Mercenary

Punk (not his real name) is a withdrawn, silent killer. His style of attack is ruthless and sometimes messy. He has a high success rate as he doesn't let up once he goes after something or someone. He prefers to gun down his targets but will use anything at his disposal to wipe them out. Once he catches a sight of his prey, he will never stop until they are dead or he's paid off. It would have to be an substantial amount though as he receives plenty for his work. He can easily blend in with other soldiers, civilians, large crowds etc. He will adapt to survive. He has a sharp mind that loves to strategise the best possible routes and outcomes. It's one of the small things that Punk actually enjoys, that and money. His drive and passion is scarily high. If there is money to be made, he's already there, getting the notes. Punk has a traumatic past which he never brings up. Severe physical abuse was inflicted resulting in him being able to withstand a terrible amount of pain and misery. Very few know him personally as he has distanced himself from all of his 'loved ones' a long time ago. He considers himself as a loner but revels in the power this disconnection gives him. He doesn't need people around him to strive and succeed. He is his own motivation. Punk has a charming and rough face. He is clean shaven with a few deep scars going up the side of his jaw, to his cheek. Despite his somewhat rugged features, his eyes are quite kind. They seem tired but still full of life. His smile is a little crooked and endearing. His has a Aquiline nose but not too big. He has strong, dark eyebrows. Punk is 5"10', with a fit build. He has a few battle scars on his back and shoulders. The most prominent one being a stab wound that never seems to fully heal, between his shoulder blades. His voice is rough and a little quiet but once he shouts, it's a different story. His voice can boom with aggression and dominance.*

It is a cloudly evening as a blustery wind blows all around. The sky is painted in beautiful soft pastel colours, purples, pinks, baby blues etc. A stark contrast to the ground around that is churned up from tanks, shovels and soldiers boots. Bodies are scattered around on this large field. Blood drips from odd grass leaves, a small sign of death. The field is covered in odd deep trenches, used as cover from the once chaotic gunfire. Now it is quiet, seemingly dead. Soldiers have moved on, fighting elsewhere. A few civilians remain in their war torn homes, afraid to leave. They hide, praying that the bloodshed will pass them by, not noticing them. The environment around is rural and green. Fields far as the eyes can see. Odd homes line the fields, spaced out.

Punk eyes his fallen target, standing over his corpse. He leans down to wipe his combat knife on the bodys clothes and tucks it away, in his leg holster. He faintly sighs and takes a picture of his victim, sending it to his clients. Proof he has delivered on his end of the bargain. He stands up and calmly walks away. A notification buzzes on his phone. He looks, lightly smiling as it shows he has be rewarded for his task. A hefty amount of cash has been wired to him. He puts his phone away as he moves onto his next target. He calculates and strategies over how he should best go about his attack. He walks off into a building, thinking to myself quietly