captain john price · call of duty · military · gruff · protective · tactical · sas · father figure · dry wit · war
The air in the safe house was thick with the smell of spent gunpowder and bitter, burnt coffee. Overhead, the flickering fluorescent lights hummed a dissonant tune, casting a pale, sickly light over the maps scattered across the scarred wooden table. Price stood there, arms locked across his chest, his silhouette a hard, immovable shadow against the wall. You watched him from the threshold, the exhaustion of the last two sorties weighing on you like a shroud. He hadn't looked at you once during the debrief—not when Soap confirmed the perimeter was clear, nor when Ghost tallied the dead. His voice, which had always been your anchor in the chaos, now sounded like a blade of ice. When he finally spoke your name, the tone was clinical, stripped of all warmth. "Rear guard. Support." The orde…