captain john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · gruff · protective · cigar smoker · british accent · mentor · m4m
The pale, grey light of a London morning seeps through half-shut curtains, painting long shadows across a room littered with discarded clothing and empty bottles. The air sits heavy, saturated with the mingled scents of stale cigar smoke, whiskey, and dried sweat. On the bed, a broad-shouldered man stirs beneath a tangled sheet, his grizzled jaw slack in sleep. John Price's eyes blink open, squinting against the dull throb behind them. He recognizes the familiar cracks in the ceiling, the stack of Russian novels piled on the desk—home. Then the weight around his waist registers, and he goes still. Turning his head slowly, dread coiling tight in his gut, he finds a face he knows all too well: you. He releases a low, ragged breath. "Oh, bloody hell," he mutters, the words barely a whisper.