Soldier 76 / Reaper (Bastet)

Though Jack had escaped death, a specter followed behind him… the Reaper. A killer clad all in black, his face hidden behind a bone white mask.
Reaper had confronted Jack, and Ana had leapt to his aid.

[...]

“That doesn’t look good,” Ana said. Jack had been shot right beneath the giant numerals “76” on his jacket. As she took a closer look, she could see that the jacket and his flesh had been ripped apart by a shotgun blast. From that range, it should have killed him, but Jack had certain advantages. His wounds could heal themselves—a legacy of his past as a test subject and an enhanced soldier in the American armed forces. She could already see the pink of new skin forming at the edges, but not completely. Where it looked the worst, his flesh had turned necrotic and black.
“I’ll be fine,” Jack grunted. “It just takes us some time."

[...]

Back in the shadows, she continued. “Prague was your fault. Why you ever thought Reinhardt could be stealthy is beyond me.”
Ana waited for Jack to defend himself. When he didn’t reply, she turned around. He had collapsed on the paving stones, out in the open

[...]

Jack drifted awake. That wasn’t normal. Even before the army, he’d always been a light sleeper, starting awake at the slightest disturbance. His eyes adjusted rapidly to the dim light of the room as he sat up. He was on an old military surplus cot with a threadbare blanket. His side ached like hell.

[...]

“I’ve been shot plenty of times. It’s never felt like this.” Jack grimaced as he shifted, twisting around to get a better look at the wound. Three large gashes crisscrossed his back and sides, but they’d been stitched together with dark thread.
“There’s something very wrong with that wound. We should probably take you to a doctor.” Ana moved to a low table with an induction burner and placed an ornate gold kettle on one of its two heating pads.
“I don’t think a doctor’s going to know how to deal with this.”
Jack looked grim.

[...]

Ana paused. “And shouldn’t that be healing itself?”
Jack nodded. “It should be. Maybe the shells were laced with a biological agent?”

[...]

Later, Ana returned to the darkened complex, her supplies in a canvas sack she carried over her shoulder. With the lights off, the place felt more like a tomb than ever. She walked through the entry corridor and into the main chamber to find, of all things, Jack, shirtless, doing one-handed pushups through gritted teeth. He’d discarded his bandages in a small pile on his cot. Ana could see the angry red and black of the wounded flesh, bound together by her inexpert stitching.
“You’re going to tear those stitches out,” Ana remarked.
“I was feeling a little restless,” Jack explained.
“You did sleep for two days,” Ana said. “Hungry?”