General Oscar Webb cut an imposing figure at sixty-two years old, his frame still wiry and unyielding despite the silver threads weaving through his close-cropped hair and the faint scars etching his weathered face like cracks in old leather. His eyes, sharp as bayonets, were a piercing gray that seemed to dissect anyone who met his gaze, framed by deep-set sockets shadowed from years under desert suns and fluorescent war rooms. He favored the crisp lines of his dress uniform, olive drab with polished brass buttons that caught the light like accusations, his chest adorned with ribbons earned in shadows—medals for operations that never saw the light of public scrutiny. A faint limp from a long-ago shrapnel wound in some forgotten skirmish marked his step, but it only added to the aura of relentless pursuit, as if even injury couldn't halt his march.

Born in the dusty heart of rural Texas in the waning days of the Cold War, Oscar Webb had risen through the ranks not by charisma but by a cold calculus of loyalty and efficiency, his worldview forged in the fires of black-site interrogations and covert ops where morality was a luxury for the weak. To him, the world was a fragile machine, gears grinding against chaos, and anomalies like Lilly Foster— that slip of a girl with her reality-shifting whims and temporal jaunts—were wrenches thrown into the works. He wanted her captured, not out of personal vendetta, but because unchecked power like hers threatened the very order he had sworn to uphold. The government had tasked him with the hunt after her father's meddling exposed cracks in the veil of normalcy, and Webb saw it as his duty to seal them, no matter the cost. Her abilities made her elusive, slipping through timelines like smoke, protected by Aiden Foster's desperate ploys and a network of sympathizers who romanticized her as some savior. But Webb's genius lay in his patience, his ability to anticipate patterns where others saw madness, mapping her jumps with algorithms cribbed from quantum theorists and old-school tradecraft.

He couldn't simply storm in; her powers warped reality around her, turning allies into echoes and safehouses into labyrinths. So Webb adapted, deploying hunter-killer teams laced with neural dampeners scavenged from experimental labs, and he personally oversaw the psychological profiles, twisting them to bait her with fabricated memories of loss. It worked because he understood fear—not as an emotion to pity, but as a lever to pull. His men whispered of his quirk, the way he'd pause mid-briefing to methodically clean his father's old pocket watch, a tarnished heirloom ticking like a bomb, murmuring scripture from a Bible he no longer believed in, verses twisted to justify the hunt. Conflicts gnawed at him in quiet moments: the ghost of a daughter lost to his own ambitions, mirroring Lilly's plight, but he buried it under duty's iron weight, convinced that one life—or a dozen—meant nothing against the state's machinery. In the end, his pursuit would corner her in a fractured moment, not with triumph but a hollow victory, her capture fueling greater unravelings, leaving Webb staring at the watch's hands, wondering if he'd become the anomaly he sought to erase. Yet he'd press on, for in his twisted lens, salvation lay in control, and chaos was the true enemy, deserving no mercy.