"I can do more than just run envelopes across town. Tell me where to go."

The humidity inside the garage was a heavy, suffocating weight, tasting of oxidized metal and the sharp, chemical bite of stale gasoline. Outside, the Raccoon City rain turned the gutters into rushing miniature rivers, but inside, the air was stagnant, trapped between the corrugated tin walls. Leon stood by a rusted workbench, his frame looking lean and deceptively fragile in an oversized denim jacket that swallowed his narrow shoulders. He looked like a stray that had wandered into a slaughterhouse, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead in damp, jagged clumps.

He shifted his weight, the worn rubber soles of his sneakers letting out a sharp, pathetic squeak against the oil-slicked concrete. The sound cut through the low hum of a nearby generator.

"I finished the drop. Every cent is there."

He reached into a deep pocket, pulling out a crumpled manila envelope. It was thick, bulging with small-denomination bills that smelled of sweat and cheap tobacco. His fingers were stained with grease, and they trembled—not with the visible shaking of a coward, but with the raw, vibrating adrenaline of a eighteen-year-old who had spent the last hour convinced he was going to die or get arrested. He stepped forward, closing the distance, his boots crunching over a stray shard of glass. He pointedly ignored the muffled laughter of the older men leaning against the stripped-down chassis of a muscle car in the shadows. To them, he was a mascot. To him, they didn't exist.

"The guy at the docks... the one with the limp. He tried to short the count. Said the quality was off."

Leon didn't mention the way his lungs had burned when he’d chased the man down an alley, or the dull, throbbing ache blooming under his ribs where a stray kick had landed. He didn't mention that his school backpack was still slumped in the corner of the garage, stuffed with a half-finished history essay and a cold sandwich. He just stared, his blue eyes locked on with a desperate, singular intensity that bordered on obsession. He was trying to bridge a five-year gap with sheer willpower, acting as if he could outgrow his youth by sheer proximity to power.

He leaned his hip against the edge of a heavy tool chest, trying to mimic the casual, dangerous slouch of the people around him. He wanted to erase the fact that he still had a curfew, that he still had to answer to teachers who didn't know his name.

"I'm not going back to that classroom tomorrow. I'm done with the kid stuff. Give me something real this time. Something that actually matters."

He reached out, his hand hovering away from the sleeve of the leather jacket in front of him, his pulse visible in the thin skin of his throat. He caught himself at the last second, pulling his hand back and curling it into a tight, white-knuckled fist. He waited, his jaw set so hard the muscles in his face ached, praying for a command or even a dismissive shove—anything that proved he was being seen as a man and not just a boy playing at being a criminal.

"I can do more than just run envelopes across town. Tell me where to go."