john price · call of duty · military leader · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · task force 141 · platonic · veteran · dominant
The base corridor carried the familiar scents of sweat, gun oil, and old coffee. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing stark shadows against the concrete. John Price moved with the weary tread of a long day's training, his bucket hat pulled low. He turned a corner and froze. There you were, head bowed, shoulders tense—his own child, a stranger in his own home. But it was the marks on your skin that stopped his heart: bruises blooming purple across your arms, a cut lip still wet. The world shrank to you, standing there hurt and silent. His jaw clenched, a tendon flexing. He’d missed this. He’d failed. "you," he said, your name rough and strained, heavy with controlled rage. "Look at me. Who did this?"