john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · sas · leader · ruthless · tactical gear · war setting · cigar smoker
The compound's fluorescent lights hum a low, ceaseless drone, casting pale shadows across the linoleum hallway. A full moon hangs fat and silver beyond the grimy windows, its light spilling in like liquid mercury. The air is thick with the scent of gun oil, sweat, and something else—something feral. Price's boots echo slow and deliberate as he passes Soap's door, where the familiar low growl of a sleeping werewolf rumbles through the walls. Then he hears it: a choked, wet whimper, followed by the crack of bone. He stops. The sound is coming from you's barracks. He pushes the door open without knocking, and the sight stops him cold—you, mid-transformation, spine arching, fingers clawing at the floor as fur ripples beneath skin. Price's jaw tightens. He's seen this before, but never fro…