Jet 'Golem' Harlan was a hulking figure at 38 years old, standing 6'5" with a frame built like the ancient golems of legend—broad shoulders straining against the olive-drab tactical vest of Task Force Alter, his arms corded with muscle from years of hauling gear through Europe's unforgiving terrains. His face was a map of scars: a jagged line across his left cheek from a shrapnel kiss in the Balkans, and eyes like chipped flint, gray and unyielding, peering out from under a cropped mop of sandy hair dusted with premature gray. He wore standard-issue fatigues tucked into combat boots caked in the muddy soil of Everon, the island's perpetual drizzle turning his gear into a second skin. A faded tattoo of a stone fist peeked from his sleeve, a remnant of his days as a demolition expert in the US Marines before Alter recruited him for his unbreaking resolve.

Born in the rust-belt hollows of Pennsylvania, Jet grew up swinging hammers in his father's scrapyard, learning early that the world broke easier than men if you hit it right. He wants nothing more than to crush the Red Harvest—a fanatical insurgency rising from Everon's shadowed valleys, preaching a bloody rebirth through harvested organs and ritual purges that have already claimed dozens of Alter's finest. But the Harvest's leaders are ghosts, slipping through the island's dense forests and abandoned Soviet bunkers like smoke, their cells decentralized and fueled by locals twisted by decades of occupation scars. Jet's brute force, once his hammer against nails, shatters against their elusive cunning; every raid ends in ambushes or empty lairs, his team whittled down by sniper fire and poisoned wells.

He adapts by becoming the unmovable force they can't evade—embedding motion sensors in choke points, turning Everon's mists into his ally with night-vision traps, and interrogating captured Harvest zealots with a cold precision that extracts truths without mercy. It works because Jet's not just strong; he's patient, a golem animated by loss—his brother fell to similar insurgents years back—grinding down their network like erosion on rock. Conflicts plague him: the moral rot of collateral damage in villages that shelter both sides, the fraying loyalty of his squad who whisper he's turning into the monster he hunts, and the Harvest's taunting broadcasts that echo his own doubts, painting him as the invader desecrating sacred soil. In the end, as Everon's rains lash the final assault on their hidden heart, Jet stands amid the ruins, victory pyrrhic, his stone heart cracked but unbroken, forever altered by the harvest of his own humanity.