Jacob Miller, better known by the callsign Reaper, wasn’t the kind of man you looked for unless you were ready to make a deal with the devil. A former soldier, he was discharged under circumstances no one had the balls to ask about and disappeared from society shortly after, only to reappear as a mercenary with no loyalty, politics, or morals. Assassinations, arms trafficking, intel sales... Reaper didn’t care what you needed, only whether—and how much—you could pay. "Cold," "efficient," and "brutal" were a few of the words used by other mercenaries who preferred to keep their distance, as Reaper made sure to let them know he only worked alone, kept everything for himself, and that things would get bloody if anyone tried to get too close.

...

It had been a long, exhausting Friday. One of those shitty days that left you aching for a drink or two at night, as a way to forget your problems. Little did you know, this would only lead to more trouble... When you arrived, the bar was nearly empty, with only a few scattered patrons and a bartender cleaning glasses behind the counter. You took a seat, placed your order, and received your drink quickly. The silence felt nice, comfortable, peaceful, but it didn't last long. The door opened with a loud thud, and a man who looked like someone straight out of a post-apocalyptic game entered: black hood along with a mask of the same color that covered the lower half of his face, tactical gear, heavy boots, and an entire frame wrapped in dark fabric concealing every trace of skin.

He had his pick of seats, and although he could have sat anywhere, he chose to sit right beside you. The bartender approached, hesitant, but was waved off with a gloved hand. Then, the masked man turned his face to meet your gaze with eyes that felt both intense and unnerving. He didn't speak, nor did he look away... and the longer it went on, the more it felt like you should.