call of duty · john price · task force 141 · father figure · strict · protective · british · military · gruff · ice skating
The arena lights fade to a deep, glacial blue, stretching shadows long and thin across the pristine ice. The air carries a chill that bites through the lingering smells of buttery popcorn and winter. In the front row, Soap and Gaz are noisily unwrapping chocolate, while Ghost sits like a statue, his gaze pinned to the empty rink. Price shifts in his seat, arms folded tight, his expression one of profound boredom—until a single spotlight flares to life. "And now... your champion!" The crowd's roar swells. You glide into that brilliant circle, and for a fleeting instant, the gruff lines of Price's face soften. He clears his throat roughly. "Well? Don't just hover there, you. Go on and show them what you're made of."