✧ 01. 24 Hours

6:00 - 6:00, 10/8/26

NOTE: This may include some spoilers of Resident Evil Requiem (RE9). It's also recommended to either be familiar with Nakuru's premise as a character, and/or read up to Chapter 5 of "I am Not a Cat : A-Side".

October 8th, 6:00 P.M.

By then, I believe I had been home for around 30 minutes, perhaps closer to 40, though I had not thought to check the time when I first arrived. I had spent most of that time gathering the house into an operable state instead. I often worked from home at an unimportant yet delicate job, tapping away at a computer in a dark-lit office, wearing headphones to drown out the world with the sounds of smooth jazz and only my thoughts. It was hardly the appropriate atmosphere for solving serious problems, which was unfortunate, considering that solving—or attempting to solve—serious problems was the bulk of what my work amounted to. Nevertheless, I had never been particularly good at working without it. Today, however, much like the past two weeks, had me away from that sanctuary for most of the day while conducting meetings or doing field research. That was no issue, though, as I kept things clean enough besides what I left before I went to work. Upon cleaning through weeks worth of mail, spam letters or bills normally paid online to make sure everything was in order again, I had realized the clock struck 6 P.M.

My husband should've been home by then. However, it's not uncommon that his work kept him out late. Such was the nature of a DSO agent, something he lamented to me every time he'd make his way to my desk reeking of the outside world and his natural body odor. It was a scent and a habit I had grown used to, something like a sign that I had finished a day's hard work and could finally relax. The house seemed considerably larger in his absence. This was a foolish observation, of course; its dimensions had not changed merely because one person was missing from it. Nevertheless, every room seemed to possess several additional feet of space that evening, and I found myself with a demand for mental activity and an abundance of free time.

I sat down on the couch in the living room, just a short walk from the foyer, staring along the back wall. There was an array of photos in small frames, a display we had bought at least a decade ago, but none of the photos that came with the display were replaced. I was left staring at the photos of strangers, stock images of happy families with little to no afflictions or complications in their lives such as mine or my husband's. I remember the day we bought them, promising to fill the frames with photos we had taken over the years.

"Do we need to take more photos? Your hair isn't white anymore, Nakuru," he'd say to me, absolute concern in his voice.

"Maybe," I'd respond back, "I'm sure we have plenty of photos even with my natural hair."

Though we had that conversation at least three times, we never got around to replacing those photos, and we never thought about it until guests would come over, point at the back wall, and gawk at it. To me, it started to become a conversation starter, something to laugh at, and a sign of how busy our lives had become to the point we couldn't even put up photos of ourselves around this home. Each time, Leon would make up a different story of who the people in the photos were. It could be friends, strangers, former researchers to make a grim story of how we met, and each time it would make someone laugh or press for more details only to realize he was making everything up to entertain.

"Leon, you're too convincing," I'd chide him with a smile.

"What? They should know better than to actually think we'd have photos of some Umbrella researcher's family," He'd then respond with a defensive furrow of the brow.

Until this moment, staring at these photos, I never considered that perhaps he hadn't been asking about the frames at all.

October 8th, 8:00 P.M.

Two hours had passed, and I found the abundance of free time to be bothersome. I stood in the kitchen, wondering what my beloved was up to, perhaps writing another paper or cleaning up another mess. Or, maybe, another body had been found. The TV in our living room was on, idly playing the news in an unsettling chorus with the radio atop the mantle, R&B battling with each reporter's strong voice. Idly, I stood in place, listening to the droning sounds of reporters speaking of another mysterious death in the United States. By then, death had become a strangely ordinary thing in my life. Twenty-eight years was enough time, I suppose, for almost anything to become ordinary, though I would not recommend the process.

These deaths, however, had become quite troubling. Over the few times Leon and I spoke about it, he had mentioned that each one was of a different circumstance, though many were survivors of Raccoon City. It brought a pit in my stomach only for a brief moment, something I'm sure he could recognize the moment my ears twitched and my pupils would constrict, as he'd place a hand on my cheek and reassure me that he would be fine. Maybe now I doubted those words while standing alone in my home, and for a second the casual nature of death had grown a new, terrifying form for the first time since I was a mere teenager.

The silence after telling such uncomfortable news was worse than the reporter's voices. What then came to mind was something my mother always told me: the news exists only to keep you updated, and the moment you feel anything stronger, it's time to move onto something else. I don't recall when she first said it, or how many times she has, but it was often enough and early enough to be burned into my memory. It was sensible advice, though I was not particularly good at following it, even now.

My mind returned to Leon again, cycling through the same thoughts for some kind of resolution. Perhaps what Leon was doing was connected to those investigations after all. If the connection he had mentioned so casually proved to be true, then surely he would be next. The thought turned my stomach. Before I knew it, I was no longer standing still, finding myself on my feet again to silence the TV and stare at the ceiling for a while.

Dinner had to be made soon, whether or not Leon would be home for it. I could tolerate many unpleasant things on an empty stomach, but sleep was not among them, and I had no intention of making myself miserable twice in one evening.

October 8th, 10:00 P.M.

Truthfully, my appetite was minimal when I had dinner.

I scrounged up enough energy to heat up something from the freezer, leaning against the kitchen island while I scrolled my phone for more news, or any sign of life. It was unlike Leon to go so late without much contact, though I reasoned that this work must have been very taxing, or he simply forgot. He was quite the tunnel-brained man. Give him a goal and he would pursue it with the sort of determination that was admirable for the first several hours, concerning after the first day, and occasionally intolerable after the third. His vices would become the end of the tunnel, or the completion of a goal, or the desire to save someone. As we grew more comfortable, finding something to enjoy in the lives we lead, there was more to lose, and I could no longer bear to see this tunneling lead my love to ruin.

Was that what was claiming him now? A single goal, a job to be done, one where I'm not present to bring him back to a bigger picture, or something greater, where there was no repose for him in what he was doing, not even a moment to clarify the situation? Of course. I knew that habit too well, it could be all of the above and yet still something more. Perhaps I was too entitled to receive an update, knowing even my own job will consume my every waking hour with the cases we have been taking on as of late. Even Gracie, that sweet young lady, had left the office early to look into something. I can't say I heard what she was being spoken to about, choosing not to intervene and having my ears partially blocked with a cloth headband, but it had left me quite curious to what it could be that multiple people around me were missing in action.

I decided to send Leon a text, just in case he was waiting for me to reach out.

» you doing okay? I miss you.

It was cheesy, overly saccharine, perhaps even excessively longing, though I had never understood why married people were expected to become embarrassed by sentiment after spending years voluntarily subjecting one another to it. On the other end of it, though, I found myself doubting if I should have sent it at all.

Still, I sent it.

October 9th, 12:00 A.M.

With no signs from my husband, I had begun to start wandering around the house. I figured I would also call off of work, as I knew in this worrying I could not be productive, and no reports, let alone coherent thoughts, would come from me until I knew everything was okay. I needed something to occupy myself with. Reading had failed, television had failed, and lying in bed had proven particularly useless. Memory, at least, had the advantage of requiring no electricity.

By midnight, I had found my way into the garage. I had not gone there for any particular reason. At least, that was what I told myself. The house was large enough that one could wander through it for some time without arriving anywhere in particular, which was perhaps one of the less useful advantages of having more rooms than two people could reasonably occupy.

The garage was one of them.

It was much larger than our previous one, though I suppose that was inevitable. We had more money now, fewer reasons to spend it, and no children to consume whatever space we might otherwise have given them.

I had wanted children at some point. That's since become a distant dream, a physical impossibility.

That thought arrived rather abruptly, so I decided to inspect the firearms instead. Over the years of Leon's work as an agent, we had built an expansive collection of firearms, one I took the mantle in cleaning and tinkering with at a series of plastic tables covered in dust, ink, and bathed in the stench of cleaning supplies.

It was a hobby I picked up thanks to Leon, during one afternoon where we were housed up in that military home during his time on my security detail. I was bored, bored enough to be bored of being bored, so I wandered until I found Leon sitting at a table, the room smelling like chemicals and filled with only the sounds of his focus on cleaning. I sat by his side, silently watching, before he asked if I wanted to join in. Since then, he'd show me the weapons he'd buy off, and I'd spend a lot of time breaking them down and cleaning them, coming to understand the mechanics behind such machines. If not for the life I had been thrown into, an experimental breakthrough in biological weapon forging, perhaps engineering would have been my calling alongside writing. I don't doubt that I was meant to write, to create stories, but there is truly little harm in having two trades — all that meant was that I would be writing books about engineering, in the way someone truly passionate would. There's something beautiful about understanding machines, especially when they're designed to hurt another.

I then turned away from the table of cleaning supplies. Along a side wall was also our extended collection of bottle caps, now labeled with who got which cap and when. On one end of the wall was a series of light blue tabs dated by approximate year from 1998 to 2005. On the other end, still reaching to the far side of the wall, was a mix of navy and light blue, each label down to the exact day of acquisition. The last one was a bottle of beer Leon had acquired back in August, though he gave the drink to me as he labeled the bottle cap in his hasty handwriting, sticking it to the wall with putty before boasting about the find. "It's a German import," he said proudly, "Something pretty rare, if you could get your hands on it."

"I take it you paid a fortune, then?" I asked.

"Not at all," he bluffed. "It wasn't more expensive than the ring on your finger."

"You said this was priceless." I rubbed my index finger along the bottle's rim, listening to the quiet humming while awaiting Leon's answer.

"If we're talking about sentiment, it is, but I knew a good jeweler."

"And a good importer, too, I assume?"

"Yes."

"It was expensive, wasn't it?" I asked once again, waiting for Leon to break.

He sighed, shaking his head low in shame. "At least 180, even before the tax."

I couldn't blame him for it, though I wanted to scold Leon for such carelessness with his money in the name of the collection. Even in our time apart, I was intent on continuing it, making sure every cap he found when we were together back in 2005 was labeled properly so I wouldn't take credit for it. Seeing that dedication was admirable, as if he had more investment in my hobby than even myself, though it could just be in the pursuit of seeing my reaction to his additions.

Looking over at this wall, soon checking our safes and all of my tools, the emptiness of the space started to weigh heavily on me. If Leon were truly not coming home, the life that would come soon after was difficult to imagine. There'd be few left to hear my jokes, or to say pickup lines that were so situational only a true comedic genius could come up with them on the spot.

October 9th, 2:00 A.M.

Returning to our bedroom, alone yet still, I changed into a set of pajamas before trying my hardest to get comfortable under the sheets. Wherever Leon was, I could only hope he was also asleep, or that he would reach it soon. There was little to comfort me into sleep, and less to give me reason to wake once I got there. How pitiful, this gloominess was, when it was likely Leon was fighting his way through something important. Perhaps something so important now, that if I were to be told it, I wouldn't believe him at all. Only then, I could hope that he would come home at all to tell whatever story he had. Such thoughts were unproductive, especially when I only wanted to sleep, but eventually, I drifted off regardless of my plight.

October 9th, 4:00 A.M.

Leon was still not home.

How troubling, this disappearance was. Nevertheless, I was tired, and tiredness is remarkably indifferent to the troubles of the heart, so I remained asleep.

October 9th, 6:00 A.M.

I awoke from a light sleep with an empty bed, and an even emptier stomach. I was often the one waking up so early, spending my mornings doing an array of miscellaneous things just to kill time. I'd often walk nearby trails, writing about the trees and foliage of the season, or I'd work out to keep my shape up in my growing years. Sometimes, I'd return to an empty bed, Leon now up and ready to make breakfast or shower before heading to work, though other times he'll lie there, grasping a pillow in yearning for me. It was a sight I found amusing, such a strong and stoic man softened once the warmth of another body was out of him. I'd then feel bad, and spend a few more hours lying with him until he was ready to face the world.

This morning, I was the one lying alone, suddenly sick once again. That was enough to call my supervisor, to say "I can't work right now, there is a family emergency," then crawl back into bed and wait patiently again. However, even after the call was made, I still felt as if something was amiss, or that I should not do so little with my day, so I sat up and stared at the wall for some time. Calling out in times like this, though I work from home, meant that there was little that could get me to work, and it was no use trying to bargain with me to go anyways. However, it meant I had a whole day of worrying to get through, if not more should Leon not be home tonight.

As I left the bed, I scanned the room. We kept it clean, usually aiming to tidy as the week had gone by, but with the fall picking up work, things were strewn about here and there. Typically, couples where both are working usually leads to quite the messy home, especially if they're careless people, but I know that a disorganized space will drive me mad, so despite working, I will often make it a habit to ensure things are in their place.

I realize that with all this space, it's much emptier when I am the only one in it. For the days like this where one of us was home, Leon and I had considered a pet back when we moved into this house, possibly 8 years ago — I'm finding it harder to recall by the day. Something small, maybe self sustainable like a cat, only needing to be fed a few times a day and cuddled with on her own terms. But with the state I am in, perhaps it was somewhat insensitive to what's happened, and I was enough of a cat on my own. Then, we considered getting a dog, even just a puppy to care for until it grows old. Leon got this grim look on his face when I suggested it.

"Maybe we don't need a pet at all," he groaned softly, avoiding eye contact. "A dog wouldn't fit, a cat's not a good choice."

I could only find a meek rebuttal to try and get some sort of resolution. "What about a fish? I can maintain an aquarium just fine."

Leon looked at me, a smirk on his face. It was the look he'd always give when he's about to say something truly brilliant. "You sure you won't eat the fish?"

"No, no way!" I shouted, cheeks burning hot from embarrassment. "Okay, fine. Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Like I said, no pet." Leon murmured. He smirked once again. "You're enough of a pet as-is."

Maybe he was right about that. And perhaps there was a time I would've hated that joke.

October 9th, 8:00 A.M.

Before I knew it, I was in front of the kitchen, wondering if I should have breakfast at all. There was no appetite to be had, only discomfort and a sense of near-unbearable isolation I hadn't felt since the day Leon and I had to separate decades ago. Regardless, I confess that I'm a creature of habit, so even if I were to forego breakfast, I would at least have my usual morning cup of milk tea. It was once coffee, black with two mini-creamers, but my taste buds have gotten tired of the taste of coffee, opting for something milder and sweet. Tea would do just fine in that case.

I climbed atop the counters of the kitchen. This home had tall ceilings, so the distance between the floor and the tops of cabinets was much higher than I could reach. At first, a step ladder would do, but the more the cabinets were filled with spices and sauces, among many boxes and canisters of tea from different places, I realized every shelf should be filled, and no ladder would be tall enough to grab the things. In turn, I made a habit to wipe down every surface multiple times, in case I spilled something or fell, or became much too aware of everything in contact. I wouldn't consider myself much of a germaphobe, no, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't paranoid of the virus hosted within me and the chance it could somehow be more infectious than it already was. Even with the endless medicines and suppressants pumped into me since I was younger, there was still a nagging feeling that someday, resistance would be built, or something else was still lurking beneath the surface, and it would be whatever sat atop my kitchen counter as I climbed onto it.

Nevertheless, as so often happened when I allowed my thoughts to wander too far, that line of thinking brought me back to Leon again. It seems I can't ever keep him off of my mind. We had many talks about the nature of us getting closer, even if just for work to ensure I was docile enough to still be considered human, I asked how he was never infected too. He joked that "I should be worried more about toxoplasmosis," as if that would have made my worrying mind feel any better. We found out upon reuniting years later that he was, at some point, also infected, but it was such a small occurrence that died out within weeks given he lacked the necessary parts for it to do anything of significance to him.

I remembered asking him if he had been infected with other things, viruses or phages of the like over his years of work. The question was met with a sigh, though he never elaborated on it even years later, brushing off the question with a dry remark on how it was just the nature of his job to deal with unknown things and somehow recover or manage through them. Even now, that very thing could be happening, something I'm unaware of, or simply didn't pay enough attention to. Though, again, much like every time I had tried to comprehend where Leon was and what in the world he could be dealing with, I found myself quite feverish again.

October 9th, 10:00 A.M.

Following a simple breakfast I resolved, French-styled eggs over toast — debatably French if not for its resemblance to œufs brouillés — and some fruit I found in the fridge. It was small, enough to satiate me with the milk tea, and it left me with a refreshed mind. More things around the house had to be cleaned. Although everything was generally orderly, I began to notice even small details that could afford a little more attention, if anything just for ensuring cleaning could come later rather than sooner. In the living room, just a short walk from the outdoor den, blankets were strewn about on the couch. A common gift I received over the years from well-meaning friends-of-friends was blankets, a likely side effect of Leon telling them how cold I was.

In our early days of knowing each other, around the same time of that security detail, I'd burrow into as many piles of blankets or oversized clothes as I could and still complain I was frigid to Leon. That change in my physiology was most troubling, to the point that now, at 47, starting to deal with hot flashes and the ever-looming threat of my already defective reproductive tract starting to actively work against me, I was still often cold, but my days of burrowing under heaps of blankets were long gone. Instead we started to throw them onto the couch, piling along the backside in arrays of colors and textures, only being folded into a neat pile that would span either the butt-end of the couch or a cramped box in a storage closet when guests were soon to visit. I kept myself warm with thick sweaters, tons of exercise, and the occasional cuddle from the world's most stoic teddy bear, though only with the downside of complaints and manly musk.

October 9th, 12:00 P.M.

By now, I began feeling exhausted with my occupation with Leon. I was even exhausted with the journey down memory lane I was taking with every thing I decided to focus on for some time, needing something else to occupy my mind. I thought of calling someone else, having a long conversation to think about anything else. I had few friends, it was a hard thing to do in a situation like mine, even during the time I was alone I often stayed cooped up in my apartment to focus on my work or studies.

I debated sending another text. I typed into the box, hesitated, then stared at the message:

» stayed home today. what an awfully huge bed without you taking up half of it ww

I couldn't bring myself to send it.

At this point, I was only left with the contemplation of how to spend my time. I could call Claire, perhaps checking in on her, but she must be hard at work as well. We seldom talked, but I considered her a dear friend as she took the time to get to know me once we were introduced to one another. I considered calling Rin as well, though it was surely late in Japan, and I couldn't be certain if she was awake. Between photo shoots, clubs, or what other hedonistic ventures she'd find herself in, her schedule was almost deliberately impossible to follow, making her quite difficult to reach. Regardless, I figured I'd give it a chance. The phone rang for a few moments, hung up, then rang more when I attempted to call once more before picking up.

"Nakucha!" I hear from the other end of the phone.

I exhaled in relief. "You're awake right now?"

"Huh? But it's only Midnight, do you think I'm some kind of old lady? Please, the best things start at this time, I shouldn't be wasting all those chances on sleep."

"You're older than me," I retort back with a laugh.

"So what? What's going on? Did you miss me? I miss you. When are you visiting?"

"Oh, I…" My voice trailed off softly. I decided to bluff, playing into a sudden opportunity. "I should be able to in a few weeks. Isn't there something happening soon?"

"You missed Golden Week here. But that little media convention's happening at the end of the month, isn't it? Come then. Maybe stay a little longer, actually."

Rin always had this habit of trying to drag me back to Japan for long stretches of time. I once spent a month there at her behest, which brought me back with a number of new things, and Leon complaining that he was worried I'd never come back. Since reuniting a decade ago, she had kept her clingy attitude from our youth, even occasionally having quarrels with Leon over my attention and how well either of them knew me respectively. I figured they were on similar playing fields for a while, but they'd each argue in their own favor for various reasons. Her English was always laced with these high-pitched squeaks and youthful slang, mixed in with her penchant for unique fashion that kept her deceivably young-looking, so Leon would often complain that he was practically arguing with a child before I corrected him on that just being how Rin was.

"Actually, I could stay for a little over a weekend. I don't have many things pulling at me, but it depends on how Leon feels—"

Rin suddenly cut me off. "Don't bring the guy, then! Actually, no, please do. I kinda want to see him."

"Have you gotten over your rivalry? Hm?"

"That's not it," Rin huffs. "I just think there's some things we should talk about, but the rivalry is still going. I need to make sure that he's not evil or anything."

"You can admit you want to be friends with him too, Rin."

I hear a groan from the other end of the phone. "It's more complicated than just that. I need a contributor to my collections too, Nakucha. And if this means getting on his good side, I'll do exactly that."

I laughed at her conviction, entertained by Rin's determination towards her goals, even willing to call a truce on the possibly one-sided rivalry she's forged in the name of protecting me all these years. "I understand, then."

"So you're both going to come visit at the end of the month, and after you buy your albums, you're going to come visit me, right?"

"Yes."

"Good. I love you, I'll see you then." Rin suddenly hangs up the phone.

She left me with such little conversation, never giving me a chance to open up about my current situation, but perhaps that was for the best. It was a sufficient distraction from my plight in the early afternoon at the very least, so I could be thankful for that after all.

October 9th, 2:00 P.M.

Time becomes strange when there is nothing particular to do with it. By two in the afternoon, I had already been awake long enough to feel as though the day ought to have ended, yet there remained several hours before dinner and more after that before anyone could reasonably call it night. I was unbearably bored, reading away at various books I had already scanned multiple times, trying to read over annotations or make new ones. I even picked up my own books, trying to scrutinize my own writing to pass by the time, but it only left me feeling more listless than I started.

At some point, I believe I took a nap and slept a little more in my office.

October 9th, 4:00 P.M.

6 P.M. is often when dinner would be made. I started a little early, however, given I already had some of the components in mind and had just awoken from a brief nap, coming up with something I could enjoy eating alone or with company. My diet hasn't always been the most balanced, as I often opt for quite carnivorous meals with the occasional bowl of rice to cut the sodium. Since getting married about 5 years ago in the spring, Leon gained this curious habit of suggesting new things for dinner under the guise of "expanding his palette," perhaps being more out of concern. He decided to take up the mantle in cooking as well, and we've begun having pasta more and more each night. It was considered easy, effortlessly customizable, and I'd argue just a Western equivalent to the endless abundance of rice. But over time, we've started truly expanding our diet to incorporate both, and I've gained an insatiable desire for pasta at points that even Leon struggled to fulfill without burning out on the food himself.

For dinner, then, we're having Chicken Parmigiana. Or rather, I will have it in my lonesome, leaving some aside for Leon until I consider it much too late or much too dangerous to keep out for longer, lest it lose its exquisite taste. We only had it perhaps once or twice a season, but it was such a decadent meal that I'd often crave it, begging Leon to at least give me the recipe to make it for myself and let him make his own dinner. After two years of begging, he gave in and gave me the rule to only make it if he could have some as well, even if just as leftovers. I changed it up, adding a bed of fettuccine alfredo, believing that such a meal is not quite worth the trouble if its layers of dairy and cream cannot knock one out into a sweet slumber from its heartiness.

When it was finished, I ate away while watching a drama show. I had to avoid the ones I started with Leon, not wanting to continue without him, but it meant then that I was in need of options for this meal during a rare time I was alone.

October 9th, 6:00 P.M.

24 hours have passed since Leon should have been home, if anything was happening it should be over by now — assuming there wasn't worse news to come. I had just wrapped up dinner, placing the dishes in the sink while leaving the food on the stove as if to leave an open offer. I then went to the living room, wrapping one of the numerous blankets around my body as I turned on the TV again to listen to the news. From there, the most confusing yet eye-opening report played out.

" The government has confirmed the existence of an actively training bioweapons lab located here in the ruins of Raccoon City. The origin point for the worldwide spread of bio-organic weapons. This illegal facility appears to have been in operation for decades. Sources say that the extension of the lockdown and the recent series of mysterious deaths may be related to tragic events in Raccoon City 28 years ago.

Evidence seized in Raccoon City has led the Justice Department to reopen its investigation into Oswell Spencer and the long defunct Umbrella Corporation. Some believe the government deliberately drove Umbrella into bankruptcy.

The late Alyssa Ashcroft is credited with cracking the Oswell Spencer story. Conspiracy theorists are already claiming that she was killed in a cover up, and that the organization responsible is secretly controlling our government.

Tonight, in a speech from the Oval Office, the president is expected to reject allegations of any government involvement since the Raccoon City incident. "

Surely, that had to be what Leon was dealing with. Only the stars could know what he went through, alongside whoever he was with. However, this confirmation of it all only made me feel worse. I could only hope that he made it out alive if he truly was there, and that whatever it was meant that it was the start of things getting better for us in some way. If Umbrella was being investigated again, did that mean suddenly there would be closure on the things that happened to me, or anyone else? Fighting all of these ghosts again, was resolution soon to come, or would it all be brushed under the rug once again? I couldn't stop thinking about this, pondering it all, processing every single word from the news report, how it could relate to me, and if this meant that even if I never received closure, perhaps Leon could feel a little better about it. We had kept quiet on Raccoon City, every mention of it being as off-handed as one could muster, or outright just ignoring the topic at hand to focus on my time as a subject, but this meant something new.

I had to shut those thoughts off quickly, before I found my dinner a hurled mess on the floor and my head in the clouds.

A rustling then sounded at the door. Followed by the sudden creak of it swinging open, Leon stood silently in the foyer. He looked terrible. His clothes were dirty, wrought with dried blood and other viscera, his coat was missing, and he clearly had not slept. Then, we locked eyes. Something in his expression softened in that moment. That normal scowl of nearly 30 years of fighting bio-terrorism melted away, his face almost resembling that rookie cop I had only seen in a worn down photo decades ago.

"Nakuru," He said with an exhale, almost deflating in his state as we approached each other in the living room.

"Leon. You couldn't call or text?"

"I know, I know." His voice was low, almost regretful, as he gave me a half-hug. Covered in blood, dirt, and other things, normally I would turn my nose and refuse to touch him, but the expression on his face could only tell me that what he went through was enough to nearly break his seemingly unshakable resolve. "I was pretty busy," Leon murmured in my ear, pulling me in for a tighter hug. I would normally protest, but I admit that this hug was what I was looking forward to in my isolation all day, like a cat excited to have her ears scratched by her hard-working owner. I found myself nearly shaking in excitement, tail vibrating as I tried to comprehend that Leon did make it home again.

I pulled away from the hug to adjust my glasses and brush off my body. "What have you been doing all this time?" I asked Leon.

He sighed. "I have one hell of a story to tell you about that… after we both shower."