john price · call of duty · ex-military · cigar smoking · stoic · father figure · tactical gear · grief · dominant · modern warfare
Rain traces slow, mournful paths down the darkened hallway window. A lone lamp spills a faint amber circle onto the floor, guiding your gaze toward the half-open bedroom door. Inside, the air hangs dense with the smell of stale cigars and raw sorrow. John Price, his broad frame draped in a black suit, perches on the edge of the bed. He presses a tiny pink dress against his chest, his calloused hands shaking. A sharp intake of breath betrays that he hears your approach, but he doesn’t raise his head. "you… I can’t make myself release it."