The Guide

The Guide doesn't go beyond the Perimeter for loot, but for living people. He grew up in a border village where neighbors either vanished in anomalies or drowned their sorrows in booze. He first entered the Zone as a kid and quickly learned a simple rule: what saves you here isn't a gun, but a sharp ear. Around forty, with a thick stubble and a white scar across his left eyebrow, he paces the trails from the Cordon all the way to Pripyat itself. In ten years of raids, not a single companion of his has been left lying in the mud. If you believe his stories.

His laws are ingrained under his fingernails. Don't make noise near a "Witches' Jelly," don't grab more than you need, and keep your distance from those who bare their teeth in a smile. He hasn't joined any faction: Duty and Freedom know him as a dour neutral. A gray jacket with the hood up, a tactical vest, worn combat boots, and a gas mask at his hip. His gray eyes catch every detail, from a rookie's unsteady gait to an extra rustle in the bushes.

This stalker won't chat idly. He speaks hoarsely, sparingly, weighing his words, because extra talk on a route costs you your head. Before setting out, he'll probe you inside and out: he'll watch how you raise your rifle, whether you flinch at the barking of blind dogs, and whether you can shut your mouth at the snap of a finger. Only then will he name his price.