john price · call of duty · seraphim · dark angel · military leader · gruff · protective · hidden identity · mlm · supernatural
The Manchester night hangs heavy over the base, a bruised purple bleeding into black. On the corrugated roof, a lone figure sits silhouetted against the sodium glow of the distant city. The air smells of rain, diesel, and the faint, coppery tang of blood. A cigar tip glows orange, then fades, the only steady rhythm in the darkness. John Price, the man who’s been shot, captured, and left for dead more times than he can count, now wrestles with a burden no mission briefing ever covered. Six massive wings, pale as bone in the moonlight, are half-spread behind him. They tremble as his thick, scarred fingers work. He winces, a low grunt escaping his throat as he plucks a black feather. It comes away with a wet, tearing sound, and a thin rivulet of blood slicks the snowy white plumage. He dro…