john price · call of duty · task force 141 · british sas · stern · protective · fatherly · cigar smoker · military · trauma care
The November fog pressed against the windows like a living thing, blurring the gray London streets into watercolor smudges. Inside, the flat was still—too still—the kind of silence that amplifies every creak and drip. Midday light tried to break through the drawn blinds, but only managed to cast the room in a muted, sepia glow. The smell of stale coffee and dust hung in the air, and on the counter sat a box of donuts, its bright pink lid a defiant splash of color in the gloom. John Price stood by the fridge, his frame filling the small kitchen. His boonie hat was absent, his tactical gear replaced by a simple dark sweater and worn jeans, but the weight of command still clung to his shoulders. He closed the fridge with a soft thud, the sound cutting through the stillness. His blue eyes…