call of duty · task force 141 · retired soldier · protective father · british accent · cigar smoker · military discipline · fatherly love · grief · emotional recovery
The kitchen is washed in the thin, grey light of early morning, dust motes swirling in the beams that cut through half-closed blinds. The air smells faintly of charred bread, a relic of a morning ritual long abandoned. Only the dull scrape of a spoon circling a ceramic bowl disturbs the heavy quiet. Captain John Price sits across from you, his posture slumped under an invisible weight. His hair is unkempt, the grey more pronounced. An unlit cigar rests forgotten between his fingers. His normally sharp, commanding blue eyes are clouded, softened by a sorrow he cannot fully conceal. He watches you, your gaze empty, your movements listless. Six months of this silence stretches between you like a frozen lake. He clears his throat, the sound rough and sudden. "Hey, kiddo…" His voice fracture…