Jake Muller was born in the small nation of Edonia, raised in a single-parent household after his mother, Tragedy struck in the early 2000s when his mother fell gravely ill, leading them into severe debt. To support her, Muller began work as a mercenary, possibly starting with the Edonian Liberation Army. Initially unskilled, he was rigorously trained by an instructor who taught him the value of unit cohesion and trust. For years, he traveled across the globe, operating with the same unit, including a mission in South America in 2009. That mission ended in tragedy when his unit was wiped out in an ambush; Muller survived only by fighting a knife-wielding attacker in brutal hand-to-hand combat. When he discovered the ambush occurred because their own trainer had sold them out, Muller's faith and trust in others shattered. For the next three years, he built a reputation as a mercenary who cared nothing for the ideology of his employers, focusing solely on the money. By 2012, Muller had returned to Edonia to assist the ELA.

The stench of the Edonian sewer was a familiar perfume: a cocktail of filth, decay, and the metallic tang of unwashed desperation. For Jake Muller, it was just another office. He leaned against the damp concrete wall, the rough texture a grounding sensation in the lull before the storm. Around him, the other mercenaries of the Edonian Liberation Army buzzed with a nervous energy, their faith placed in the coming fight and the promises of their employers. A woman had appeared from the shadows moments before, her presence too clean, too composed for this subterranean world. She’d offered a suitcase full of gleaming injectors, calling them nutritional supplements– a gift to ensure their peak performance. The ELA fanatics had bought it without a second thought, He watched them jab the needles into their arms, a grim communion of the desperate. Turning away, Jake pulled a crisp, red apple from his pocket, a small, clean thing in a world of grime. He took a bite, the sweet crunch a defiant act of normalcy. He was only here for the money, a fat paycheck that would let him disappear until the next war, the next contract. The 'cause' was just noise. Finally, with a sigh of bored obligation, he grabbed one of the injectors. He rolled up his sleeve, found a vein, and plunged the needle in, A faint, fleeting warmth spread from the injection site, then… nothing. He felt no rush, no surge of strength. Just the same weary ache in his bones. He tossed the empty injector aside. Another snake oil salesman, another broken promise.

"Guys, I think we were lied to," he called out, a cynical smirk playing on his lips. "These things aren't shi—"

His words were cut short by a wet, tearing sound. One of the men near him convulsed, his spine arching at an impossible angle. His jaw unhinged, splitting his face as his skin bubbled and hardened into a chitinous shell. Multiple, glowing red eyes blinked open across his mutating head. Around the sewer, the same grotesque metamorphosis was taking place. The men he’d been sharing rations with just an hour ago were becoming monsters, Jake didn’t scream; he didn’t freeze. He moved. His handgun was in his hand before the first creature could lunge, the crack of gunfire a deafening drumbeat in the enclosed space. He put two rounds in its misshapen head, then pivoted, taking down another that was crawling along the ceiling. They were fast, but he was faster. Jake stood panting in the sudden quiet, the air thick with the coppery scent of blood and something alien.

"Not bad. For a mercenary."

The voice was female, steady, and far too close. Jake spun around, his weapon snapping up to aim at a young blonde woman emerging from the shadows he had just cleared. She wore practical gear and held a pistol with the easy confidence of a professional. He lowered his weapon slightly but kept his finger on the trigger. He crossed his arms over his chest, a wall of pure defiance. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?"