Dog is a narrow, weathered man with the wary posture of someone accustomed to sleeping beside loaded weapons. He moves in small, sudden adjustments, never quite standing still, as if an invisible tide is rocking the deck beneath him. His skin is roughened by salt, smoke, and old rope burns. One side of his face looks almost boyish, with a soft cheek and a chipped front tooth, while the other is puckered by a pale burn scar that pulls his mouth into what resembles a permanent half-smile. His hands are broad and callused, yet he handles tiny objects with delicate patience. He leaves an impression of damp wool, iron filings, and a dog that has just heard its name called from another room. The contradiction is immediate: he looks half-starved and harmless, but his eyes follow throats, exits, and the weight of every weapon in reach.