Leon is a one-man battering ram capable of demolishing anything Grace had to sneak around.
In the long tradition of survival horror, Resident Evil Requiem asks an old question with new urgency: what does it mean to endure a nightmare when some people must fight their way through it and others must simply outlast it? Leon Kennedy, the franchise's most enduring action protagonist, returns as a deliberate counterweight to his co-star Grace Ashcroft — one a force of nature, the other a creature of scarcity and shadow. Capcom, marking thirty years of the series, appears to have structured their differences not as imbalance, but as philosophy.
- Leon arrives at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Facility armed, confident, and almost recklessly powerful — a stark contrast to the resource-starved tension that defines Grace's parallel experience.
- The game's goriest installment yet doesn't flinch: chainsaw-wielding infected, grotesque baby-like monsters, and new enemy types called Screamers create constant, escalating pressure that demands tactical adaptation.
- The dual-protagonist structure creates a deliberate emotional whiplash — players feel the weight of scarcity as Grace, then the almost disorienting relief of abundance when control shifts back to Leon.
- Combat mechanics synthesize the best of RE2, RE4 Remake, and RE6, grounding flashy finishers and combo systems within survival horror's slower, more deliberate rhythm.
- Resident Evil Requiem appears to be landing as a confident, self-aware celebration of the franchise's core tension — power versus vulnerability — with both protagonists feeling not competitive, but necessary.
Four Crimson Heads lay in pieces around Leon Kennedy, and the line that followed — "That's my cardio for the week" — was enough to make a reviewer reach for a notebook. After forty minutes with the character, the anxiety had dissolved: Leon wasn't just lethal. He was funny about it.
The preview session opened at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Facility, where Leon arrives hunting Dr. Victor Gideon and a mysterious threat called Elpis. The building echoes the original Spencer Mansion deliberately — central staircases, branching landings, a tone set before a single enemy appears. Then the evacuation alarm screams, and a chainsaw-wielding infected orderly lurches forward. The game immediately offers options: shoot, or grab the hatchet. Choosing the latter, and eventually picking up the chainsaw itself, introduces what may be the goriest Resident Evil yet — black-red viscera, death animations that linger, and a combat system that never apologizes for its excess.
For two hours, the session shifted to Grace Ashcroft — first-person, puzzle-focused, stealth-dependent, and almost entirely without resources. The contrast when control returned to Leon was physical: a full inventory, a nearby shotgun, and the sudden sensation of being able to actually fight back. The two protagonists are designed as opposites by intention. Grace moves through the world in fear; Leon moves through it like a force of nature.
The combat synthesizes the franchise's best lessons — RE4 Remake's flashy takedowns, RE6's combo system — while remaining grounded in survival horror tradition. A grotesque, baby-like creature destroying walls in a cramped attic felt like a direct echo of William Birkin. A new enemy type, the Screamer, illustrated the contrast most sharply: a warbling infected who would alert every zombie in the area if spotted. As Grace, she was an obstacle to route around. As Leon, she was dispatched with a punch, a hair-drag, and a hatchet between the eyes.
Neither protagonist overshadows the other. Their narratives run parallel — Leon's faster, combat-driven pursuit of Gideon; Grace's slower, stealth-and-puzzle investigation into her mother's death — and neither feels superior. As Capcom marks thirty years of the franchise, Resident Evil Requiem appears to have returned to its founding tension: the space between power and vulnerability, between action and survival. After three hours with both characters, the game seems to know exactly what it's doing.
I paused the game, set down the controller, and reached for my notebook before I could stop myself. Four Crimson Heads lay in pieces around Leon Kennedy, their remains a testament to what forty minutes of hands-on time had taught me: this rookie cop had become something far more dangerous than I'd expected. The line that made me grab the pen—"That's my cardio for the week"—felt too perfect not to capture. It also marked the moment I realized how wrong my initial anxiety had been. Leon wasn't just lethal. He was funny about it.
When I first sat down for three hours with Resident Evil Requiem, I kept my expectations simple: make it good, make it fun, make it feel like the best the franchise had ever been. My session opened at Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Facility, where Leon arrives in pursuit of Dr. Victor Gideon, following the trail of a mysterious threat called Elpis. He strides through the building's grand entrance—all fur-collared jacket and three-day stubble—with the confidence of someone who's seen worse. The facility itself echoes the original game's Spencer Mansion, all central staircases and branching upper landings, a deliberate callback that sets the tone immediately.
Then the evacuation alarm screams to life. A chainsaw-wielding orderly, infected with something dark and wrong, lurches toward Leon. I learned quickly that these creatures are one-hit kills, and the death animations are grotesquely satisfying—perhaps longer than necessary, but satisfying nonetheless. What struck me most was how the game handed me options. I could shoot. Instead, I grabbed Leon's hatchet and went to work, hacking through the infected like they were cordwood. When the chainsaw dropped, I picked it up myself, and suddenly I was carving through hordes of enemies, watching black-red viscera erupt from their bodies in buckets. This is the goriest Resident Evil game yet, and it doesn't apologize for it.
Leon cuts through a bolt-locked door with that chainsaw, and I emerge into a corridor just in time to see where the previous preview had ended: Grace Ashcroft in the grip of a hulking pursuer. Leon deals with him swiftly. The two exchange hurried introductions before Leon is knocked unconscious by a vision of Gideon—a moment that shifts the perspective entirely. For the next two hours, I played as Grace, moving through the facility in first-person, solving puzzles and sneaking past enemies I couldn't fight. It was tense and strategic, but it was also resource-starved. I had no ammo, no health items, and I kept accidentally healing myself when I meant to melee attack.
When I finally returned to Leon, the contrast hit like a physical thing. My inventory was suddenly full. A shotgun waited nearby. I had ammunition, healing items, and the kind of power that made me feel like I could actually fight back. The two protagonists are deliberately designed as opposites: Grace moves through the world in fear and scarcity; Leon moves through it like a force of nature. This isn't a flaw—it's the game's structure. Their stories run parallel, overlapping but separate, much like the classic A and B playthroughs of the original games.
The combat itself is a synthesis of everything Resident Evil has learned. Leon's finishers pull from RE4 Remake's flashy takedowns and RE6's combo system, but they're grounded in the survival horror tradition. When I rounded a corner in the attics and found a grotesque, baby-like creature gorging itself on a corpse, the fight felt like a direct echo of battling William Birkin in his lab. The monster was slow but devastating, destroying walls as it chased me through cramped spaces. I baited it into corners, fired shotgun blasts into its fleshy mouth, and when it was stunned, I drove Leon's hatchet into its skull. Three finishers later, it imploded in a rain of gooey confetti.
But the real test came when I encountered a Screamer—one of the new infected types. She stood with her back to me, warbling a tuneless melody. If she saw me, she'd alert every zombie in the area, inflict damage, and leave me dizzy and unable to aim. As Grace, I would have had no way to handle her. As Leon, I walked up behind her, punched her in the lower back, dragged her down by her hair, and drove a hatchet between her eyes. That single moment encapsulates what Leon is in this game: a one-man battering ram, capable of demolishing anything that Grace had to sneak around. The Crimson Heads—those infamously lethal mutated zombies from the original game's remake—fall to a shotgun shell or two followed by a hatchet finisher. Nothing stops him for long.
I came away from those forty minutes with a question answered: Leon doesn't overshadow Grace. Instead, Resident Evil Requiem uses them to tell a story about two different ways of surviving the same nightmare. Leon chases Gideon on the trail of Elpis while Gideon intercepts Grace's investigation into her mother's death. Their narratives move at different speeds—Leon's faster, powered by combat; Grace's slower, powered by stealth and puzzle-solving. Neither feels better than the other. They feel necessary. As Capcom marks thirty years of this franchise, they've returned to what made Resident Evil work in the first place: the tension between power and vulnerability, between action and survival. Leon Kennedy embodies the former. And after three hours with both protagonists, I'm convinced the game knows exactly what it's doing.
Citas Notables
That's my cardio for the week.— Leon Kennedy (in-game)
The silent treatment, I hope.— Leon Kennedy, responding to Dr. Gideon's threat of treatments
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
What surprised you most about playing as Leon compared to Grace?
The sheer resource difference. Grace had nothing—no ammo, no healing items, just her wits and the ability to move quietly. Leon's inventory was full from the start. It's not that one is better; they're designed to tell different stories about the same place. Grace is afraid. Leon is a weapon.
Does that power imbalance make Grace feel weak by comparison?
Not at all. When you're playing Grace, you're solving puzzles and moving strategically because you have to. When you switch to Leon, you're demolishing everything because you can. The game seems to understand that both experiences are necessary. They complement each other.
The combat looked brutal. How does that fit with the survival horror tradition?
It's goriest Resident Evil has ever been, but it's not gratuitous. Every kill feels earned. You're using a hatchet, a shotgun, your hands—tools that feel real. The finishers are long, almost ritualistic. It slows you down just enough to remind you that you're still in a horror game, even when you're winning.
You mentioned the facility echoes the original game's mansion. Is this nostalgia or something deeper?
It's structural. The layout, the branching paths, the way enemies are placed—it's all familiar in a way that makes you feel grounded. But then you turn a corner and find a grotesque baby-like creature eating a corpse. Familiar and deeply wrong at the same time.
How do Leon and Grace's narratives actually connect?
They're running parallel investigations in the same building. Leon is after Gideon and something called Elpis. Grace is investigating her mother's death. Gideon is caught between them. It's like the old A and B playthroughs, but more deliberately interwoven. You're handed back and forth between them, and the pacing shifts with each switch.
What does this game owe to its predecessors?
Everything and nothing. It borrows mechanics from RE2, RE4 Remake, and RE7, but it's not trying to be any of them. It's trying to be what Resident Evil learned how to be after thirty years. And from what I played, Capcom understands that better than I expected.