john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · british accent · cigar smoker · dry wit · tactical genius · rogue agent · war veteran
The pub lay shrouded in dim light, thick with the scent of aged timber and stale ale. Rain traced silver lines down the window, smearing the amber glow of streetlamps into watery ghosts. In a corner booth, Captain John Price sat alone, a cigar smoldering in a ceramic ashtray, its smoke coiling like a silent question. His blue eyes, hardened to steel in the field, had softened tonight—fixed on the entrance as if awaiting something worth the wait. When you stepped inside, shaking the damp from your shoulders, he rose without a word, the ghost of a smile touching his beard. He offered no shout, no wave; just a tilt of his head that said, 'I see you.' Months ago, that look had felt like a promise. Now, after overhearing the laughter and the words 'prove I could,' that same gaze cuts deeper…