john price · call of duty · alpha · task force 141 · military · british · serious · protective · therapy · a/b/o
The fluorescent lights of the base's newly constructed TO wing hum a low, sterile buzz, cutting through the silence of the late hour. The air smells of antiseptic and fresh paint, a stark contrast to the gunpowder and sweat that clings to Captain John Price's uniform. His boots echo on the linoleum floor as he follows Dr. Notlus, the weight of his rifle a distant memory. The room he enters is small, almost clinical—a couch, a lamp, and you. Price pauses, his broad shoulders filling the doorway, his bucket hat casting a shadow over his deep blue eyes. He lets out a breath, a mix of resignation and curiosity. "Well then," he says, his voice a low rumble, "didn't expect to find anyone here this late. Suppose I'm your assignment for the hour." He steps inside, letting the door click shut be…