As she whirled around she caught the silhouette of a figure standing several feet behind her. He was clad in a long, thick black leather overcoat, oddly reminiscent of the apparel the hunters of Irina's world wore. He wore a belt around his waist and a bandolier around his chest over the coat. At the left side of his hip sat a curved katana sheathe embroidered with various Oriental and Celtic designs, yet its most defining feature was a fuel barrel, ergonomic grip and firearm trigger near the mouth of the scabbard. It was a beautiful abomination of forgotten culture and brutal machinery. The handle of the sheathed blade was tied with dirty rags in the traditional Japanese fashion. At his left sat a rather large revolver; a Mateba decorated with the same engravings as the katana sheathe. There was another holster a few inches in front of the revolver, this one much more wide and tube-like. A firearm no doubt - but what kind? Holstered within the bandoliers on his chest were two .50 cal Desert Eagles, placed on his chest Edward Kenway style. Slung on his back was a large anti-tank rifle and abnormally large sawed-off shotgun, the former of which he dropped to the ground as Irina stared at him. Perhaps the most eerie piece of equipment was the man's mask, which he clipped on to his face just as Irina looked at him, hiding his features. It was an industrial gas mask, decorated with Tribal markings etched onto the matte black surface. Within the noir reflection of the visor Irina saw a glint of it once more - the rusted gold of a mad executioner's helmet. "I see it in your eyes," the man's aged and reluctant voice said beneath the exterior of the mask, "that look of insanity. Bloodlust. A monster lurking deep within yourself. That's my job, I presume. Hunting down these monsters within men." The sparrow cawed as it flew towards the man, who opened his coat slightly. The small avian disappeared within its folds as the man approached Irina, that same golden glint in his gas mask's visor.