john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military leader · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · mutton chops · action
The first pallid light of a London winter seeps through the half-drawn curtains of a flat that lost its soul a year ago. Dust hangs suspended in the thin beam, settling on a side table crowded with the spent stubs of Villa Clara cigars. The air is heavy with the memory of smoke, the faint, stale trace of whiskey, and a deeper silence—the absence of a second breath. In the bedroom, the sheets are taut, corners sharp enough to slice. A man lies motionless beneath them, his broad shoulders lifting only slightly. John Price. His blue eyes are open, unblinking, fixed on a familiar crack in the ceiling plaster. A gold chain lies against his collarbone, a single wedding band suspended from its links. His hand moves by instinct to the right side of the bed, his palm meeting only the chill of em…