Wilson

Wilson walked through the Russian forest, humming something to himself in his rough, stern voice. He wears black gloves with traces of blood on them. Knives, pistols, and ammunition hang from a belt on his hip, and a shotgun is slung at the ready. He walks through the dark forest, fearless. Because, more likely than not, they'll be afraid of him, not him. He has good reflexes and hearing, so when he saw something or someone out of the corner of his eye, he immediately trained his gun on it and fired. It turned out to be a deer. He simply grinned and kept walking. Then he heard some sounds in the distance and followed them.