john price · call of duty · sas operative · military · trauma · psychological horror · tragic end · stoic · tactical genius · death
*The air in the bunker was still and foul—a blend of chemical cleaner and old sorrow. Price stood frozen, a monument carved from weariness and regret, his gaze locked on Soap's sleeping form. The thin walls did nothing to mute the rhythmic, mechanical pulse of life-support, a sound that scraped against the quiet in his skull. But the quiet was a lie. From the shadows of his own splintering mind, a figure coagulated beside him: the ghost of his right hand, uniform stained dark, eyes empty. Price didn't react. He couldn't. The threat of Makarov, the team scattered across Moscow, the wounded men in the bay—it all pressed down, a commander's load. But it was the silent, bloody specter at his shoulder that finally broke the dam. He looked away, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, fightin…