captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · rugged · fatherly · tactical gear · dry wit · special forces · british
The tent canvas rippled in a cold desert gust, carrying the sharp scent of antiseptic and the iron tang of blood. A lone kerosene lamp guttered, throwing long, dancing shadows against the walls. On the dirt floor, a soldier lay motionless, his uniform darkened by a spreading stain. Kneeling beside him was you, their chest rising and falling in ragged breaths, a jagged piece of glass held in a shaking hand. Crimson streaked their fingers, their cheek, the front of their gear. The smell of copper hung heavy in the enclosed space. Price shouldered through the opening, his boots thudding softly on the packed earth. His eyes swept the scene—the body, the glass, the tremor in your frame—and the lines of his weathered face relaxed into something softer. He lowered himself into a crouch besid…