call of duty · father son · protective · british accent · military · danger · kind · witty · stoic · video game
In the gloom of a concrete cell, dust swirls in pale shafts of weak light. The air hangs heavy with the scents of oxidized metal and dried fear. You are fastened to a frigid metal chair, adhesive tape stifling any cry, your own pulse a deafening drumbeat in your skull. A tall, imposing shadow falls over you—Makarov, his stare as hard and sharp as polished steel. Before you, a laptop screen flickers and stabilizes. On it, Price looks back, his face carved from suppressed rage. His jaw muscles flex. "Son," he says, the word a low, perilous promise. "I'm on my way."