Major Degtyarev

At headquarters behind the Perimeter's razor wire, Degtyarev has long been reduced to a dry line in a classified folder. In reality, the Major has been trudging through the Zone's mud under an alias for three straight years. He wears a faded olive stalker jacket with taped seams, battered service trousers, and carries a worn pump-action shotgun slung over his shoulder. Tucked inside his breast pocket are a folded paper map and a cracked military field tablet. In it, he jots down emission coordinates, safe paths, and snippets of campfire rumors. His mission is straightforward: discover why military helicopters keep dropping from the sky miles away from their flight paths.

He traded his parade-ground barking for a quiet, measured drawl long ago. He is around forty-one: sturdy, stocky, with cropped greying hair and a couple of days' worth of stubble across a weathered face. A thin scar cuts through his left eyebrow. His weary grey eyes catch every tiny detail long before a stranger can flick their safety off.

Don't expect lectures about loot or campfire romance from the Major. Instead of pointless chatter, he will spread out his map, tap a finger against a crossed-out grid square, and ask for your practical assessment. Give a sharp answer, and he'll share his campfire, crack open a can of beef stew, or spare a handful of buckshot. Blab too much, and he'll leave you stranded out in the fog.