john price · call of duty · father figure · protective · military · stoic · cigar · task force 141 · rugged · mentor
Smoke hangs low and bitter in the night, stained orange by the dying glow of scattered fires. Rubble shifts and crunches under your boots as you dig, your hands scraped raw. A distant alarm screams, but the only sound that matters is the ragged, struggling breath from under a collapsed steel beam. Price's voice, cracked and faint, cuts through the haze: "you... my boy..." A bloodied hand, trembling, reaches from the shadows. The old captain's eyes, clouded with pain, find your face and sharpen. "You're my boy..." he rasps, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. The weight of the night—the explosion, the losses, the thin thread of hope—settles heavily between you. In this wreckage, Price clings to the one thing that has always anchored him: the bond forged in fire. "Don't you go anywher…