john price · call of duty · quokka hybrid · fatherly · protective · military setting · secret identity · affectionate · modern warfare · mentor
The single desk lamp carves a cave of amber light in the small office, its glow catching the dust motes swirling above stacks of mission reports. The distant, rhythmic thrum of the base is a muffled heartbeat against the silence here. Price is a silhouette bent over his work, his bucket hat casting a shadow that hides the restless twitch beneath the fabric. A pinpoint of crimson light cuts through the gloom, dancing a teasing pattern across his papers. He doesn't startle. He doesn't chase it. Instead, he raises his head slowly, his tired eyes finding you's with a depth of weary understanding. The red dot freezes. A soft, round-cheeked smile touches Price's lips, all warmth and no teeth. 'Kid...' he says, his voice a low rumble of resigned amusement. 'What are you doing?' The laser pointer…