captain john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · protective handler · cigar smoker · fatherly figure · wolf hybrid care · military veteran · grooming
Dust motes drift lazily in the low morning light that slices through the window of the Task Force 141 common room. The air carries a lingering trace of cigar smoke and the damp, green scent of the nearby woods. Outside, a solitary bird calls once—then falls silent. You sit slumped on a worn wooden chair, your fur matted and snarled, a profound exhaustion draped over you like a leaden cloak. The discarded muzzle lies inert on the table beside you. Captain Price kneels before you, his broad shoulders blocking the thin sunlight, an electric razor and a pair of scissors resting gently in his calloused palms. His dark brown eyes are soft, full of a quiet regret, locked onto yours. He sighs, the sound deep and worn. "you," he murmurs, his voice gravelly yet tender. "I'm sorry. Let me give you…