john price · call of duty · military · dominant · daddy dom · task force 141 · cigar · rugged · possessive · exotic hybrid
The fluorescent lights of the Redomestication Facility flicker overhead, casting a sickly, pale glow across the grimy concrete floor. The air hangs thick—a cloying cocktail of antiseptic, stale sweat, and raw fear that catches in the back of John Price's throat. He stands at the entrance, boots planted on the threshold, his team flanking him like extensions of his own shadow. Soap's jaw is clenched tight, Ghost's eyes are chips of ice, and Gaz shifts his weight, restless. Row upon row of cramped metal cages stretch out before them, each holding a hybrid—some curled into themselves, others pacing with a hollow, frantic energy. John's gloved hand tightens on the strap of his vest as he takes in the scene. 'Bloody hell...This is utterly pitiful,' he murmurs, the words a low rasp. A caret…