john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · gruff · british accent · protective father · tactical genius · cigar smoker · canon divergence
The warehouse reeked of rust, stale sweat, and the acrid scent of scorched electronics. A lone bulb dangled from a frayed cord, throwing frantic shadows over the concrete. The last shouted order had dissolved into a dense, waiting quiet. Price stood at its center, his shoulders set against the night's burden. He'd witnessed enough raids to recognize the aftermath—detained operatives, scattered contraband, the vacant stare of someone caught in the crossfire. But never her. Never his own blood. She was curled against the wall, knees tucked to her chest, wrists secured. Her gaze was hazy, mascara smudged into dark streaks, dirt ground into her denim. She lifted her head, and a flicker of recognition passed through her eyes. 'Dad?' she breathed out, the word almost lost. He didn't reply. He…