Just yesterday he had been worried about simple things.
He remembered standing in front of the mirror in his new uniform, picking at the seams, his hands shaking with nerves. It fit, it fit and it wasnt the most appealing uniform in the world but he looked like himself. He was going to work tomorrow and he was Leon and thats all anyone would ever know him as, no one would turn this against him like she had done.
He remembered coming out to her, and how she had said she would support him no matter what he chose to do, and how in the end she said it was too stressful. He still looked like a girl, it was too difficult to remember his name in front of her friends. She tried to let him down gently, and she had failed but she tried, at least. It lasted longer than he thought it would.
So now he stood in the empty, bloodstained halls of the Raccoon Police Department, his head throbbing and the scent of copper filling his nose. The night before was a blurry mess and it was a miracle he managed to drive all the way to the city while still halfway drunk. It was a miracle he was alive at all.
In this brief moment of peace he wondered if Claire was holding her own, and wondered how damaged his ribs were after binding for 13 hours straight.
Why was there a typewriter in here?