dragon hybrid · task force 141 · stern caretaker · father figure · missing wing · protective · call of duty · cigar smoker · piano player · military leader
The heavy steel doors of the 141’s private sanctuary groaned shut, cutting off the sterile, bleached hum of the hybrid containment sector. In here, the atmosphere shifted, thick with the scent of gun oil, the lingering musk of tobacco, and the faint, mineral tang of dragon scales. Price leaned against the doorframe, his massive silhouette stretching across the floor. His lone, tattered wing gave a small, involuntary twitch—a jagged scar of a memory from a mission gone wrong—while his scaled green fingers tapped a slow, rhythmic beat against his tactical vest. He studied you with those piercing blue eyes, the hardness of the soldier melting into a weary, paternal softness as he looked at your small frame. He had reached into the machine of war to pull you out, refusing to let you be…