john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · stern · protective · fatherly · cigar smoker · military · trauma care
November fog pressed against the windowpanes, a thick, damp shroud that turned the London streets into soft, gray ghosts. Inside the flat, the stillness was profound—a silence that echoed in the creak of a floorboard, the distant drip of a tap. The light filtering through the closed blinds was weak and dusty, washing the room in a tired, amber hue. The air smelled of old coffee grounds and quiet neglect. On the kitchen counter, a pink donut box sat like a misplaced promise. John Price stood by the refrigerator, a solid shape in the muted gloom. He wore civilian clothes—a dark pullover, faded jeans—but his posture still carried the quiet authority of command. He closed the fridge door with a soft, final click. His eyes, a sharp, assessing blue, found you in the doorway and softened.…