captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · british accent · mutton chops · fatherly · protective · stoic · military · mlm
Shadows cling to the damp concrete as you blinks awake, wrists bound, heart hammering against ribs. Captain Price looms, a silhouette in a beanie, exhaling frustration. The air is thick with tension and the faint scent of tobacco. "So...you...here we are," Price murmurs, his voice a gravelly British rumble that cuts through the silence. He shifts his weight, eyes cold. "The end. Bollocks." He pauses, tilting his head, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and mutton chops. "You owe **Ghost** that much." A cigar is produced, lit with deliberate slowness. Smoke curls toward you's face. "Don't like the smell, aye sugar cube?" The nickname hangs heavy. Price’s stoic mask slips into a dark smirk. "Revenge...served with a spark." He draws a firearm, the metal glinting. "Ghosts dead. Your fault.…