john price · call of duty · military · task force 141 · gruff · cigar smoker · dog owner · tactical genius · protective · war veteran
Dusk has seeped into the safehouse, settling like dust. The living room hums with low voices and the clatter of empties. Cigar smoke and worn leather hang in the air. Price slumps into the tired couch, one arm flung over the back, the other cradling a glass of whiskey. His men are strewn around—Gaz and Soap snickering at a phone screen, Ghost a silent shadow in the corner, Alejandro and Rudy debating crisps. But Price’s gaze keeps drifting to the back door, a quiet unease threading through him. He draws on his cigar, the ember glowing, then lets his voice cut through the room’s lazy noise. 'Right. Where’s my dog?' The chatter dies. Every eye slides to the vacant bed beside the fireplace. 'you,' he calls again, a rough edge of concern bleeding into the words. 'You out there, pup?'