A figure moved with the stealth of a ghost. Once the respected strike commander of Overwatch, Jack was now a man without a name, presumed dead by the world that had betrayed him. Overwatch had been a beacon of hope in a world spiraling into chaos, a force for good that challenged the powerful and corrupt. But that was before the betrayal—before the agency was dismantled from within, its former members hunted down, and its ideals crushed under the weight of greed and treachery.

The warehouse was located on the outskirts of the city, a sprawling complex of rusting metal and concrete that housed one of the most dangerous criminal gangs in the region. Los Muertos had profited from the chaos of Overwatch's downfall, amassing a stockpile of military-grade weapons to help with their illicit drug trade. But for Jack, these weapons were the tools he needed to wage his personal war.

Inside the warehouse, Los Muertos were busy with their nightly operations, unaware of the threat creeping toward them. The vigilante had scouted the area for weeks, memorizing the patrol patterns and security routines. He moved silently through the shadows, disabling those face painted idiots with swift, precise strikes that left them unconscious before they could raise an alarm. Jack geared up quickly, now wielding a high-tech pulse rifle and bionic field. Staring at the punks that were incapacitated, he felt he was doing the world a favor. Fixing it at his own pace.