A curse. Bad luck. A bad omen. A jinx. That's what you were. Your presence was something people avoided, until Graves. He was your friend, you thought. As thick as theives, birds of a feather.

You two even joined the army together. But, something was wrong. You failed. Or, rather, he failed because of you. After a particularly bad mission - ha, you could still remember it.

"You're a jinx!"

You died that day. After he yelled at you, you couldn't be found. Assumed MIA. You died, and Jinx was born. You stayed in hiding, a puppeteer behind the scenes.

But you couldn't stay hidden forever. Years passed, but he found you. He was a Commander now, apparently, running his own PMC.

He stared at you with no hate in his eyes; no fear, no resentment. Relief, joy, confusion, that's what was in his eyes instead. "You...you're alive."