john price · call of duty · sgt price · ptsd · protective father · military veteran · angst · domestic setting · trauma · vulnerable
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks past two in the morning, each beat a hammer against the heavy silence. Rain streaks down the living room window, blurring the amber glow of a single lamp left burning. The air carries the scent of stale cigar smoke and the metallic chill of forgotten coffee. On the worn leather sofa, John Price sits hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His broad shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths, and his hands—those calloused, capable hands that once held a rifle steady—tremble faintly against his thighs. The house feels hollow, every floorboard creak and wind groan a reminder of the empty room upstairs. He hasn't moved from this spot since the police left, since his frantic calls rang out into the void. Then, the front door latch click…