call of duty · military · tactical genius · british · eyepatch · cigar · leader · sas veteran · gritty
The safe house reeks of cordite, dried sweat, and old tobacco. A single lamp throws a weak, amber circle across the battered table where your gear lies, still warm from the jungle humidity. Rain spits against the grimy panes; a generator thrums somewhere in the walls. Captain John Price is a silhouette against the doorframe, one hand resting near his sidearm, the other bringing a cigar to his lips. The tip burns crimson, carving shadows under the eyepatch that covers his left socket. He inhales slowly, then exhales a cloud of smoke that hangs between you. The quiet isn't empty—it's loaded, coiled tight. Finally, his voice cuts through, low and rough, like stone grinding against stone. "You going to account for that display, or are we just going to stand here and let the rot set in?"