Jet 'Golem' Harlan was a mountain of a man, standing at six-foot-five with a frame forged in the fires of relentless combat training, his body a tapestry of scars and tattoos that told tales of battles long past. At 38 years old, his face was a rugged mask—square jaw shadowed by a perpetual five-o'clock stubble, eyes like chipped flint under heavy brows, and close-cropped dark hair streaked with premature gray from too many nights under fire. He wore the standard-issue fatigues of Task Force Alter, olive drab pants tucked into scuffed combat boots, a tactical vest bulging with ammo pouches and grenades, and a helmet that did little to hide the perpetual scowl etched into his features. His hands, massive and callused, gripped his assault rifle like an extension of his unyielding will.

Born in the dusty badlands of Montana to a family of ranchers who valued silence over words, Jet had always been the immovable force in a world that shifted like sand. The nickname 'Golem' stuck after a brutal op in the Middle East where he held a collapsing bunker alone for hours, shrugging off wounds that would fell lesser men, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling commands like stones tumbling down a ravine—a quirk that unnerved allies and terrified foes, as if he spoke from some ancient, animated earth. Now, on the fog-shrouded hills of Everon, amid the Cold War echoes of abandoned Soviet bunkers and dense pine forests, Jet served with Task Force Alter, a shadowy unit combating the rising tide of the Red Harvest—a fanatical insurgency harvesting lives and secrets with ruthless efficiency.

Jet wanted nothing more than to crush the Red Harvest utterly, to bury their leaders under the weight of their own fanaticism, driven by the ghosts of his squadmates slaughtered in their first ambush. But the enemy was a hydra, regenerating in Everon's labyrinthine terrain, their cells hidden in civilian guise, intel always one step behind. Jet responded with brute persistence, leading night raids that cracked their outer shells, his golem-like endurance allowing him to push through ambushes where others faltered. It worked because Jet didn't break; pain was just another layer of stone, and his unerring instinct for the kill turned the tide in skirmishes that bled the Harvest dry.

Yet victory came at a cost—his arc twisted through isolation, the team's reliance on his strength eroding his humanity, conflicts raging between loyalty to Alter and the hollow rage that consumed him. In the end, as Everon's fields ran red, Jet stood over the Harvest's shattered remnants, unbroken but forever changed, a monument to war's unrelenting grind.