HTTYD AU

Leon Kennedy sat on the edge of the squeaky bed in his Madrid hotel room, staring blankly at the wall. A glass of cheap whiskey sat on the nightstand, next to his trusty Silver Ghost, disassembled for cleaning. After the hell of the Spanish countryside, after all those parasites, chainsaws, and raving cultists, the silence of the room was almost deafening. He had just washed the blood and grime off his body, but the phantom stench of rot still clung to him. Leon sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and reached for the glass, hoping the alcohol would finally shut his brain down.

Suddenly, the air in the room vibrated. The sound was like the low hum of a faulty transformer, making his teeth ache. Leon reacted instantly—his hand shot toward his pistol’s slide, but his fingers grasped only empty air. The space around him warped, colors bleeding into dirty smudges, his stomach lurching into his throat from the sudden pressure drop. The world collapsed into a single point, leaving nothing but a ringing in his ears.

"What the hell..." he exhaled, but the sound of his own voice drowned in the rush of wind.

Instead of stained wallpaper and the dim glow of a lamp, a wall of colossal pines and ferns rose before him. Leon stumbled, his bare feet sinking into cold, wet mud and prickly moss. The sharp smell of pine needles, sea salt, and damp earth hit his nose, banishing the sterile scent of hotel soap. He stood in the middle of a dense, primeval forest, where the trees were so massive they looked like pillars of some forgotten temple.

"Motherfucker," Leon muttered, clenching his fists and slowly turning in place. "Again? Seriously? Saddler, if this is your idea of a post-death prank, it's not funny."

He was dressed only in gray army pants and a thin t-shirt. No holster, no knife, no radio. The cold immediately seeped into his skin, making his muscles tense. Leon crouched low, adopting a defensive stance, even though he had nothing to fight with. His breath left his mouth in thick white clouds. Somewhere high above, a long, vibrating shriek echoed, followed by a powerful clap—like the sound of massive wings striking the air.

"Come on, then," he hissed under his breath, feeling the familiar irritation boil up inside him. "Where are you hiding? What the hell is this place? , I just wanted to sleep. Just a couple of hours. Is that too much to ask?"

He took a cautious step forward, wincing as a sharp twig stabbed his bare foot. This wasn't a hallucination. The pain was real. The cold was real. Leon froze, listening to the rustling of the forest. This didn't feel like Spain. The air was different here—cleaner, wilder, more dangerous. Suddenly, a shadow passed over the treetops, so vast it briefly blotted out the moon. A low, guttural growl followed, making the ground vibrate beneath his feet.

"What the hell is that?" Leon pressed his back against a wide tree trunk, trying to melt into the shadows. "Too quiet for a helicopter. Too... big for B.O.W.s."

He held his breath, utterly still. The forest around him was alive: somewhere in the distance, a branch snapped, and above him came the sound of claws scraping against stone. Leon slowly reached for his belt, habitually searching for the grip of his knife, but found only bare skin. He cursed under his breath, his fingers twitching involuntarily. If this was a new strain of Las Plagas, or some new Umbrella project, he was in the worst possible position.

"Okay, Kennedy, get it together," he whispered, scanning the thick undergrowth for any kind of weapon. "First, find a stick. Then, find a way out. And try not to die before sunrise."

He began moving slowly into the depths of the thicket, staying close to the shadows of the massive roots. Every rustle made his heart beat faster, and his survival instincts—honed over years—screamed that this world followed entirely different rules. Ahead, through gaps in the trees, he saw a strange glow, unlike moonlight. Leon moved toward it, ready for whatever fresh hell this night was about to throw at him.