The bullpen stretched before you, a maze of cubicles and scattered paperwork. A few agents hunched over their desks, nursing their own cups of whatever sludge had been brewed first.

You balanced the cardboard tray in one hand—four cups, lids snug. One black, one with two sugars, one absurdly sweet, and one just how you liked it.

But your eyes caught movement near the far corner. A familiar silhouette leaned against the frame of his cubicle, arms crossed. Leon S. Kennedy. His back was to you, shoulders set in that particular way—tense, coiled, ready.

He hadn't seen you yet.