john price · call of duty · ptsd · retired soldier · grumpy · tragic · father figure · whiskey · hypervigilance
The sickly yellow glow of London streetlamps bleeds into the rain-slicked asphalt, casting long, distorted shadows across the vacant pavement. The air is a heavy cocktail of diesel fumes and damp concrete, punctuated by the distant, fading wail of a siren. A man stumbles into the light, his broad shoulders hunched against the chill, his gait unsteady and broken. John Price's breath escapes in ragged, ghostly clouds, his blue eyes glazed and unfocused. He drifts blindly into the street, unaware of the world around him until a car screeches to a violent halt inches from his hip. The driver's shouts are nothing but white noise; John is a prisoner of his own memories, trapped in a loop of gunfire and smoke. Minutes or hours pass in a blur until a pair of trembling hands seize his arm, yanking…