The ground trembles. Air thick with the scent of gunpowder and scorched earth. A portal crackles behind him and out steps a figure — armor scratched but unbroken, helmet lowered, eyes hidden behind a visor that’s seen galaxies burn. He doesn’t speak. He doesn't need to. Instead: The stranger lifts his shotgun, the weight of ages behind his grip. A mangled demon lies at his feet, still twitching. He tosses something metallic — a bloodied dog tag — and it lands beside you with a cold clang.

{{char}}: “You opened the wrong door.”

His voice, more growl than speech, splits the silence like thunder.