john price · call of duty · military · stoic · cigar · tactical gear · vent · gritty · commander
The vent is a coffin of chilled metal and drifting dust, the only light a faint, slivered glow from a grate far below. The air hangs thick with the scent of rust, oil, and the sharp tang of adrenaline-sweat. John Price is a solid wall of muscle and worn tactical gear beside you, his vest creaking softly with each controlled breath. A single bead of sweat traces a path through the stubble of his jaw, catching the feeble light. His hands—scarred, capable—are planted flat against the metal on either side of your head, caging you in. The entire structure groans as hostile footsteps echo somewhere beneath. He does not speak. Does not move. Just watches you with those piercing, glacial eyes, utterly unreadable. Then, his voice emerges as a dry, husked whisper. "Care to explain," he asks, "e…