No strings attached / Leon s. Kennedy

Chapter 13 - Leon

I feel the weight of her words, the rawness in her voice cutting through me. I take a step closer. I want to say something, anything to pull her out of this. But I don't know how. I can see she's at her breaking point, and I don't know what to do to fix it. She's always been tough, always so sure of herself, but now? She's crumbling, and it's messing with my head.

I feel her trembling under my grip, and for a moment, I hesitate. My fingers loosen around her wrist, the guilt creeping in again. I'm the reason she's like this. I took the letter. I've kept it from her, and even though I should feel satisfied, it feels hollow now. She's breaking apart in front of me, and I hate that I'm part of the reason why.

But at the same time, I don't hate it. I don't regret taking the letter. I don't regret lying to her. I hate her, and I'm glad she doesn't have it. Yet the way she's looking at me right now, the way her expression is filled with so much pain—it's confusing me. I should want her to suffer. I should enjoy watching her fall apart.

But I don't. Not completely.

"Stop," I say, softer this time, almost against my will. I guide her over to the couch, my hand still on her wrist as I push her gently down. "Sit down. Breathe." She's too exhausted to fight anymore, too shaken to argue. She sits, her whole body slumped like she's given up.  

I walk to the kitchen, my mind racing. I fill a glass of water, trying to pull myself together, but the guilt is louder now. She's in my apartment, tearing herself apart over something I could stop. But I won't. Because even though I care in this moment—despite my morals—I need her to stay exactly where she is. At arm's length. She is my enemy, she is the woman I'd rid if I could.

I sit beside her, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, staring down at the floor. "Talk to me," I say, my voice low. "What's going on, Amber?"

She hesitates, her hands gripping the glass so tightly I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. Then, finally, she speaks, her voice so fragile it barely reaches me.

"It's the letter, Leon," she says. "It's everything."

She glances around at the mess she's made, her face crumbling under the weight of it all. Her voice is small when she finally speaks again. "I'm sorry."

I shake my head, my voice softer than it should be. "Don't apologize." She doesn't deserve my sympathy, but I give it to her anyway. "It's fine. I just want to know... do you believe me now? That I don't have the letter?"

She's starting to doubt herself, I can see it. She's starting to question whether or not I've been lying. But she can't know for sure. And that's the only thing keeping me in control.

"I don't know," she whispers, her voice shaky. "I don't know what to believe anymore."

I watch her, trying to keep my expression neutral as she stares down at the glass of water in her hands. It's strange, this moment of calm after the storm of her tearing through my apartment. I hate her for what she represents—Umbrella's puppet, caught up in their lies, maybe even worse than she realizes. She's the enemy. She's dangerous. But right now, she looks anything but. Right now, she's just... tired.

My mind races, conflicted. There's that part of me that's still pleased with myself for keeping the letter hidden from her, for outsmarting her. But there's also this knot of concern I can't shake, even if I try to ignore it. Morals have always been a thorn in my side.

I sit next to her, my voice calm, more serious than before. "Is someone threatening you at Umbrella? Is that why this document's so important?"

She shakes her head slowly, clutching the glass tighter, her knuckles white. "No... no one's threatening me." Her voice is shaky, barely holding together.