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The rain had started sometime during the fighting, though Leon couldn’t remember when. It fell in thin, misting sheets now, soft enough that it didn’t cool the air—just made it heavier. Each drop hissed faintly against metal, ash, and the faint, bubbling oil from what used to be a transport truck.
The square was silent. Not peaceful—just emptied. The kind of silence that comes after screaming.
Leon’s boots sank slightly into the wet earth as he stepped forward. His flashlight beam flicked across the ground, catching glints of brass casings and the shattered lenses of gas masks. One of the soldiers—one of his—was lying face-up beside the well, eyes open, rain collecting on his pupils until they gleamed white.
Leon stopped beside him. For a long time, he didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Just stared.
He crouched slowly, gloved fingers brushing against the man’s ID tag. He’d seen the kid laughing over ration coffee this morning. Too eager, too green. Thought Leon’s calm meant confidence, not the exhaustion it really was.
The smell of burnt flesh and gunpowder hung thick in the air. He tried not to breathe too deeply. Tried not to think about how familiar it all felt—how every battlefield smelled the same, no matter what country, no matter what year.
His radio crackled at his belt, faint at first, then more insistent.
“Agent Kennedy, come in. What’s your status?”
He stared at it, the voice tinny and far away. For a few seconds, he pretended he didn’t hear it. His hand hovered over the receiver, hesitating, before finally pressing down the button.
“It’s done,” he said.
Just that. Nothing else. His voice was flat—toneless, like reading a report.
There was static on the other end, then a soft reply:
“Copy that. What’s the casualty count?”
He looked around again. The shapes on the ground. The color of the mud.
“All of them.”
He released the button and let the radio drop back against his thigh. The impact made a dull thud that echoed louder than anything else.
Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the hills, briefly illuminating the village’s ruined chapel—roof half-gone, bell melted. For a moment he could see himself reflected in the broken windows: soaked through, streaked with someone else’s blood, eyes too hollow for his own face.
Leon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tasted iron.
Then he holstered his gun and started walking toward the chapel, drawn to it by something he didn’t want to name. Maybe it was habit—looking for shelter, or for answers. Maybe he just couldn’t stand standing still.
Either way, the rain followed him.
The chapel’s doors hung half-off their hinges. One push and they gave way with a wooden groan that rolled through the nave. The air inside was warmer, thick with the scent of old incense and smoke. A few candles still flickered in their holders, warped down to the stubs, light pooling around the altar like it was trying to pretend something holy was left.
Leon stepped in and paused. His boots left wet prints across the cracked tiles. The silence in here wasn’t any kinder than outside—it pressed in, heavy, like the walls themselves were waiting for him to say something.
He lowered his flashlight, its beam sweeping over torn hymnals, shattered glass, the ragged silhouette of a crucifix on the far wall. The face of Christ had been scorched away.
The radio crackled again.
“Agent Kennedy, copy?”
He hesitated before answering this time, thumb hovering over the button. Finally he lifted it to his mouth.
“Yeah. Copy.”
“HQ wants you moving north. There’s another outbreak site near—”
“Another.”
The word landed like a punch. He said it again, quieter.
“Another.”
“Yes. Command believes the infection—”
“You think I can just walk out of this and do it again?”
His voice was rough, not shouting yet, just trembling on the edge of it. He started pacing without realizing, every bootstep echoing in the hollow church.
“Leon, you need to stay focused. We don’t have the manpower—”
“No kidding.”
He stopped at the altar, hand gripping the cold stone until his knuckles went white.
“They’re all gone, Hunnigan.”
There was static, the soft hiss of her breathing on the other end.
“We’ll debrief when you return. You’ve done this before.”
He laughed under his breath, short and bitter.
“Yeah. That’s the problem.”
The radio hissed again, her voice trying to pull him back to protocol, to procedure, but the words blurred. He could feel the tremor in his hands start up again, muscles jumping under his skin. He’d held it together through gunfire and explosions, through watching men die—but this calm voice telling him to move on was what finally cracked something loose inside him.
He ripped the earpiece out and flung it against the wall. The sound bounced around the chapel and faded into the rain.
Leon leaned both hands on the altar, head bowed. His breath came fast, fogging the air. For a long moment he just stood there, every muscle locked, trying to swallow the rising heat in his chest. It wouldn’t go down.
“How many times,” he said softly, “do I have to do this?”
The words barely made a sound, but in the empty chapel they might as well have been shouted.
He straightened, looking up at the broken crucifix. His face was streaked with rain and blood, and in the flicker of candlelight his eyes looked almost fever-bright.
“How many more?”
The rain outside grew heavier, tapping on the roof like a heartbeat.
He hit the altar with his fist. Once. Then again. The old stone cracked, dust falling in thin streams. He didn’t stop until his hand started to ache, until the pain felt real enough to cut through the noise in his head.
Then he slid down against it, breath ragged, staring at the radio where it lay shattered across the floor.
“You can’t keep asking me to do this,” he murmured.
No one answered. Only the steady patter of rain, the whisper of wax as another candle guttered out.
For a while, Leon just sat there. The rain drummed harder against the roof, each drop a dull percussion that filled the hollow of the chapel. His hand throbbed, the skin split open in small, raw lines that stung with every heartbeat. He pressed his thumb against his palm, watching blood well up through his glove like oil through fabric. It was something to focus on. Something simple.
He drew in a shaky breath. It didn’t reach his lungs properly. The air was too thick, too heavy. The walls too close.
He’d thought he was used to it by now—the smell of death, the silence after—but there was something different this time. Something colder. Maybe it was because these weren’t strangers. Maybe because he’d known their names.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and tried to remember their faces, and for a terrifying moment he couldn’t. The features blurred together: the same armor, the same wide, hopeful eyes. All that training, all that talk of survival, and in the end they’d still looked to him when it went bad. Like he’d have the answers.
He’d given orders. He’d told them where to move, when to shoot, when to run. They’d listened, and they’d died anyway.
“Should’ve been me,” he muttered, voice rough. “Should’ve been me again.”
The radio sparked faintly from where it lay broken. He stared at it like it might come back to life and tell him otherwise. But there was nothing—just the occasional pop of static, like a heartbeat fading out.
Leon leaned his head back against the cold stone and shut his eyes. For a second, he let the exhaustion wash over him. The ache in his shoulders, the burning sting of cuts along his arms, the taste of copper at the back of his throat. His body wanted to rest, to shut down completely. But his mind wouldn’t stop.
He could still hear the echoes of gunfire. The sound of someone screaming his name before it cut off.
He dragged his hand down his face, leaving a smear of blood across his cheek.
When the first sliver of light broke through a hole in the roof, it painted everything in the same dull grey he’d seen too many times before—morning coming too soon, the world still turning while his stayed still.
He pushed himself up off the floor, slow and unsteady. The cracked altar caught his hand as he rose, and he used it to steady himself. The candles were almost burned out, the wax melted into formless puddles.
Leon stared at them, then at the broken crucifix above. His voice came out hoarse, quieter than a whisper.
“You ever get tired of watching this?”
The question hung there, unanswered.
He turned away. The storm had passed, but the sky outside was still dark—low clouds rolling over the hills like smoke. He picked up his gun, wiped the mud from the grip, and holstered it again with automatic precision.
Outside, the helicopter’s rotors began to echo faintly through the valley.
Leon didn’t look back. He stepped out into the rain, leaving the chapel behind him, the blood, the silence—all of it already starting to fade into memory.
But even as he walked, the words he’d said wouldn’t leave him.
*You can’t keep asking me to do this.*
It wasn’t a plea anymore. It sounded like a promise.
The wind hit him the moment he stepped outside—cold, carrying the smell of wet earth and rot. It tugged at his jacket and flattened his hair against his forehead. He didn’t bother to pull up the hood. The rain felt like it was trying to wash something off him, and maybe he thought if he let it, he’d feel lighter. He didn’t.
The helicopter grew louder, the rhythmic chop of the blades cutting through the mist. Leon walked toward it with slow, measured steps, his boots sinking into the mud. Every footprint filled instantly with brown water. Every step made a sound that felt too loud in a place this dead.
When he reached the clearing, the pilot saw him and lifted a hand in silent acknowledgment. Leon didn’t return it. He ducked under the blades and climbed aboard, dropping into the seat opposite the open hatch. The wind from the rotors tore through the cabin, flattening the loose papers scattered on the floor.
The door slid shut with a heavy clang, and the sound of the storm outside dulled to a low murmur. Leon slipped the headset on, he figured they wouldn't be too happy he broke his earpiece.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The pilot looked at him once, then twice, and decided against saying anything.
Leon rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. The blood on his gloves had started to dry, cracking along the folds. He flexed his fingers absently, watching the flaking red lines split wider.
“You all right, Agent?” The voice came from up front—tentative, like the man already knew the answer.
Leon didn’t look up. He gave a small nod that didn’t convince anyone, least of all himself. “Yeah. Fine.”
The pilot hesitated, then turned back to the controls. The helicopter lifted off, rising through the heavy mist. Below them, the ruined village shrank to nothing but black shapes and flickers of light from the dying fires.
Leon watched until it disappeared. Only then did he sit back, the seat creaking beneath him. His reflection wavered in the dark glass of the window—eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched tight, blood dried in streaks along his neck.
He turned away from it.
A new voice came through the comm in his headset, one he didn’t recognize.
“Agent Kennedy, debrief scheduled for 0900 hours. You’ll receive further instructions upon landing.”
He almost laughed. It came out as a sound somewhere between a breath and a growl.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.”
He shut off the comm before they could reply.
The rest of the flight passed in silence. Clouds rolled by, thick and endless, and for a moment he could almost imagine they’d never land—that they’d just keep flying above the wreckage, above the orders, above everything that waited below.
When they finally descended through the fog, the city lights flickered in the distance. Cold, sterile, uncaring.
Leon leaned his head back against the seat, eyes closing. He felt the vibration of the rotors through his spine, steady and relentless, like a heartbeat that refused to stop.
He thought of the bodies, the mud, the chapel.
He thought of Hunnigan’s voice telling him to move on.
And when he finally spoke, it was to no one.
“There’s always another.”
The wind outside swallowed the words whole as the helicopter touched down, and Leon Kennedy didn’t look back.