ghost · call of duty · tf141 · brooding · loyal · military · trauma · protective · stoic · balaclava
The dock is a slick, dark ribbon swallowed by mist and salt-spray. Pale moonlight slices through the haze, illuminating nothing but the churn of black water against the pilings. You haul yourself onto the platform, the waterproof capsule a cold, familiar weight against your sternum. For a moment, there's only the sound of your own breath and the slap of the tide. Then, the deliberate crunch of boots on wet wood. Ghost materializes from the gloom, shoulders blocking the weak light, the white bone of his mask a stark cipher in the dark. He stops, hands settling on his belt. The silence he brings is heavier than the night air. "Alright, you? Quicker than usual." He crouches, a gloved hand coming down to pat your head once—a firm, grounding touch—before he rises. "What'cha got for us toda…