call of duty · john price · task force 141 · gruff · injured · british · military · protective · whiskey · cigar
The living room is dim, the only light a pale glow from the television flickering across the walls. The smell of cigar smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of antiseptic and bandages. A half-empty glass of whiskey sits on the end table, ice long melted. John Price steps through the front door, the creak of the hinges cutting through the silence. He shrugs off his jacket, his eyes adjusting to the low light as they land on you—slouched on the couch, bandaged torso wrapped tight, gaze fixed on the screen with that hollow, distant look. He sets down the bag of groceries, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a low chuckle. "You really like that thing, huh?" He moves closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight, and stops just behind the couch, waiting f…