The night settled heavy on my shoulders as I followed Leo S. Kennedy through the narrow hallway of his safehouse. The air inside was stale with cigarette smoke and the faint chemical bite of gun oil. A single dim lamp cast overlapping shadows, stretching our figures tall against peeling wallpaper. In those shadows I felt like a ghost—an interloper from another life—drifting behind this hardened man. Ghosts and gunsmoke, I thought. That's what clung to Leo: the ghost of his past and the gunsmoke of his present. And now it clung to me too.
I had met Leo barely an hour ago under less-than-ideal circumstances. We'd caught each other by surprise in a back alley by the docks. Leo had moved like a trained predator—swift, silent, pistol drawn with calm precision. I reacted on instinct, hands raised slowly to show I meant no harm, heart thudding as we sized each other up. Two men in a silent standoff, the tension crackling like a drawn wire between us. But instead of a firefight, there were words—tense, measured words that led me here under his roof. Now the adrenaline had faded, leaving only a wary quiet and the questions echoing in my mind.
Leo led me into a small living room that doubled as a command center. Maps and papers cluttered a coffee table next to a half-empty bottle of whiskey. In the corner, an old radio murmured jazz beneath the static. I noticed a shotgun propped casually by the couch and a handgun magazine lying open on an armchair. Subtle, I mused. The signs of Leo's underworld connections were everywhere if you knew how to look. And I knew—partly from the instincts drilled into me, and partly from knowledge I wasn't about to reveal. This world was a familiar one to me in some ways, yet alarmingly different in others.
A creak on the stairway drew my attention. Hovering halfway up the staircase was a teenage boy, watching us through guarded eyes. Leon Kennedy—nineteen years old, lean and light on his feet—froze when he saw me glance his way. In the low light, Leon's face was a mirror of his father's younger photograph on the wall: same sharp features and wary gaze, but with youth's vulnerability peeking through. He tried to mask it with a hard stare, the kind a kid wears when he's had to grow up too fast. I gave him a slight nod, nothing more. He nodded back after a moment, curt and cautious.
So that's Leon, I thought, trying not to stare. In the lore I knew, Leon S. Kennedy was an orphan who never knew a family like this. The Resident Evil stories I remembered painted him as a rookie cop-to-be, idealistic despite tragedy. Yet here he was, not an orphan at all, but a teenager under his father's roof. A father who probably trafficked in guns and drugs, if Leo's reputation and this room were anything to go by. This unexpected twist in fate sent a chill through me. If Leon's history was different, what else had shifted in this world? My secret knowledge of the future—it just became less of a map and more of a sketch. I realized I'd have to be even more careful navigating what lay ahead.
Leo cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to the worn couch. His voice was low and gruff, a smoker's rasp with an undercurrent of authority. I sat down slowly, keeping my posture relaxed, non-threatening. Leo remained standing, arms crossed. In the dim amber light, I could see him better now: early forties, maybe, with cropped dark hair flecked by gray at the temples. A jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow, and there was a weight in his eyes—a heaviness that comes from nights without sleep and years of close calls. I'd seen that look in the mirror often enough.
"You said you were a Marine," Leo began quietly. He didn't waste words; he just watched me like a hawk, gauging every twitch of my face.
"I was," I replied just as softly. My gaze flickered to the tattoo on his forearm half-hidden by his rolled-up sleeve—a faded USMC emblem. "Looks like you were too."
He gave a single nod. "Lebanon, '82." His voice carried a hint of pride under the gravel.
" Desert Storm, '91" I offered in return. Not the operation I was part of since I wasn't born yet but better than saying something from the 2000's, and looking crazy . A brief silence settled as we each acknowledged the other's past without asking for details. In this life, the details can haunt a man. I figured we both had our share of ghosts.
From the stairs, Leon descended a few steps, lingering within earshot. He was pretending to be casual, but every fiber of the kid's being was tuned into our exchange. I could hardly blame him—some stranger shows up in your home late at night, you want to know what's what. Especially if you're Leon, the son of an underworld middleman who's learned to be careful. I wondered if he remembered his kidnapping—how long ago had that been? Leo's file (the one stored in my memory from a universe away) didn't include a son or a wife. But here, the pain in Leo's eyes whenever they darted to the stairs told me plenty. The loss of Nora, his wife, hung in the room like a phantom. And Leon's kidnapping… that kind of trauma leaves marks, even if the wounds have closed.
Leo finally sat down across from me, the couch groaning under his weight. He reached for the whiskey bottle and paused, raising an eyebrow in silent offering. I shook my head politely. My senses were sharp enough already; the last thing I needed was a haze of alcohol dulling my guard. Leo shrugged and took a swig straight from the bottle.
"So, Jasen…" he said, rolling my name on his tongue. "Mind telling me what a Marine like you is doing drifting around these parts? You don't exactly blend in." His eyes flickered over my face, my clothes, noting the bruises and scratches I'd earned on my surreal journey here.
I took a slow breath, considering my words. I had no good cover story prepared—how could I, when I'd been dropped into this world without warning? I decided to stick as close to the truth as I dared. "I'm a long way from home," I said carefully. "Passed through Raccoon City, then the next town over. Looking for… a friend. We got separated." The lie tasted bitter; the only friends I had who knew the truth were back in a reality that felt a million miles away. "Ran into some trouble on the road. I guess I ended up in the wrong alley at the wrong time tonight." I managed a wry smile. "Lucky you came along when you did."
Leo studied me in silence. The quiet stretched out, filled only by the scratchy jazz on the radio and the hum of that old ceiling fan above. I could hear my own heartbeat, slow and steady now, a practiced calm. He's testing me, I realized. Weighing truth against lies. A man like Leo, steeped in the underworld, would have a nose for bullshit. I met his gaze evenly, recalling how True Detective's Rust Cohle said you have to project honesty to sell a story. I hoped my half-truth would be enough.
Finally, Leo grunted. "You handled yourself well back there. Kept your cool." He tapped a finger on the whiskey bottle, as if debating something internally. "Not everyone does when a gun's in their face. Marine training?"
"And some life experience," I nodded. I wasn't about to mention I'd seen far worse things than a gun in the dark. Not yet, anyway. A flash of those other nightmares crossed my mind—T-Virus, the undead, horrors that in 1995 hadn't yet been unleashed. I pushed the thought down; right now those were just ghosts of a future that might not even happen the same way. Focus on the present.
Leo leaned forward, elbows on knees. "You got a place to stay, Jasen?" The question was casual, but the implication wasn't. If I said no, I'd be at his mercy. If yes, I'd have to lie further. Either way, he'd know.
I decided on honesty this time. "No. Not anymore." I kept my tone even, with a hint of resignation. "Place I was crashing fell through. I was figuring things out day by day."
He exchanged a glance with his son, who had now come down to the bottom of the stairs. Leon stood there, hands in the pockets of a black hoodie, trying to look unimpressed. But I caught the quick flash of pity—or was it interest?—in Leon's eyes before he masked it.
Leo sighed and stood up. "This city can chew up a guy like you overnight if you're not careful." He spoke from experience; that much was clear. "You can stay here for now. I've got a spare room in the back. It's not the Ritz, but it's a bed and a lock on the door."
I raised an eyebrow. The offer was surprisingly generous, though I knew it likely came with strings attached. People like Leo don't do favors for free. "That's…thank you," I said slowly, genuinely. "I appreciate it. I'll repay you however I can."
Leo waved a hand as if to brush off the gratitude, but a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We'll figure something out. In my line of work, there's always something needing to be done. And a man with your skillset," he paused, eyes narrowing shrewdly, "might find me asking for a favor or two down the line. Fair?"
"Fair enough," I replied. There it was—the subtle catch. I was being recruited, in a way, into his underworld circle. Trained and supplied in exchange for work, the thought clicked in my head. It was an unspoken arrangement: he'd give me shelter, maybe access to his arsenal, and in return I'd handle jobs too risky or dirty for a lesser man. I wasn't opposed to the idea outright. In fact, having an arms dealer as an ally could prove useful. If the horrors I anticipated ever came to pass, firepower and contacts would be invaluable. Still, I had to tread carefully to keep my conscience intact.
"Leon, get our guest a blanket," Leo said, turning toward his son. His voice softened slightly when addressing Leon, but there was a strain there too—father and son navigating around old wounds. Leon didn't argue. He disappeared down the hallway, footsteps thudding lightly, and returned a minute later with a folded wool blanket and a pillow tucked under his arm. He walked over and handed them to me, our eyes briefly meeting.
"Thanks," I said, taking the bundle. Up close, Leon was a couple of inches shorter than me, gangly in the way of teenagers who hadn't yet filled out. But there was a coiled tension in him, a readiness to spring. His gaze flickered over me, curiosity and caution mixed in equal measure. I wondered what he saw—a drifter soldier with a crew cut and road dust on his boots? Or something more?
"No problem," Leon mumbled. His voice was mid-range, not yet settled into adulthood. I remembered Leon's confident tone from the games and media I knew, the one that cracked jokes even in danger. Hard to reconcile that with this quiet, wary kid. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but then just gave a half-smile and stepped back toward the stairs.
Leo had been watching the exchange, unreadable behind a stern poker face. "Jasen, the room's down the hall on the right. Bathroom's opposite it. Leon's room is upstairs, mine's at the end here. If you need anything, you come to me. Understood?" It was phrased kindly enough, but I caught the protective glint in his eye. This was a man laying down ground rules to keep his household safe.
"Understood," I replied. "And… really, Leo, thank you. I won't cause any trouble." I meant it. The last thing I wanted was to bring more trouble into their lives. From what little I'd seen and what I guessed, they'd had plenty already.
Leo simply gave a curt nod. The conversation was clearly over for tonight. He picked up the whiskey bottle and headed toward the back, likely to his own room, the weight of the day evident in his shoulders. Leon lingered a moment, standing uncertainly in the living room with me. There was that charged silence again, not quite comfortable, not quite hostile.
I decided to break the ice, even just a little. "Your dad… he's a good man," I said quietly, folding the blanket under one arm. It was half-statement, half-question, testing the waters.
Leon's lips pressed into a thin line. "He tries to be," he answered after a beat. There was a world of emotion packed in those four words—resentment, love, regret. "He really does." Leon's eyes drifted to the photograph on the wall: a happier time, a woman with kind eyes holding a young boy, Leo's arms wrapped around them both. Nora and little Leon, I assumed. A family nearly destroyed by the path Leo chose.
I followed his gaze. "I'm sorry about your mom," I found myself saying. It slipped out gently, sincerely, before I could second-guess it. I hoped I wasn't overstepping. "Leo didn't say anything, but… I can tell she meant a lot. I lost someone too, back home." The lie blended into truth; I had lost people—brothers-in-arms, and in a way, I'd lost everyone I knew by ending up here. That familiar ache crept into my voice. "It leaves a mark that doesn't ever fully heal."
Leon looked at me then, really looked, his guarded expression faltering. In that moment we weren't a hardened teen and a strange ex-Marine—we were two people with ghosts in our lives. The tension in his stance eased a fraction. "Thanks," he murmured. He seemed on the verge of saying more, but instead he gave me that half-smile again, a little warmer this time, and headed upstairs. I heard the soft click of his bedroom door, then silence.
I exhaled, unaware I'd been holding my breath. Slow-burn, I reminded myself. Trust wasn't something I could earn from these two overnight. But a foundation had been laid—shaky, tentative, yet real.
I made my way to the spare room down the hall. It was small and sparsely furnished: a twin bed, a nightstand with a dinged-up lamp, and four walls that had seen better days. Yet, for the first time since I woke up in this strange world, I had a door I could lock and a roof to keep the rain out. It was more comfort than I'd expected to find tonight.
I shut the door and slid the bolt lock with a soft click. In the darkness, I sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my short-cropped hair. My mind was racing now that I was alone. Meeting Leo and Leon Kennedy—father and son, bound by blood and shadowed by tragedy—was not in any Resident Evil storyline I knew. I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd stepped off the map entirely. If Leon's past was altered, could the future I anticipated veer off course too? Perhaps Umbrella's schemes, Raccoon City's fate, even the identities of allies and enemies—any of it might come at me sideways. I'd have to stay alert, adapt, and be ready for the unknown.
Laying back on the thin mattress, I stared at the ceiling as faint slivers of streetlight painted moving patterns through the window blinds. I listened to the creaks of the old house, the distant siren of a police car somewhere far off, the ghosts whispering at the edge of hearing. In another room Leo might be drinking himself to sleep, trying to drown the guilt that no doubt haunted him. Upstairs, Leon would be curled up with his own thoughts, perhaps wondering about the stranger now under his roof, perhaps revisiting old nightmares of being taken from his family.
And here I was, Jasen Smith, a Marine out of place and out of time, caught between Fiction and nonfiction. The ghosts of the life I knew and the life these Kennedys lost. The gunsmoke that trailed Leo's every step and now hung around me in the darkness like a promise and a threat.
I closed my eyes, letting my breathing slow. Despite the uncertainty twisting in my gut, one thing felt solid: I wasn't alone out here anymore. By fate or luck, I had allies of a sort—a man who could arm me for the battles to come, and a young soul I silently swore to look out for. In return, I'd earn my keep. I had a feeling Leo would waste no time putting me to work, and truth be told, keeping busy might be good for me. It would keep my mind from spiraling into the what-ifs of this altered world.
For now, I would rest. Tomorrow would bring whatever it would bring. I settled under the blanket Leon had given me, the fabric rough but warm. As I drifted on the edge of sleep, I started to sketch out a plan in my mind—my next move in this dangerous, shifting world. Observe. Learn everything I could about Leo's operations, about this city, about any hint of Umbrella or other looming threats. And maybe, just maybe, find a way to protect this family from the storms I knew might be on the horizon.
In the hush of that late night, I felt the first fragile strands of trust weaving through the gunsmoke-laden air. It was a slow burn, indeed. But with each passing moment in Leo Kennedy's home, I understood a little more: survival here would demand not just strength and knowledge, but alliances. However unlikely they seemed.
I let out a long breath into the darkness. This is only the beginning, I told myself. The ghosts of the future hadn't caught up to me yet, but I could smell the gunpowder of battles brewing in the distance. In Leo's house tonight I had found a tenuous refuge. Tomorrow, I would begin to turn that refuge into a stronghold—for all of us.
Silently, I vowed to myself: whatever came next, I would be ready.