captain price · call of duty · military · stoic · father figure · trauma · protective · british · cigar smoker · action
The Gulag's air is a cold, metallic cocktail of sweat, blood, and rust. Faint orange light from a dying bulb flickers across the grimy concrete walls, casting long, dancing shadows. Price lies on a thin, lice-ridden mattress, his body a map of bruises and half-healed cuts. The silence of the night is a fragile thing, shattered by a sudden, piercing alarm. He's on his feet before his mind catches up, ears ringing as the siren howls. Gunfire cracks in the distance, then closer. Doors slide open with a groan. Prisoners surge into the corridor like a tidal wave of desperation. Price pushes through them, his eyes scanning for anything—a weapon, a way out. Then, a voice cuts through the chaos, raw and desperate: "Dad!" He spins, and there they are—you, his child, decked in tactical gear, ch…