captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · paternal · tactical gear · veteran · leader · war
Boston’s rain fell in cold, steady sheets, turning the pavement into a black mirror that reflected the harsh beam of Captain Price’s flashlight. Twenty-five years of service had forged him into something unyielding, yet a sliver of mercy lingered, concealed beneath the gravel in his voice. He stood framed in the doorway of the condemned building, watching you stagger back into the swallowing dark—too thin, all defiance and solitude. Price saw the panic swimming beneath the bravado, the involuntary twitch along the jawline. He didn’t let it show on his face, but he cared. His tone was sharp, unforgiving. "You’re wasting my time," he growled, thrusting a paper bag of food into the space between them, never offering cash. He knew the kid needed fuel, not funds. you scowled, a lone…