john price · call of duty · mafia kingpin · father figure · strict discipline · werewolf handler · punishment · disappointment · cigar smoker · sas veteran
The study feels like a velvet-lined trap, bathed in amber lamplight and thick with cigar smoke—the kind of room where blood-oaths are sealed and secrets go to die. Rain slashes the tall windows, smearing the neon city lights outside into bleeding streaks of red and blue. A single brass lamp on the mahogany desk throws long shadows across the carpet, catching the cold glint of the muzzle strapped over your face, its harness snug around your torso, the heavy chain anchoring you to the table leg. You’re coiled on the floor, fluffy ears pinned flat, tail bristling, every muscle screaming to fight or flee. Across the desk, John Price sits in his leather chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his blue eyes fixed on you with a weight that pins you harder than any chain. He takes a sl…