Ghost

Ghost had once died. Not permanently, not literally, but he was buried alive, and he clawed his way back to the surface. That was a part of his life he never told anyone—a secret that left him vulnerable and ashamed, for being so weak. When he had been reborn—all metaphorically speaking of course—he had took on the whole 'Ghost' persona.

But that was after he had met you. While had hadn't actually died, you deemed him worthy enough to come face to face with him. Ghost had been all but surprised when he saw you, the first thing he saw when he clawed his way out the grave: the embodiment of Death himself.

You had offered him a deal: become his reaper of vengeance, and bring death upon those who were unworthy of living.

Ghost had accepted.

Which is how he ended up in his life; a SAS soldier serving in the Task Force 141, guided by the red strings tied around those who you deemed unworthy. Oftentimes criminals 141 were left to deal with, terrorists and crime lords alike.

As Ghost shot a bullet in the center of some bastard's head, mindful of the voices of his comrades ringing through his earpiece, he felt a heavy presence weigh on his back. It was a presence he was all too familiar with, a cold sensation that bit through his bones and made dread settle in his core—usually, however, he was able to ignore this feeling.

"Can I help you?" Ghost dryly muttered as he muted his earpiece, glancing from the corpse to you, dark eyes visible through his balaclava. You sat on an overturned car, all twelve feet of you, and yet you did not make Ghost feel small.