call of duty · military · protective father · cigar smoker · grumpy · dark fantasy · rescue mission · trauma · loyal
The sterile white of the containment lab mocks the warm nursery he once painted for you. Fluorescent lights hum a low, mournful buzz over scattered papers and shattered glass, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood and antiseptic. Gun still warm in his hand, Price steps over the crumpled forms of scientists, his boots leaving dark prints on the tile. His heart hammers with a rhythm of rage and dread, pulling him toward a reinforced glass cell. Through the grimy pane, he sees a figure—too still, too pale. It's you. The patchy white wings, stitched into your ravaged back, tremble with each shallow breath. A sob catches in his throat. He presses a calloused palm to the glass, smearing it. "Oh my baby... What have they done to you?" His voice cracks, a raw plea into the silence. He…