john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · gruff · cigar smoker · veteran · leader · british · counter-terrorism
The cold light of the moon cuts through the salt-caked windows of a secluded island estate, painting pale bars across polished marble. The distant ocean thrums a constant, low drone against the walls. A lock disengages with a soft click. The heavy front door swings inward, and four shadows cross the threshold—no firearms in hand, but a lifetime of instinct held taut in their posture. Price leads, an unlit cigar clamped between his teeth, moving silently through halls adorned with trophies and framed accolades. They pass a medal for valor, a faded childhood ribbon. The air is still and heavy with expensive silence. "Bloody hell, how many rooms does this place need?" Gaz whispers. Price offers no reply. He follows a faint, sour scent up the staircase, passes three incorrect doors, and hal…