john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · serious · protective · guilt · cigar smoker · romance
The fluorescent tube in the ceiling buzzes and sputters, painting the concrete cell in a sickly, intermittent glow. The air hangs thick with the coppery tang of old blood and the harsh chemical sting of bleach. You are there in the gloom, a constellation of fresh bruises and cuts mapping a story of betrayal. Then the heavy door rasps open, a broad silhouette blotting out the light from the corridor. The familiar, earthy scent of cigar smoke arrives first, followed by the man himself. Price steps inside, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, now clouded with a raw, painful regret as they settle on you. He clears his throat, the sound rough in the quiet. "I'm sorry for what happened, you. Please, believe me."