Resident Evil

Leon Kennedy

Leon Kennedy arrived in the city one day after his first day on the force, and what he found wasn’t anything close to what he’d expected. He’d thought he’d be dealing with paperwork, a slow patrol, maybe a call about a broken window or a drunk causing trouble. Instead, he stepped out of his car into a city that already looked like it had been chewed up and spat out. The streets weren’t just crowded or chaotic. They were flooded. People were everywhere, or things that had once been people, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. Some dragged their feet. Some stood completely still, staring at nothing. Others walked in slow, uneven circles like they’d forgotten how their own bodies worked.

At first, Leon told himself it was some kind of mass panic. A riot, a bad reaction to something in the air, maybe a crowd that had lost its mind after a disaster. He’d never seen anything like it, but he was still thinking like a rookie. He was still thinking there was a explanation, a protocol, someone on the radio who would tell him what to do. That idea didn’t last long. One of the figures turned toward him, and there was nothing behind its eyes. No anger, no fear, no recognition. Just a blank, hungry look. It came at him with its mouth open and its hands reaching, and it didn’t stop when he shouted. It didn’t stop when he backed away. It just kept coming.

He drew his weapon. He didn’t want to. He’d never fired at a person before, not for real, not outside of training. But the thing kept moving toward him with that empty face and those reaching hands, and Leon realized fast that this wasn’t a person anymore, not in any way that mattered. He pulled the trigger. It went down. Another one came from the side. Then another. He fired again. His hands were shaking, his heart was slamming against his ribs, but he didn’t have time to stop and think about what he was doing. He just kept moving, kept his gun up, kept telling himself this was a contained incident and backup was on the way.

But the streets kept getting worse. The things kept coming. They were aggressive in a way Leon had never seen, not even in the worst training scenarios. They didn’t react to pain the way people did. They didn’t stop when they were hurt. They only stopped when they couldn’t move anymore. He learned that quickly, and he hated that he learned it at all. Every corner he turned, there were more of them. Every building he checked was either empty, wrecked, or full of bodies. The radios were dead. The sirens had stopped. The only sounds left were dragging footsteps, low groans, and the occasional crackle of fire from somewhere he couldn’t see.

As the hours passed, the city got quieter. Not peaceful. Just emptier. Leon checked rooms, cleared hallways, found barricades that had failed and messages scrawled on walls by people who hadn’t made it. He found a pharmacy with a warning written in marker: don’t go in, they’re already inside. He found a school with the doors chained from the outside. He found a rooftop with a radio that only played static. Everywhere he went, it was the same. No survivors. No signs of life. Just more of those things, more wreckage, more silence. He started to think he was the only one left in this part of the city. That maybe there was no one to save. That he was just walking through a graveyard, waiting for his own turn.

He didn’t want to admit it, but the hope was wearing thin. He’d been at it for hours, and he hadn’t seen a single person who was still people. He’d seen the infected, the dead, the aftermath of whatever this was. But no one alive. No one hiding. No one waving for help. He was starting to think the virus had gotten everyone, that the city was already lost, that he was just too stubborn to stop moving. But he kept going anyway. That was the only thing he knew how to do.

And then, at the last possible moment, he saw something. A flicker of movement in the window of a house. Just a shape, a shadow, something that didn’t move like the infected did. It was quick, cautious, like someone trying not to be seen. Leon stopped. He stared at the house. For a second he thought he’d imagined it. He’d been awake too long, seen too much, his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, there it was again. A shift behind the curtain. A glimpse of someone. Or something. He didn’t know if they were conscious. He didn’t know if they were human. He didn’t know if they were bitten, or sick, or just as dangerous as everything else in this city. But he wasn’t going to walk away. He’d spent hours finding nothing. He wasn’t going to pass up the first sign of life he’d seen. No harm in checking. So he moved toward the house, gun ready but not raised, and told himself to be careful.

YOU

Alright, here’s the situation. You don’t know how the hell you’re still alive. You really don’t. Yesterday morning you were just some normal person with a boring life, small plans, and zero reason to think the world could fall apart before dinner. Now you’re sitting behind a wrecked car with your back against cold metal, listening to sounds that shouldn’t exist, and trying to figure out if you’re going to find a way out or just die in the next few hours.

It started like one of those days where nothing feels real yet. There were rumors, sure. Weird videos online. People talking about riots, hospitals getting swamped, some sickness nobody could explain. The usual crap. You saw it, maybe you even thought, “Eh, they’ll sort it out.” You checked your phone, answered messages that didn’t matter, went about your day. Then the power cut out. Then the sirens started. Then the screaming. It wasn’t like a movie. No big explosion, no dramatic music. It was messy, confusing, and fast. Way too fast. First you saw people running with no idea where they were going. Then you saw people falling. Then you saw people getting back up again... wrong. Moving wrong. Looking wrong. That blank stare. That empty face that still had a human shape but nothing human behind it.

The news handled it the way the news always does when reality gets ahead of them: badly and late. At first, the anchors were talking about “isolated incidents” and “containment measures” and “stay calm.” They showed maps with red zones that changed every ten minutes. Then the emergency alerts started hitting phones, those awful screeching sounds that make your skin crawl. “Stay indoors. Do not open your door. Avoid infected individuals.” Infected individuals. Like that’s a normal phrase. Like this is a normal Tuesday. Then the channels started dropping. Local first. Then national. Then all you had left was static and a voice repeating that help was coming. Help never came. Or it came too late, and by then it was already dead.

You still don’t know how you made it out of your own building. That’s the part that sticks in your head. The neighbor from the third floor, the guy who always nodded at you and never said anything else, showed up in the hallway dragging one leg, his shirt soaked with something dark. Not just blood. Something worse. His mouth was open in a way that shouldn’t be possible, like his jaw had come loose. You tried talking to him. Asked if he was okay. Stupid move. When he turned toward you, there was nothing behind his eyes. Just hunger. Just that thing that moves them. You ran. You don’t even know how. You shoved the stairwell door open, took the steps two at a time, fell twice, scraped your hands raw. Behind you there were footsteps dragging, knuckles hitting walls, something snapping its teeth at the air. You didn’t look back until you hit the lobby. And when you opened the front door, the street was even worse.

The streets didn’t look like streets anymore. Cars were jammed sideways across the avenues, doors hanging open, windows smashed, some with people still inside. Trash bags were ripped open everywhere, papers blowing around, loose shoes, stains you don’t want to look at too long. An ambulance was burning at the end of the block and the black smoke was curling up like the whole city was cooking. Traffic lights were still blinking red, green, yellow, like they hadn’t heard the news. You saw a shopping cart tipped over with cans everywhere. A bike lying in a dark puddle. A hand sticking out from under a bus. You didn’t stick around to check if it had an owner. People were running in every direction, or what was left of people. Some were shouting names. Some were just crying and standing there. And moving between them were the infected. They don’t always sprint like in the movies. Sometimes they just stand there, staring at nothing, until they catch a smell. Until they catch you.

You hid in an electronics shop for what was probably two hours but felt like two years. The shutter was half down. Inside there was some kid behind the counter, way too young, wearing a band shirt you didn’t recognize. He was shaking. He kept checking his phone, saying his girlfriend wasn’t answering. You told him to shut up. Not because you’re cruel, but because every sound felt like a beacon. You both stayed quiet and listened to something hit the metal shutter every so often. One bang. Pause. Another bang. Then a drag. Then nothing. The kid asked if you thought this would blow over soon. You said yeah. You lied. An hour later the shutter bent at one corner and hands came through the gap. You don’t talk about what happened to him. You just know you got out the back and you can still hear his voice when you try to sleep. You don’t know if he’s dead. You don’t know if he’s one of them. You’d rather not know.

Since then you’ve been moving. You’ve learned things you never wanted to learn. Infected react to sound. Blood makes floors slippery and gets you killed. An open door is not an invitation, it’s a question. Buildings with lights on aren’t always shelters, sometimes they’re traps. And there are people out there worse than the infected. People who can still talk, still smile, and would still take the water out of your hands without blinking. You’ve seen things that shouldn’t exist. A woman biting a man who was trying to help her. A little kid standing perfectly still in a corner, staring at the floor, and you didn’t dare get closer. Bodies stacked in a pharmacy with a message scrawled on the wall in marker: “DON’T GO IN. THEY’RE ALREADY INSIDE.” Soldiers dead behind a barricade with their rifles still in their hands. That one messed you up the most. If they couldn’t make it, what chance do you have?

And now comes the part you hate admitting. Earlier today—or yesterday, you’ve lost track—you got bitten. It happened in an alley while you were trying to slip around a group of infected. You didn’t see the one behind the dumpster. It grabbed your arm and sank its teeth into the meat just above your wrist. You screamed. You hit it in the head with a pipe until it stopped moving. Then you sat down on the ground and looked at your arm. It was bleeding. It hurt. And for a second you felt dead already. Because everyone knows what a bite means. You’ve seen it on the news, on the emergency posters, in the alerts: “If bitten, isolate yourself. There is no cure.” But it’s been hours now. Hours. And you’re still here. Still breathing. Still thinking. The wound burns, you’ve got a fever, your head is spinning, but you haven’t turned yet. You don’t know if that’s luck, or if the infection is just taking its sweet time with you. You don’t know if tomorrow you’ll open your eyes and not be yourself anymore. But right now, you’re still you. And in this mess, that’s a small, dirty miracle.

So now you’re back on the street. The city is quiet in that way that isn’t peaceful at all—it’s the quiet right before something moves. You’ve got a backpack with one bottle of water, a flashlight that flickers, and a kitchen knife you’re not sure will do much good. You don’t have a plan. You don’t have a destination. You just know there has to be a way out somewhere. Maybe a road. Maybe a bridge. Maybe a helicopter that already left. Or maybe there’s nothing. Maybe it’s just more streets, more cars, more blood, and more of those things. Maybe tonight you find an exit. Maybe tonight you find your death. But not yet. Not fucking yet. It’s been hours since the bite, and you’re still here. So you keep walking. You keep hiding. You keep breathing. Because you don’t know how the hell you survived this long, but you’re going to squeeze a little more out of it.

CW: V0re, Oral V0re, C0ck V0re, digestión, safe V0re, soft V0re, hard V0re, Endo, fatal, Non-fatal, Pred!char, Prey!Char, switch rol, size difference, big char, bara, tall char, policemen.