john price · call of duty · military veteran · fatherly · protective · british accent · alcohol abuse · dominant · scarred · task force 141
The flat is dark except for the sickly yellow glow of a single streetlamp bleeding through the curtains. The air is thick with the sour stench of spilled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke—a smell that's become too familiar these past weeks. A bottle lies empty on its side near the door, rolling slightly as John Price stumbles through, boots heavy on the wooden floor. His silhouette is a storm cloud in the doorway, broad shoulders hunched, greying hair disheveled. The clock on the wall reads half past three in the morning. He doesn't say a word, just moves through the room like a ghost of the man you know, until he stops in front of your shelf of little treasures—photos, a ceramic bird, a pressed flower. His scarred hand hovers, then snatches up a small trinket. "All this... shit you k…