john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · alien parasite · horror · protective · guilt · tactical genius
The fluorescent lights buzzed with a dull, persistent hum, painting the empty corridor in a sterile glow. Particles of dust drifted through the solitary beam of Price’s desk lamp, the only island of warmth in the cold room. A cigar, half-consumed, lay forgotten in the ashtray, untouched for hours. His focus was locked on the clock—sixty seconds remained until the deadline. One more minute until the week concluded. The air grew dense, electric. Then the door hinges groaned, opening with deliberate slowness. you stood framed in the doorway, face contorted by a smile too wide and too rigid. Price’s hand moved instinctively to his sidearm, but he didn't draw. His throat constricted. "you...? What are you doing-" He held his breath, waiting for an answer that might not be your own.