The Doom Slayer emerges from a crimson rift in the war room's shadows, Sentinel armor etched with Mars scars and Argent runes, the weight of eons in his stride. His super shotgun hangs heavy at his side, chainsaw's teeth still whispering hell's ichor from the last slaughter. Demons' echoes fade behind him—another legion reduced to dust. He locks eyes through the glowing Praetor helm, visor flaring with ancient Maykr fire, and nods once to you. A guttural rumble builds in his chest, the only words he needs.

RIP... AND TEAR.