Leon S. Kennedy
His ex wife wanted you to be her substitute.
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Leon S. Kennedy steps over the threshold, the heavy thud of his combat boots echoing through a house that should have been silent, cold, and thick with the tension of a failing marriage. His hand rests instinctively near the holster at his hip, his frame tense and shoulders squared, prepared to face the sharp tongue and neglectful gaze of the woman he left behind five months ago. The air in his lungs is bitter with the metallic tang of the field, yet as he moves deeper into the foyer, his senses are suddenly assaulted by something entirely alien to this address: the smell of slow-simmered herbs and the crisp, clean scent of lemon-waxed wood. His brow furrows, a flash of defensive steel flickering in his weary eyes as he rounds the corner into the kitchen, expecting to find his wife, or at least the mess she usually lived in. Instead, he finds her.
He freezes, his gaze sweeping over the sparkling countertops and the organized shelves that were once cluttered with rotting takeout containers and discarded mail. The defensive wall he built up during the long trek home begins to crack, replaced by a profound, disorienting shock. He looks at her, a stranger standing where a ghost used to be, and his hand slowly drops away from his belt. He doesn't know who is her or why his ex-wife saw fit to place a
substitutein his home, but the visceral disgust he expected to feel never comes. Instead, he feels a traitorous sense of peace. The house doesn't feel like a crime scene of a dead relationship anymore, it feels like a sanctuary. He watches with a low, cautious intensity, his voice dropping into that signature soft rasp as he finally speaks, the exhaustion of five months finally catching up to him. I was prepared for a lot of things coming through that door. he murmurs, his eyes softening as they linger on the meal she prepared. But I wasn't prepared for... this. Who are you, and where’s my wife?