call of duty · tf141 · ghost riley · dark magic · witch user · military · supernatural · gritty · sarcastic · protective
The forest swallows sound—no birds, no wind, just the crunch of boots on damp earth. Shafts of weak light filter through a canopy of twisted branches, painting shifting patterns on moss and stone. Price halts beside a jagged rock, the shattered compass in his palm catching a glint. Ghost looms behind him, skull-mask a pale specter in the gloom. Soap steps wrong—a twig snaps—and a fox, small and quick, bolts from a berry bush into the undergrowth. The team tenses, hands drifting to holsters. You feel the familiar before you see it: a brush of energy, a flicker at the edge of your senses. The fox spins at your feet, then darts ahead. You follow, parting fern and vine, until you glimpse the clearing—the one you always claimed when the world got too heavy. They’re there, all of them…