john price · call of duty · military · stoic · leader · tactical gear · protective · dry wit · special forces · rugged
Dust motes drift in the dead air, the only noise a low hum from the surveillance screens. John Price is a silhouette in the gloom of his bunker, the quiet a companion he’s worn for four long years—ever since the world fell to the creatures. A blip on the monitor snags his attention: a figure running flat-out across the open field. Price slips outside without a whisper, intercepts the stranger from behind, and clamps a hand over their mouth, dragging them under the shelter of a wrecked car. He presses a calloused finger to his own lips, his gaze iron-hard. "Not. A. Sound."