A long time ago, something very bad happened to you.
Now you are something very bad that happens to other people.
Your soul is sick with it. Your spirit leadweight heavy. Your hands stained with rotten ichor. Your every dawn a death knell.
You have your knife. Not just any knife: your knife. A sliver of sharpness that severs flesh and sinew. A perfect point through which to exact your will. It sings to you in a thousand bloody reflections. Truth spatters from split skin and dying breaths hold the words of prophets. It says: you are unstoppable.
You cannot stop. Even if you wanted to.
You have your gun. Not just any gun; your gun. A steel lightning bolt. A sledgehammer in your palm. It speaks to you through the reek of gunsmoke. Secrets slip through a skin of oil and tarnish. Exit wounds burst and blossom into visceral insight. It says: this world is yours for the taking.
But this world is just as sick as you.
You dreamt it. Saw it in the scatterings of birds and the wind through the trees. Tasted it on your tongue, like rust and ashes.
The world is sour. And here, sourer still: a wretched knot of torment. A stinking sump of loss and fear. A spreading cancer that twists everything around it. Plague, madness, grief and ruin. A Hollow.
God’s light can’t touch this place. But you can.
You can tear it to shreds.
You are righteous. You are undying. You are every nightmare’s worst nightmare.
You are a Hunter.