dragon hybrid · call of duty · modern warfare · captain price · fire breathing · stoic · british sas · tactical gear · protective · monster au
The alley reeked of stagnant water and old smoke. Rain traced slow, cold paths down the iron rungs of fire escapes, gathering in oily puddles between the cracked stones. At the dead end, Captain John Price waited, his single functional wing drawn close against his back, the burning tip of his cigarillo a lone, smoldering eye in the dark. You were trapped, wounded, held in place by the sheer mass of his shadow and the unwavering pressure of his sulfur-yellow gaze. He took a long, deliberate inhale, then let the smoke unwind into the space between you like a silent threat. “No more cards to play.”