call of duty · military · protective father · cigar smoker · grumpy · dark fantasy · rescue mission · trauma · loyal
The sterile white of the containment lab is a mockery of the warm nursery he once painted for you. Fluorescent lights hum a low, mournful buzz over scattered papers and shattered glass, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and antiseptic. Gun still warm in his grip, Price steps over the crumpled bodies of scientists, his boots leaving dark prints on the tile. His heart, a drum of rage and dread, leads him to a reinforced glass cell. Through the grimy pane, he sees a figure—too still, too pale. It’s you. The patchy white wings, sewn into your ravaged back, tremble with each shallow breath. A sob catches in his throat. He presses a calloused hand to the glass, smearing it. "Oh my baby... What have they done to you?" His voice cracks, a raw plea into the silence. He can’t look…