No strings attached / Leon s. Kennedy

Chapter 27

Amber

Walking through the quiet, sterile halls of the upper floor, I can feel the weight of what's stored here, behind these locked doors, every secure file and classified project kept far out of reach for almost everyone. But not for me. I'm one of the only people allowed up here, maybe the only one besides Hughes himself. They trust me—at least that's what I tell myself as I stride down the hall, passing each door with a feeling of both privilege and unease.

Maybe they allow me access because they know I have nothing else. They know Umbrella's all I have, like some twisted loyalty built on desperation. But there's a part of me that likes to believe it's because I do exceptional work. Because I've put everything into this, made myself indispensable.

I pass by the rows of locked filing cabinets and shelves that house the most guarded research in the company. They keep me here because they need me, and I'm good at what I do.

I sort through the files, fingers brushing off layers of dust that have settled on the cabinets. Most of these haven't been touched in ages, like relics stored in a vault, waiting for someone to remember they're here. There are whole sections even I'm not allowed to access, rooms guarded day and night that only Hughes and a handful of higher-ups can enter. The guards, stationed along the hall, watch silently, ready to obey my every instruction, but I can't shake the feeling of being watched, like the building itself is keeping tabs on me.

But as I go through each file, arranging and cataloging, my mind slips back to Leon. I've given him two weeks. Two weeks to come up with some miraculous reason, some justification for whatever double-crossing he's trying to pull. It's ridiculous. I know exactly who he is now and exactly what he's doing, and yet I'm letting him stay, letting him work in the same building, under the same roof. There's nothing he could say that would make any of this right, that would make any of this forgivable.

In two weeks, he'll be gone. Along with the irritation, the gnawing frustration he drags along with him. But even as I tell myself this, the weight of the promise, of that deadline I've set, clings to me.

And then there's that unsettling twist in my gut—a feeling I refuse to acknowledge most days. The part of me that doesn't want him to leave. Why? Because he's the only one who can ground me, pulling me back from that dark, guilt-ridden spiral that lurks beneath everything? He's the first person to cut through it, even if it's only when we're tearing each other apart, all that hate blurred by whatever physical pull we have.

But it doesn't make sense. It's ridiculous, really, to cling to someone who's made himself out to be an enemy, who challenges every shred of loyalty I have. And yet... in those moments, when I feel like I'm about to lose myself to the weight of everything, he's there, like an anchor. It's easier to pretend it's purely sexual, just a release from the tension that builds from this work, from my life. Yet, the idea of him actually leaving, being gone entirely—it cuts deeper than I'd like to admit.

I take a breath, forcing my attention back to the files in front of me, hoping the routine will drown out the intrusive thoughts. But it's harder than it should be. I've always been able to compartmentalize—to shut out anything that isn't necessary, that doesn't serve a purpose in my work. It's part of why Umbrella trusts me. Part of why I've managed to survive here, despite everything.

But Leon... he's chipped away at that structure, leaving cracks I'm starting to see through. And in those cracks, there's something even more unsettling than the doubt. It's the realization that he makes me want something beyond the walls of this place, beyond Umbrella. And I hate him for it as much as I crave it.

A noise from down the hall pulls me back. Footsteps, quiet but unmistakable, coming from around the corner. Instinctively, I snap the file shut and return it to its place on the shelf, turning just in time to see Hughes step into view, his gaze steady, unreadable as always.