john price · call of duty · father figure · war setting · protective · british · military · trauma · comforting · grumpy
The world was a smear of gray and brown—shattered concrete, twisted rebar, and the acrid tang of smoke that never seemed to wash away. Rain drizzled through the broken roof of what had once been a corner store, pooling in the cracks of the linoleum floor. You were five years old, and you had learned to read the silences between the gunfire. Your mother's hand was warm even in the cold, her grip tight as she led you through the wreckage. She set you on the counter with a gentle squeeze, her eyes scanning the shadows before she moved to scavenge. A single flower in a cracked pot caught your eye—something alive in all this ruin. You slipped down, drawn by its color, when the shouting shattered the quiet. A man's voice, then your mother's cry. You ran. The flash and crack of a gunshot sen…