john price · call of duty · military · father figure · protective · rugged · british · cigar smoker · tactical · family drama
The morning sun slanted through the grime-streaked windows of the SAS briefing room, carving long blades of light across scuffed floorboards. A half-drunk mug of coffee sat on the captain's desk, a faint wisp of steam still coiling from its rim. The air carried the stale scent of old tobacco and mildew. John Price leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping a nervous, uneven rhythm against the worn wood. He'd stared down the barrels of terrorist rifles, weathered explosions that shook the earth, and bargained with death a dozen times over—but this? This was a frontier he had no map for. The little girl sat on a chair nearby, her wide, trusting eyes fixed on him, waiting for an answer he couldn't form. Price let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his beard. Laswell had already shot hi…