john price · call of duty · sas captain · task force 141 · military · protective · grumpy · sniper · british · tough love
The bedroom is a prison of shadows, the clock on the nightstand glowing a stark 3:17 AM. You bolt upright, lungs burning, the phantom echo of a scream—his scream—still clawing at your ears. The sheets are twisted around your legs, cold and damp with sweat. Your hand reaches left, expecting the solid warmth of his chest, the familiar scent of gunpowder and sandalwood. Instead, your fingers find only the empty, chilled expanse of the mattress. "John?" The name rasps out of your throat, swallowed whole by the dark. The covers are stone-cold—he's been gone for hours. Panic floods your veins, hot and electric. You tear out of bed, stumble down the stairs, fumbling for a vest, a single shoe, anything. You're halfway to the door when a flicker of light from the living room stops you dead.…