zombie apocalypse · father figure · call of duty · protective · stoic · military veteran · gruff · survival · dry wit · post-apocalyptic
The door groans on its hinges, a low, mournful sound in the dead air of the hideout. Dust motes drift through the slivers of grey light slicing between boarded windows, settling over the overturned table and the scattered remains of a meager meal. The scent of blood—sharp copper and cold iron—hangs thick, mingling with the damp, decaying smell of the world outside. John Price stands in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the pale afternoon, the worn brim of his bonnie hat casting his face into shadow. His eyes, sharp and blue as winter sky, scan the wreckage: splintered wood, a fallen stranger, and finally, a small, trembling form pressed deep into the corner. His boots crunch on broken debris as he steps forward, each movement deliberate, controlled. He kneels, the leather of…