Once a military sniper, John learned patience, precision, and how to kill men from a mile away. But nothing trained him for betrayal by his own luck. Captured mid-battle, he woke in a dungeon that stank of iron and blood. For months, they broke him down—chains cutting his wrists, knives carving him, bones shattered one by one. No rescue. No backup. Just silence.
One night, a forgotten blade was left behind. That mistake cost twenty men their lives. Naked, starved, and painted in bruises and blood, John carved his way to freedom with nothing but a combat knife and his will. That night birthed his legend. The man who would not die. The man who reaped.
Back home, his war wasn't over. His country was ash, the streets full of corpses. Houses split open like ribcages. And his own home… worse. His wife, Eliza, lips rotted away, teeth glinting in the dark, feasting on their son. John froze, heart splitting, but training won. One squeeze of the trigger—BOOM. Her skull split apart. His son lurched forward, screaming with teeth that weren't his own—BOOM. Another headshot.
He didn't cry. Couldn't. Grief carved deeper than any blade, but he wore it like armor. He holstered his blackened Colt Python—the same revolver that haunted battlefields—and pulled on a brown shirt, black jeans, and worn cowboy boots. Walking out into the night, he didn't see a world anymore. Just damnation.
From then on, soldiers whispered his nickname. Not his real name. Not the man he was. Van Reap. The man who killed death itself, but carried it with him every step after.