a warm meal. A bed with blankets so thick you'll forget what the wind feels like. I can give you a path out of this gutter."

He stands up and extends a hand. It’s an invitation to a dream.

"Will I be safe?" you ask. It’s the only thing that matters when you’ve spent every night sleeping with one eye open, listening for the heavy footsteps of men who look for girls like you.

Konstantin’s expression shifts. He doesn't give you the easy, comforting lie a normal person would. He gives you a shark's smile and the truth.

"No," he says simply. "I won't promise you safety. Safety is a fairy tale for the weak. But I will promise you this: I will make you powerful. And the powerful? They don't need to be concerned about safety. They're the ones people are safe from."

You look at his hand. You look at the dark, warm car idling at the end of the alley. You think that maybe, just maybe, you’ve finally found a place where you belong. You think this man is a savior.

He’s like a father, your child-mind whispers, desperate for any scrap of affection. He bought me chocolate. He’s taking me out of the cold.

You reach out and take his hand. His grip is firm, dry, and utterly unyielding.

"Good girl," Konstantin murmurs, leading you toward the car.

As the door shuts, sealing out the howling Moscow wind, you feel a surge of hope. You don't know that you’ve just stepped out of the freezer and into the furnace. You don't know that the path he promised is paved with the bones of people just like you.

You don't know that the hand that just fed you the chocolate is the same hand that will eventually force you to hold a rifle until your shoulders ache.

You think you’re going home. It’s the biggest mistake you’ll ever make. But for now, as the car’s heater begins to thaw your frozen skin, you just lean your head against the leather seat and watch the snowy streets of Moscow disappear, feeling—for the very last time—completely and utterly safe.

──────•✦•──────

2011, Latvia

The Latvian silence was nice while it lasted, but peace was always a borrowed coat that never quite fit your shoulders. You spend the morning packing your gear with a rhythmic, detached precision. Your tactical vest feels heavier than it did a year ago, or maybe that’s just the weight of the conscience you’ve accidentally grown.

Check the magazines. Check the seals on the flashbangs. Check the soul—ah, wait, still missing.

You realize, as you slide a combat knife into its sheath with a satisfying snick, that guilt isn't like mud; you can't just scrub it off with enough cold water and honest labor.

It’s more like a burn. It stays.

But if you can’t be pure, you can at least be useful. Stopping Konstantin won't wash your hands, but it might just balance the scales enough that you can look in a mirror without wanting to break it.

"Sorry, little house," you murmur, tossing a duffel bag over your shoulder. "You were a great place to hide, but the monsters found the map."

──────•✦•──────

2011, Bolivia

The Amazon doesn't have a "quiet" setting. It’s a humid, screaming wall of green that tries to breathe for you. By the time you reach the outer perimeter of Konstantin’s complex, the air is so thick you feel like you’re swimming through lukewarm soup.

You crouch in the ferns, watching the high-voltage fence. The facility is a jagged scar of concrete and steel slashed across the rainforest. It’s classic Konstantin: brutalist, overpriced, and crawling with men who look like they were rejected from every reputable military on the planet.

Look at those towers, you think, clicking your tongue. Symmetry is the first sign of a megalomaniac. Honestly, Konstantin, a little subtlety wouldn't kill you. But I suppose I will.

You move.

You aren't running; you’re drifting. You’ve locked the woman who liked the Latvian snow away, letting the feral animal living in your ribcage take the wheel.

You bypass the first guard post by timing the sweep of the thermal cameras—a five-second window that feels like an eternity when you’re pressed against a mossy concrete wall.

You slip through a gap in the secondary fencing, your movements so fluid and silent that a jaguar wouldn't even twitch its ears. The interior of the compound is a labyrinth of shipping crates and BOW enclosures. As you pass a reinforced glass tank, something wet and heavy slams against the side.

You don't look. Whatever is in there is a tragedy in progress, and you don't have enough bullets to be a mercy-killer today.

Stay focused. Don't look at the cages. Don't think about what they used to be.

You round a corner and freeze. Three men in lab coats are walking toward the cafeteria, arguing about protein synthesis or some other nerd-talk that keeps the lights on in a death-factory. One of them looks young—hardly twenty. He’s laughing at a joke.

Your finger twitches near your suppressed pistol. The animal wants to clear the path. But that stubborn, annoying moral compass of yours kicks like a mule.

They’re just kids with degrees and bad career choices,you tell yourself. They aren't the ones pulling the triggers.

You melt into the shadows behind a stack of crates, holding your breath until the sound of their sneakers fades.

"Go enjoy your mystery meat, boys," you whisper to the empty air. "Try to get a job in a pharmacy next time."

The mercy is short-lived.

Ten yards ahead, the mercenaries start. These aren't kids with clipboards. These are "The Hounds"—Konstantin’s private collection of sociopaths in Kevlar. They’re leaning against a humvee, smoking and laughing about a village raid.

Your eyes go cold. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a distant, clinical focus.

"Okay, boys," you murmur, sliding a serrated blade from your thigh holster. The metal doesn't catch the light; it’s been blackened to match the void you’re about to send them into. "Let’s see if your training was worth the paycheck."

You drop from the shadows like a fever dream. The first mercenary doesn't even have time to drop his cigarette before your hand is over his mouth, pulling him back into the darkness. The second turns, but you’re already there—a blur of black gear and steel.

No speech. No struggle. Just the wet, final sound of the Ghost doing what she was made for.

As you step over the bodies, you wipe the blade on a patch of grass. You’re deep inside the belly of the beast now. You can smell the chemicals and the rot. Somewhere in this concrete maze, Konstantin is waiting.

"I'm coming for that exit interview, Konstantin," you whisper, checking your surroundings. "And I don't think you're going to like the severance package."

──────•✦•──────

1994, Russia

The room smells like floor wax and old sweat—a scent that’s become the backdrop of your teenage years. You are fourteen, and instead of worrying about prom or bad skin, you are currently worrying about the structural integrity of a man’s windpipe.

“Again,” Konstantin says. He’s sitting in a folding chair at the edge of the mat, looking as relaxed as if he’s watching a boring documentary.

You huff, wiping a smear of blood from your lip. Across from you stands a trainer—a man who is basically a wall of muscle with a buzz cut.

You’re small, nimble, and currently very tired of hitting the floor.

Okay, little Moscow girl, you think, feeling that familiar, icy shutter fall in your mind. Time to go back into the dark. Don't look at the eyes. Just look at the leverage.

It’s a trick you’ve mastered: compartmentalization. You take the girl who likes the smell of old library books and the girl who cries when she scrapes her knee, and you gently push her into a small, windowless room in the back of your skull. You lock the door.

She doesn't have to watch what your hands are about to do. She doesn't have to hear the wet, sickening crunch of bone.

You breathe out, and suddenly, the world goes quiet. Your heart rate slows to a steady, anticipatory rhythm. You aren't a girl anymore; you're a predator.

You move.

You don't fight him—not really. Fighting implies a struggle. You just apply the language Konstantin has taught you: the staccato rhythm of silenced gunfire, the fluid prose of a snapped neck.

You dive under the trainer’s lead hook, your fingers finding the pressure point behind his ear with clinical accuracy. As he stumbles, you wrap yourself around his back like a parasite, your forearm locking under his chin.

Leaning back. Pivot. Snap.

The trainer hits the mat, gasping for air that won't come. You stand over him, your face a mask of eerie, calm indifference.

"Better," Konstantin notes, standing up. "You’re finally stopping the hesitation. You’re beginning to understand."

He walks over and hands you a towel and a book—a first-edition copy of The Master and Margarita. It’s a beautiful gift, the kind a father gives a daughter. He ruffles your hair, his touch almost tender.

"Go clean up," he says softly. "We’ll have dinner. I had the cook make that pasta you like."

"Thanks, Konstantin," you say, the playful, sarcastic teenager flickering back to life for a moment. "Does the pasta come with a side of 'how to hide a body in a dumpster,' or is that for dessert?"

Konstantin smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He leans in, his hand moving from your hair to the back of your neck, his grip tightening just enough to be a warning.

It’s the hand that feeds you, the hand that buys you literature and chocolate—and you know, with a bone-deep certainty, it’s the same hand that will put a bullet in your brain the second you become a liability.

"Don't get cheeky, little wolf," he whispers. "A dog in this house is either a hunter or a rug. You realized it on the streets, didn't you? It’s better to be violent than dead."

You look at him, and for a second, the girl in the dark room rattles the door. You feel a wave of distant, aching empathy for the man you just choked out, for the girl you used to be, for the dog that has to bite just to keep a roof over its head.

"I'm a very good wolf, Konstantin," you say, your voice steady. "I know which hand holds the leash."

"I know you do." He lets go, his expression returning to that of a doting guardian. "Now, go. Read your book. You have a long day of ballistics tomorrow."

You walk back to your room, clutching the leather-bound book to your chest.

Inside your head, you can hear the girl in the dark corner whispering, I don’t want to be a wolf.

Shut up, you think back, your inner monologue dry and bitter as you catch your reflection in the hallway mirror—a pale specter in training.

Being a wolf means you get to eat. Being a wolf means nobody gets to hurt you ever again.

You’re becoming fluent in a language you never wanted to speak, and you realize the tragedy of it: you’re actually a natural at it.

Inside me, something seethes. Inside me, some feral animal is starting to like the cage.

──────•✦•──────

2011, Bolivia

Leon’s tactical shirt is a lost cause, plastered to his skin as he navigates the dense, choking undergrowth of the perimeter.

He’s been on the ground for less than an hour, and already the "standard raid" has spiraled into the usual bio-organic circus.

Hunnigan really needs to update her definition of 'guerrilla fighters,' Leon thinks, ducking behind the massive roots of a Ceiba tree. He peeks around the trunk just as a group of infected soldiers shambles past.

They aren't the slow, moaning zombies of Raccoon City; these guys are twitchy, their skin a mottled, bruised purple, clutching rusted AK-47s with a terrifying, mindless muscle memory.

Great. Parasite-augmented insurgents. Just once, I’d like to find a cartel that sticks to good old-fashioned tax evasion.

He moves to transition to a better vantage point, but the jungle floor betrays him. A hidden tripwire—something low-tech and nasty—snags his boot.

He lunges forward to recover, but a shadow detaches itself from the foliage. A guerrilla fighter, eyes clouded with a milky, pulsating film, lunges with a serrated combat knife.

Leon twists, but he’s a fraction of a second too slow. The blade bites into his side, a hot, searing line of agony that makes his vision swim. He grunts, swinging the butt of his handgun into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack, but the damage is done.

"Damn it," he hisses, clutching his side. His fingers come away slick and dark. "That’s a new shirt, you bastard."

The scuffle draws attention. A low, guttural growl echoes through the trees, vibrating in Leon's very marrow. From the darkness of the canopy emerges something that definitely didn't have a mother: a hulking, skinless mass of muscle and elongated talons, its jaw split into four distinct, mandibles dripping with caustic saliva.

A BOW Hunter variant, by the looks of it.

Leon backs up, his heels hitting a rock face. He raises his gun, but his breath is coming in short, ragged hitches. The creature crouches, its powerful hind legs tensing for a leap that will undoubtedly end with Leon’s head becoming a centerpiece.

Well, Leon, his inner monologue dryly observes as the beast roars, it’s been a hell of a run. Maybe in the next life, you’ll get that desk job in accounting.

He braces for the impact, finger tightening on the trigger.

CRACK.

The sound of the rifle shot is absolute, a thunderclap that silences the screaming insects of the jungle. The Hunter’s head doesn't just bleed—it disintegrates in a spectacular spray of gray matter and bone fragments. The massive body slumps forward, skidding through the mud and stopping inches from Leon's boots.

Leon blinks, the ringing in his ears a high-pitched whine.

Before he can even process the save, a figure drops from the canopy with the silent grace of a falling leaf. You land in a perfect crouch, the barrel of your rifle still warm, before rising to your feet.

Leon stares at you. He knows he should be reaching for his gun, or at least his badge, but the sheer "phantom-like" quality of your entrance has him momentarily frozen in place. He’s spent years dealing with Ada Wong’s cryptic bullshit, but this feels different. More dangerous.

He lets out a shaky breath, pressing his hand harder against the wound in his side. Even while bleeding out, the Kennedy charm—clumsy and ill-timed as it is—kicks in like an old engine.

"Usually," Leon starts, his voice straining for that suave, action-movie baritone, "I prefer a little warning before an angel drops out of the sky. Or at least a business card."

He winces as the adrenaline begins to dip, the pain in his side turning into a dull, throbbing roar. He looks at the dead Hunter, then back at you.

"You’re the one who’s been redecorating the jungle with mercenary parts, aren't you?" he asks, leaning heavily against the rock. "I’d say thanks for the assist, but I have a feeling you’re not here on behalf of the Red Cross."

You don't answer immediately, your silence a heavy, measured weight. Leon watches you, his blue eyes searching yours for a sign of hostility. He sees the way you hold your rifle—like an extension of your own limbs.

Inside me, some feral animal claws at my ribcage. But looking at you... the animal recognizes a bigger predator.

"Well," Leon tries again, a lopsided, slightly awkward smirk tugging at his lips. "Since we’re sharing the same patch of dirt and killing the same monsters... any chance you’ve got a bandage in that kit? Or are we going straight to the part where you tell me to get lost?"

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