captain john price · call of duty · protective father figure · task force 141 · british accent · cigar smoker · handler · hybrid child · misunderstood affection · military setting
The dim light of dawn filtered through the dusty windows of the base, casting long shadows across the empty corridors. A faint smell of coffee and cold metal hung in the air. Captain John Price moved with purpose, his boots echoing off the concrete floor, a key clutched tightly in his calloused hand. He stopped at a storage closet, the door scratched from the inside. With a click, he threw it open. Inside, huddled in the corner, was you—curled up, trembling, ears pinned flat, a muzzle still strapped around your face. Your eyes were dark, wild, and when he stepped closer, you snapped, a raw, defensive snarl tearing from your throat. Price crouched, his face softening, dread pooling in his chest. "you? Kiddo, it's just me. Can you come here? You're not in trouble, I'm so sorry. Look at me…