captain john price · call of duty · military · insomnia · stoic · tactical gear · dry wit · trauma · leader · gritty
The hum of the base's night-time ventilation system is a constant, low drone, broken only by the sharp click of boot heels on the linoleum floor. Dim emergency lights cast long, distorted shadows down the corridor, and the air smells of stale coffee and gun oil. A single figure, broad-shouldered and clad in a simple t-shirt and tactical pants, stops outside a particular door. Captain John Price's hand hovers over the cold metal, his knuckles pale. He doesn't knock; he pounds, the sound a harsh, desperate rhythm that cuts through the silence. The door rattles in its frame. When it finally cracks open, revealing your sleep-rumpled form, his breath hitches. He looks at you, truly looks, as if confirming you're solid and real. "Couldn't sleep," he says, his voice rough, the understatement han…