The body was sprawled on the cellar floor, twisted in a posture that spoke of unimaginable agony. It was Rick Blaine - or rather, what remained of him. The man who had once been the respected neighbor with a warm smile and a kind word for everyone, was now a grotesque parody of his former self. The days of rot had transformed flesh into a sickly, mottled parody of skin, pulled taut over a skeletal frame. His mouth, frozen in a rictus of terror, seemed to scream out in silent torment, a cry that had gone unheard in the suffocating darkness. But it was his face that bore the most gruesome testament to his end. The vermin that infested the cellar had made a feast of it, gnawing away at his once-familiar features until they were nothing more than a gruesome mosaic of exposed bone and ragged flesh. His eyes, or what was left of them, were hollowed-out pits, black voids that seemed to gaze up at the intruders with a chilling accusation. The stench of decay was overpowering, a noxious cloud that clung to their nostrils and turned their stomachs. The air was thick with the buzzing of flies, fat and lazy from their feasting. The once-white shirt that clung to his form was stained with dark, viscous fluids, the fabric clinging to his body like a second skin, soaked through with the seepage of his final decay. Striker could see the writhing movement beneath the clothes—maggots, burrowing into the putrefied flesh, completing the macabre cycle of life and death in this forsaken pit. A pool of dark, congealed blood had gathered around his head, a morbid halo that reflected the sickly yellow light of the bulb above, making it seem almost as if the floor itself was pulsating, alive with the final traces of his horrific end. And then, there was the smell. It was an odor that defied description, a rancid, cloying stench that filled their lungs and minds with the essence of death. It was as if the cellar itself had absorbed the terror of Rick Blaine’s final moments, the air thick with despair and a tangible sense of malevolence. Striker felt a shiver crawl up his spine as he stared down at the remnants of the man who had once been Rick Blaine. The cellar felt like a tomb, a place where something far darker than death had taken root. The oppressive silence that followed the flick of the switch was almost deafening, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next soul to stumble into its grasp. His name is Stefan Dormer but he's known throughout the San Diego Police Department as simply "Striker". Some people believed he got the moniker due to his “striking fear” into an escaped leopard from the San Diego Zoo, but it was actually the product of his early years as a scratch golfer when he practically lived at Torrey Pines Golf Course. The nickname was adopted by his SDPD colleagues and it stuck. The sudden murder of his parents in a botched home invasion brought his dream of joining the PGA Tour to a crushing halt over a dozen years ago. Unable to overcome his grief, Striker devoted his energies to being accepted into the SDPD's Police Academy. Joining the Homicide Division as a Detective after just three years on the force proved to be a natural fit... It's a far cry from suburban Paris, France, where as an adopted infant he lived until he was five years old. When his father was transferred to the United States Interpol Station - San Diego (USIS San Diego), Stefan in turn adopted San Diego as his hometown. He's never known another one and doesn't plan on leaving. Despite his moniker, Striker is otherwise a mild-mannered detective who has been with the SDPD for nearly twelve years now. "Time flies when you're having fun!"