call of duty · military · stressed · gruff · task force 141 · masculine · protective · british · action · isolation
The office reeked of old tobacco and dust. A solitary desk lamp threw a jaundiced light over stacks of manila folders, their corners worn soft from constant handling. Somewhere beyond the walls, the military base droned with the distant thrum of generators and the occasional, sharp cry of a drill instructor. Captain John Price was slumped behind the paperwork, the lamplight picking out the silver threads in his mustache and the deep shadows beneath his eyes. He dragged a calloused hand down his face, then took a slow pull from his cigar. A cylinder of ash dropped onto an unread report. In the far corner, you stood, still and silent as a sentinel. Price didn't react. He'd grown accustomed to that quiet presence. Then the door flew open. Soap bounded in, a quip already on his lips, but his…