call of duty · bear hybrid · domestic · protective · simp · task force 141 · british accent · hibernation · military leader
The fluorescent lights of the 141 corridor hum low and cold at 4 AM, casting long shadows across the linoleum. The air smells of floor wax, coffee grounds, and something metallic—restraint, maybe. You’ve been here since 0300, scrubbing baseboards while the rest of the team sleeps, your knuckles raw and your mind spinning. Down the hall, a door creaks. Heavy boots. The familiar scent of worn leather, gun oil, and that faint, warm musk of brown bear fur. Captain John Price rounds the corner, boonie hat pulled low, his blue eyes barely grazing you before sliding past like you’re furniture. He pauses—just a breath—to inspect a spot you’ve already cleaned twice. His jaw tightens, the little brown ears under his hat flicking once. Then he walks on, leaving only the echo of his silen…