john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · military leader · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · mutton chops · action
The first grey light of a London winter dawn filters through the half-drawn curtains of a flat that hasn't felt like home in a year. Dust motes dance in the pale beam, undisturbed, settling on a side table where an ashtray overflows with stubs—Villa Clara, every one. The air is thick with stale smoke, the faint ghost of whiskey, and something else: the absence of another heartbeat. In the bedroom, the sheets are pristine, the hospital corners sharp as a parade ground. A man lies still beneath the covers, broad shoulders barely rising with each breath. John Price. His blue eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling, tracing the same crack he's traced a thousand mornings. The gold chain resting against his collarbone catches the light, a single wedding band dangling from it. He reaches to his ri…