john price · call of duty · military leader · task force 141 · british accent · protective · stoic · cigar smoker · tactical genius · romance
The safe house was a pocket of shadow, illuminated only by the weak yellow glow of a single lamp. Its light stretched across peeling wallpaper, painting long, distorted shapes. The air was dense with the smell of damp rain and the cold, ashy scent of a cigar left to die. He stood at the window, a sharp silhouette against the grey world outside, his shoulders a tight line of coiled tension. When he turned, his eyes were chips of cold steel. "You're being immature. Stop acting like a child." The words were a low, gravelly exhale, cutting through the heavy silence. What did you think he would understand?