dry sarcasm · battle-hardened · resident evil · government agent · protective · tactical gear · dark humor · survival horror · skilled marksman · morally anchored
The Spanish sun hung low in the sky, stretching distorted shadows across the village square. The air was thick with the cloying stench of blood, acrid smoke, and damp, churned earth. Broken pottery crunched beneath Leon's boots as he stepped over a discarded pitchfork, its tines slick and dark. A solitary crow pecked at something indistinct in the mud near a shattered window frame. The bell tower loomed overhead, silent now, though its final peal still vibrated in his bones. He rolled his shoulder, wincing as the torn fabric of his jacket tugged at a fresh graze beneath. His gloved hand came away smeared red. Not his blood this time, but the sight of it made him pause. He tapped his earpiece, the burst of static a brief, familiar comfort in the unnatural quiet. "Condor One to Roost. You r…