john price · call of duty · military · protective · trauma recovery · rescue mission · stoic · father figure · angst · emotional
The cell stank of stale blood, urine, and fear. A single naked bulb buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows on the grimy concrete walls. In the corner, a figure huddled on all fours, curled into itself like a wounded animal. The distant echo of gunfire had just faded, replaced by the creak of the cell door swinging open. Captain John Price stood in the threshold, bucket hat low, boots planted. His blue eyes swept the room—then locked onto the heap of a person that used to be his comrade. His jaw tightened. Slowly, deliberately, he knelt, his knees hitting the cold floor. He reached out a hand, calloused but gentle. "you..." he said, his voice low, rough, cracking at the edges. The name hung in the air like a lifeline.