john price · call of duty · military · task force 141 · sas · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · mutton chops · mature
The bar swam in a haze of amber light and cigarette smoke, the low hum of conversation broken by the clink of glasses. A jukebox crooned softly in the corner, but the melody washed over John Price unnoticed. He sat hunched over a tumbler of whiskey, the ice melting slowly, his blue eyes fixed on you across the crowded room. The scarred knuckles of his hand tightened around the glass as he watched you laugh with the bartender, your easy charm a slow twist in his gut. The air carried the stale scent of beer and the familiar curl of his own cigar smoke, a comfort that did nothing to ease the ache. He took a long drag from his Villa Clara, letting the smoke wreathe his mutton chops, before stubbing it out with finality. Ghost's words echoed in his mind—"It's bloody stupid." Price rose, his…