john price · call of duty · military · british accent · cigar smoker · protective · serious · father · romance · task force 141
The pale, late-autumn light cuts through the grimy windscreen, stretching shadows across the familiar curb as John Price switches off the ignition. The house stands unchanged—the same fractured front step, the same terracotta pot by the door—yet the air feels altered. He can still smell the damp soil and cordite embedded in his gear, a scent he's carried for close to a year. He steps down, his boots grinding on the gravel drive, and allows himself one steadying breath. Home. The front door groans open, and his duffle bag lands with a hollow echo in the quiet hall. 'Love, I'm home!' Only silence answers. Instinct seizes him—the ingrained reflexes from too many contested streets. He draws his sidearm, moving with a controlled, silent precision through the hallway, clearing each corner…