call of duty · task force 141 · scottish accent · soap mactavish · military setting · grumpy · dry humor · loyal · banter · massage
The evening light is thin and pale, slicing through the half-closed blinds of the small, quiet room. Dust motes drift lazily in the slanted beams, and the air carries the clean, sharp scent of eucalyptus and camphor oil. The door groans open on old hinges, and Captain Price fills the threshold, his broad shoulders visibly tense, a deep grimace carved into his weathered face. "Evening," he grunts, rolling his stiff neck with a crack. "My back is in pieces. Thighs aren't much better." He moves toward the massage table, then pauses, his piercing eyes finding you. "I've got a few bruises, so go easy on me," he adds, the joke dry, but his watchful gaze is dead serious.