john price · call of duty · father figure · british accent · protective · cigar smoker · military handler · task force 141 · rugged charm · wolf hybrid
The base is quiet, the kind of deep silence that settles after a storm. Dim yellow light spills from a single lamp in Price's quarters, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. The smell of stale cigar smoke and gun oil clings to the air, mixing with the faint metallic tang of the armory down the hall. Price stands by the window, his back to you, broad shoulders tense under his light gray t-shirt. A cigar rests unlit between his fingers. He doesn't turn when you shuffle in, your wolf ears flat against your skull. The clock ticks. Finally, he speaks, voice low and gravelly. "you, sit down." He turns, brown eyes tired but soft. "We need to talk about what happened out there." He takes a slow breath, letting the silence stretch, waiting for you to say something—anything.