A/N: I've been out of the game for a while. I've had many changes in my life, heartbreaking changes, beautiful changes, and revelations that will test my relationship with my mother. I haven't been able to write, however, I've been the happiest I've been. I miss writing, and I'm sure you're all like, "Can't she finish ONE story?!" Well, maybe I should rebuild and even rewrite… I don't know. I had this idea though even while I was having writer's block for my other stories. It's actually been on paper and in my phone for months. So, here's another story, and I would like to say, screw the timeline. This is gonna be set in 2017 damn it. Let's go!

Leave- Claire Redfield is trying to live a normal life with boyfriend Timothy, but a new obsession with the strange neighbor next door threatens this life.

Being on leave was a beautiful thing. After three months of chasing a lead that led us straight to nowhere, I had had enough of TerraSave's goose hunts. My job had become my life, beating out everything else in importance. School was something that was a distant memory, and I'd long since stopped feeling bad for my failure to even achieve an Associate's. Bikes had no place in my life anymore, not even in my off months; I was expected to use that time to come down, socialize and live life as though I didn't possess a military level security clearance. During my off months all I did was come home, sleep for a few days on and off, call up Chris, and try to get back into a short groove with Tim. As soon as I'd become a civilian again, I was going to be shipped back off.

As I waited for my cab to come to its inevitable stop I scanned the comments of a YouTube video while listening to the pondering of the panel of SNN. It was good to hear them talking about something other than politics, and luckily no one had related the fight against bioterrorism to our sitting president and his policies. I adjusted the earbud that attempted to dislodge itself, paying more attention than before when the name "Ozwell E. Spencer" was uttered. I slid my thumb in a downward motion against the glass screen, returning it to the panel of anchors and correspondents that were typically at each other's throats. We were only two minutes and thirty-three seconds into the video though, so who knows how long that would last.

"It has now been four years since the death of the Umbrella Incorporated founder." Terry Bayonne made the announcement with what I interpreted as an air of uncertainty. Many people had refused to speak his name for a while, even after the announcement of the official removal of his name from the international list of Most Wanted. He'd become like bin Laden almost. People still questioned his status.

Then there was his cult. Followers of Umbrella had begun popping up throughout the world in small numbers. There were sects of people devoting themselves to elevating themselves to a godhood that their long-dead leader had never achieved himself. Right now they weren't high on our list of priorities, but every now and then we felt odd compulsions to check in on them. Right now they seemed to be more heavily concentrated in Russia for some reason, and members were flocking there in droves for what I imagined was right now nothing more than a circle-jerk fueled by delirium. Thanks to them, Umbrella was still alive. As I saw my apartment complex coming up, I reminded myself that it was not my problem right now.

My day had been spent unpacking, reconfiguring the apartment based on my own preferences, God knows that in three months, Tim had a field day. When I finished up I was ready to initiate my first, true step of leave: making contact with the one person that could determine my status in the company. I logged into my work portal, I checked my laptops' webcam, ensuring that my little, black strip of paranoia wasn't still obscuring it. You never know. I clicked on sessions.

As soon as the tab opened the crisp voice of a young, English woman said, "Hello Claire. You have 1 scheduled session."

A box appeared, asking if I was ready. With a quick, "Duh!" I dragged my mouse over to confirm. Immediately I was met with the gray-bearded smile of Dr. Cyrus. I smiled back, sitting back in my chair a bit so that my face didn't take up the whole screen. While I checked my little square to make sure that I was moving on his end, I greeted him. "Hi Dr. Cyrus."

With the most professional, lecture voice one could imagine he responded, "Hello Claire, how are you today?" His gray hair was cut short, his cheeks were sunken in a way that you just knew that he was more than handsome in his younger years, and his thin nose added to that theory that at some point, Dr. Cyrus was statue of a man. The organization knew what they were doing by hiring him to be one of the first faces that you saw when you came back.

"Umm…" I held onto that word for a while, honestly unsure of how to answer. If I was someone returning to a family, I'd be happy, but hell, Chris was partly on when I was off and Tim was working on becoming Super Lawyer so I returned to an empty apartment that I only had because of him. I just didn't feel comfortable staying with a man half of the year and possibly come home to be put out. "It's weird."

"You'll get acclimated." He grinned. "What's the first thing you did when you got home?"

"Unpacked." It was a uniform response, very expected and the only thing that was acceptable.

He nodded and smiled just enough that this time I saw his slight smile lines and dimples through the healthy beard. "That's good." He looked down, reading what I'd come to figure were notes. "Have you had the chance to interact with anyone?"

"Only the taxi driver." God that sounded depressing.

With a nod, he put on that you-know face, preparing for a miniature lecture so that you wouldn't realize that you were being lectured. But I knew. "You know…"

I almost rolled my eyes. It had become a script at this point, fidelity that did no one any favors. For my own good, I needed to break the cycle. The company could say that I was predictable, and possessing a detrimental attribute could lead to the whole project being declared compromised.

"…it's easier to come back down when you have people to… remind you to come back down."

Yeah right, I thought to myself. People ask questions. People see your internal anguish and try to convince you that they can keep a secret, that you can lean on them. And that… That's how people die.

"You should try making friends Claire. Or get in touch with older friends that understand." For a moment he stopped speaking, looking down briefly. Fuck… I knew what was coming.

I breathed in deep, forcing happy thoughts of puppies and ice cream and coming to something substantial on leave. "Dr. Cyrus…"

He could tell that he'd touched on something that didn't need to be touched on. "The only way out of the woods is through them."

"I'm out of the woods." There was more attitude behind those words than intended. "What happened was a risk that I had to take. I still did my job."

He shook his head slowly as he said, "A risk but not an expectation. No woman should ever expect that."

The world of bioterrorism was violent and risky. It wasn't filled with geeky scientists that were afraid of being within five feet of women. It was filled with vendors, buyers, and things that you'd see in any mob movie. Things happened to women in this world that happened in any other world. Just because I preferred not to speak of it or talk about it, it didn't mean that these things didn't have to happen. And the good doctor was wrong; women should expect it. Expect it to be prepared to prevent it if you could. I didn't say this though, because it wouldn't have looked good in my file.

"Have you been having nightmares?" he asked.

Which ones, I asked in my head. I could feel my fake smile fading, and so I refreshed it as I thought. He more than likely was referring to the incident as he seemed to shy away from questions that invoked the names of Raccoon City, Rockfort, or even the Antarctic. Those nightmares were gone… "It's been a few weeks," I estimated. So far, sleeping through the night was becoming the norm again, but PTSD was a tricky thing. I dreamed about zombies and Alfred for seven months straight until they stopped for maybe six weeks. Then, out of the blue I was spending a whole eight hours running from a rifle beam, trying to save Steve… I never did… not even in my dreams.

These sessions… they made me remember what I'd hidden from myself for years. Now I was face-to-face with the mangled, bruised, distorted, and bloody body of a boy that had fallen in love with me across the span of two continents.

"Where are you, Claire?"

Shit. My façade had faded like the memories of Steve Burnside wouldn't. To make a speedy and seemingly relevant recovery I replied, "I was just thinking about a boy I used to know." With my fake smile I shrugged. "That's all."

"Sometimes it's easier to revert to more innocent times." He sounded pleased that he could sound like he knew what he was talking about. "You can't stay in that fantasy Claire."

Why not? In that fantasy we plowed our way to the Australian base. We went so far away that Alexia couldn't reach us, that we radioed for rescue and I told Chris not to come. Alexia became his problem and we flew back to the states with more damning testimonies of Umbrella that weren't dismissed this time. Steve finished high school while Chris and I watched Umbrella burn to the ground as they'd watched Raccoon City do. We felt the rejoicing of newly unburdened souls and vindicated families across the country. The lid was blown on all research of bio-weaponry, and the remaining STARS members, Chris included, were decorated for their efforts. Their records were cleared of the dirt and mud that had been slung on them at the behest of a now-folded –in my fantasy and reality- Umbrella.

Their pensions were reinstated and somehow supplemented for an immediate commencement of disbursements. Then I could go back to General Studies, wear too-short shorts that Chris disapproved of, and fixed up choppers in hopes of one day getting it right. I'd request no hush-money, no rewards, but rather a simple promise of a normal life. Throughout this fantasy I did not mention a particular name despite it lingering somewhere in my mind. He was the one person that could tear my fantasy apart. Without his persistence, his misguided ambition, my story could truly have a happy ending. The ending in which I didn't get raped.

"I just see his eyes." I just burst Dr. Cyrus' bubble.

The noise had become unbearable, barring me from getting any sleep whilst Tim snored next to me. With a huff I threw the sheets back, not bothering to redress my oblivious boyfriend. As I headed for my bathroom a distinct sound caught my ear and apparently my legs as I stopped dead in my tracks. There it was again. It sounded like furniture sliding across a wooden floor. I looked back at Tim one more time, resenting his normal life in which he could sleep through the bumps in the night, every one that was a threat to my life.

With an exaggerated caution that the everyday man had the luxury of not exhibiting, I crept into the darkness of my hallway, unable to see anything in the living room. The blackout curtains served two purposes: helping to trick my brain into sleeping and giving me an advantage over intruders. On nights like tonight though, even a sliver of moonlight would have been appreciated. Though I told myself it was nothing and deep down I knew that being on leave had lowered risks on my life by 3,000%, for some reason this disturbed me, No one had inhabited the apartment next door since the elderly tenant, Thelma Johnson had died years ago. So why was I hearing noises coming from next door at 2:16 AM in the middle of the month?

Taking in a deep breath, I stepped into the hallway, muscles tense as I attempted to convince myself to come back down. Claire, you're a civilian, I whispered to myself. Not a plank creaked beneath my weight as I blindly entered the front of my apartment, feeling no presence other than my own. I felt for the light switch on the wall, uselessly checking back into the darkness of the hallway to make sure that Tim had not awoken; he would attempt to deter me with reassurances that would do nothing for me but make me shake my head at his naivate. These thoughts instilled determination in me, putting the force behind my finger to flick on the light switch, illuminating the living room. As I heard more furniture being moved, I crossed the room slowly, squeezing between the couch and lamp against the wall. Placing my ear to the wall, I steadied myself, staring down at my feet that had sunken into the plush, beige carpet, waiting for another sign of life on the other side,

Ugh. I was chalking it up to me being out of my mind right now. I readied myself to push my body away from the wall, and then I heard it again. Eyes wide, I finally pushed back, taking a few steps away. That unfounded caution still present, I went to the kitchen, slowing down when I realized what I was about to do, I'm on leave. That thought kept me from rushing out the door, coat rack in hand. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grabbed the doorknob, colder than it would've been to the touch had my palms not been sweaty. With my other hand, I went down the row of locks, counting them along the way. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

I turned my wrist, pushing the door out. After a moment of waiting, I peeked outside, looked down the hall to the right, seeing no one come up from the elevator. Then, I heard keys jingling to the left, my view blocked by my own door. Barefoot and clad in only some pajama shorts and a tank, I stepped onto the wooden floor of the hallway, keeping half of my body hidden by the heavy, wooden door. Then I saw it, briefly, but surely. A man in a wheelchair was being pushed through the next doorway. Clad in black, all of him was covered head to toe. The hoodie hid his face and hair, but before he was pushed inside I saw ghostly white hands, slightly marred by what appeared to be burns, gripping the arms of the chair. Before I could disappear, ashamed by the potential implications of my curiosity that was only due to a past that most knew nothing of, the man that was pushing the new tenant's head shot in my direction. Eyes black as coal attempted to shock me into place, but I was able to slide back into my apartment. I shut the door so hard that I swear the sound echoed down the hallway, possibly waking the tenants in the other two apartments, Tim included. With an inexplicable sweat dampening the back of my neck and armpits, I quickly turned the other locks, securing the entry. Before I saw those eyes, my fear was unwarranted, but now I felt that I would become a target of sorts. I could only imagine how red he had become with anger at my prying, his bald head probably the same shade.

Great job, Claire. I heard movement coming from the bedroom, and I prepared to lie, -as usual- to the man that I thought that I could live with lying to. Leave was officially bullshit.

Day 2

I'd seen Tim off, assuring him that I'd be fine with him working so much when I'd just gotten back. Companionship, the human need for it was honestly the only reason that I was with him. No matter how long I was gone, he was always here, waiting. Here he'd remain; he worked incredibly long hours, perfecting his ability to competently fulfill his duties as a corporate lawyer. Though barely above the bottom rung, he worked as though he was already at the top and he studied to aim higher than that. Our pairing was perfect in that our jobs were first above all. Despite the depressing purpose of our relationship, I was grateful that I had someone to lie down with some nights, someone to hold me. So I didn't feel bad for lying to him or holding back on what I was truly feeling.

All I felt at this moment was the leftover embarrassment from last night. So I had decided to offer an apology and welcome the new neighbor. Though I felt like hell from the long day of unpacking, I knew that the best strategy after last night's incident would be to come off as normal and as approachable as possible. Lucky for me, it was fall, and the look that said, "Normal, American woman," was a pair of Uggs, leggings, an oversized shirt, and a sweeping cardigan. Dr. Cyrus suggested breaking from any on-duty trends to get back into the feel or normal life. A messy bun was now considered okay to wear about so I threw my mess of un-straightened hair up, high on top of my crown, unsecuring a few strands to subtly frame my face. With a huff, I decided that I was ready.

When I heard my door close behind me, I wasn't entirely sure that I wanted to do this: the right thing. Still, I had decided to go forward. Wait, I was literally going forward, like, to the neighboring apartment. Oh God, I didn't remember telling my feet to move. A lump had suddenly developed in my throat as I faced the door, and I was somehow at the ready to knock. Fuck, I was on auto-pilot. Before I could swallow down the anxiety in my throat, I gave the cop knock that I kicked myself for forgetting to leave at the airport. Suddenly, my mind was in a swirl that made me physically ill, so ill that my armpits began to sweat and for some reason itch. Just as I'd resolved to make this a game of ding-dong ditch, I heard a set of heavy footsteps. Shit. Then as the door creaked open, I stepped back, allowing space. This wasn't a door, it was going to wind up being a portal to some unnecessary shit and I knew it.

Standing incredibly tall at about 6'5, the slender, bald man from last night with those coal, black eyes presented himself to me. He looked pissed.

Putting my failed past as a pageant girl to work, I pasted on my best smile. Our initial encounter was not for a welcome, and depending on how this went he more than likely still wouldn't get one. "Hi." God that wasn't enough. "I'm Claire Redfield, I live next door."

He stood there, silently asking me what the fuck that meant.

"So, I just wanted to apologize for last night." I fidgeted a bit, both nervous and anxious as I would've preferred that he do the "normal" thing and tell me why he was here. I fought the urge to peek into the doorway, knowing that though being nosy was my job, that it was rude in civilian-life. "I'm on leave from work and I just haven't readjusted-"

"Are you military?" he interjected, his expression being one of genuine interest.

I shook my head no, swallowing a lump that came from the sad reminder that I really had no one outside of the organization to talk to about it. Some of its operations were in fact military, but I couldn't tell him that. I couldn't even tell Tim that.

Looking regretful for me, despite not possibly being able to know my situation, he nodded. "I met who I believe to be your boyfriend this morning. Tim?"

Arms crossed over my chest, I gave a small smile and a nod. "That would be him." I was now pissed; had Tim come over here? For what? What did they talk about? Claire, stop. I took a deep breath; I was on leave. Tim was my boyfriend and he wasn't trying to double-cross me.

"It's no trouble," he assured me, a tiny smile present meant to comfort me. "I'm Walter." He extended a hand far larger than my own, which I forced myself to take without hesitation. We shook twice and both of our smiles widened. When he released his grip, he seemed to relax, taking a step back and more than likely failed to notice that he'd created the slightest view into the apartment.

I tried to remain polite, not to pry. The sound of an argument on SNN floated towards me, but I still didn't look. "So, how are you settling in so far?"

"Quite smoothly." The door had opened another bit, but I kept it together. "I guess I should ask the same of you?"

"It's been okay. Day 2 and all." Lying about normalcy had become a specialty. It was a habit that my words could so seamlessly betray my thoughts.

Innocently, he asked, "What is it that you do?" Or was it innocent?

That internal question told me that it was okay for me to take a tiny peek. From such a quick glance though, I only saw the shadow of a recliner. Masking my inquisitiveness I responded apologetically almost, "I can't really talk about my work."

He gave a nod of understanding. Behind him, I heard a cough. Not a normal, small, throat-clearing cough either, but a cough associated with a malady. This took not only his attention away from our conversation but mine as well.

This time, I could make out a figure in a dark hoodie. When I realized that Walter would probably prefer to return to our conversation, I put my smile back on just in time for him to look back at me. "So what do you do, Walter?"

With a mischievous smirk he echoed my response from just a minute ago. "I can't really talk about my work."

At first, I giggled, unsure if he was serious or a smartass. Then nothing came. Maybe it was a test. I felt the smile falling from my face as the plausibility of a scenario played in my head. It was a cruel scenario that I'd heard whispers of while on duty but why would this happen to me? Had I not proven that I wasn't cuckoo? Okay Claire… stabilize. I'm not really on leave… am I? I shook that from my head for now. "Look, I'm sorry for last night. No one's been over here in years so…"

He cleared his throat. "No, I apologize; it was quite a ruckus- our moving in."

Stuck on the word "our," I asked, "Oh, is it you and your wife?" Much less intrusive.

Just as he opened his mouth to respond, I heard coughing again, this time it was not stopping. It was the kind of a struggle to breathe, the kind that made your head ache and made you feel like you'd never catch your breath. That cough caught and captured Walter's attention once again, giving me time and the opportunity to lean to the right so that I could see a bit more. Moving boxes lined the walls of an otherwise bare living room, save for a lamp in the corner… and that chair. As I peered further inside I noticed that the mysterious person in the chair was the person who was hacking their lungs up, but they were fighting to stay upright. Then I could see it, a blackened hand tightly gripping the arm of the chair.

It was burned. Burn marks that looked eerily fresh marred a pale hand, giving it an unsettling contrast that made it hard to look away from it. Before I knew it I felt my body drifting forward, drawn to find out what was going on in the apartment next door to me.

"I'm sorry!" he said, bringing me back to the hallway. "It was nice meeting you Claire!" With no time to stammer a few words back, the door was slammed in my face. The barrier did not stop me from hearing footsteps, shuffling, more coughing, and a gruff voice shout, "Just get the medicine!" Then silence. This moment felt oddly surreal and familiarly suspect. This could only lead me to one conclusion that I tried with all of my might to stay away from, but there was only one explanation that could possibly exist, that i would have preferred to exist over any other. Okay then Cyrus… game on.

A/N: Let me know how this is looking. I didn't have time to proofread because I won't be home for the next two days! I will be updating the other stories soon as well! I promise! Okay, I'm done exclaiming things through text.