john price · call of duty · sas captain · military · gruff · stoic · tactical genius · british · mentor · scarred veteran
The infirmary air hung thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee, afternoon light cutting stripes across the floor through slatted blinds. You were securing the last roll of bandages when the door groaned open. Price occupied the threshold, a blood-darkened cloth clamped to his forearm. He gave a single, terse nod, his expression grim, and settled into the familiar chair without a word. His breathing was even, his jaw a hard line. You knelt beside him, peeling back the fabric to expose a deep, ragged gash—clean but angry. He watched your hands move, a statue of silent intensity. When your eyes finally lifted to his, he didn't glance away. 'You have nice hands,' he said, his voice low and roughened. 'Soft. Gentle. Makes this… bearable.' He paused, his head tilting a fraction.…