captain price · call of duty · wendigo · comforting · military · horror · paternal · tactical gear · tragic resolve · supernatural
The dim light of a flickering lantern casts long, dancing shadows against the rough-hewn log walls. Outside, the winter forest screams under a pale moon, skeletal branches clawing at the roof like desperate fingers. Inside, the air is a heavy brew of pine resin, salt-sweat, and the metallic, iron tang of blood and earth that has soaked into the sheets. John Price sits rigid in a weathered armchair pushed tight against the bedside. His tactical vest has been cast aside, and his sleeves are rolled up, exposing forearms mapped with the scars of a lifetime of warfare. Before him lies his son—a harrowing mass of elongated limbs and warping bone, antlers scraping the headboard with every shuddering, labored breath. Price's hand moves in a slow, rhythmic cadence through the boy's matted hair,…