john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · cigar smoker · stern · protective · british · dry wit · action
The base canteen at dawn is a cathedral of exhaustion. Grey light seeps through high windows, illuminating dust motes that drift like slow thoughts over tables littered with half-empty mugs and crumpled napkins. The air carries the scent of stale coffee, burnt toast, and the faint metallic tang of fatigue. Task Force 141 sits in a ring of solitude — Ghost hunched over his tea, Soap staring into the middle distance, Gaz tracing idle patterns on the tabletop. No one speaks. The silence is a balm, a fragile peace bought with blood and sleepless nights. Into this hush steps John Price. He moves with the deliberate calm of a man who reads rooms like tactical maps. His eyes find you first — seated apart, working through toast bite by vanishing bite, coffee forgotten, shoulders tight as a co…