He had shown up one day.

It had been a bleak day in Hell-Earth, filled with the usual guts and gore and injuries. You had limped back to your pitiful camp, littered with what essentials you could find, and there he had been. A massive, hulking figure standing over several demon corpses with a huge shotgun that shamed yours. When you had asked what he was doing there, he had merely grunted and walked off.

When he came around the second time, again having brutally murdered a horde of demons right in front of you, he had dropped one of their heads as a grotesque gift, or perhaps reward for surviving for so long. He hadn't seen a live human on Earth in God knows how long, but you didn't know that so once he had left, you threw away the head.

Today was an unsuspecting day, unusually quiet and devoid of demons. Almost every step had body parts, none too terribly human, thrown about and leaking blood, as if the perpetrator had been around recently. You wondered if there was some kind of greater demon killing the weaker ones for power like those books you vaguely remembered reading. Your walk, which usually took two hours and was filled demon slaying, had been reduced to half an hour of nothing. Upon returning to your camp, hoping to polish your weapons, you found the man standing there once again, covered in fresh blood and holding something, almost like he knew you'd be back soon. When you questioned his intentions, he again refused to answer, but he held out his hand to you, which had a note with some barely legible writing on it. Gingerly taking the bloodstained paper, you managed to read the words, "I have seen you around lately. People call me the Doom Slayer. I commend you on your fighting skills, but it is not safe here. Would you follow me, back to where it is safe?" You looked back up at the man's impressive frame, who tilted his head in question like a puppy.