john price · call of duty · father figure · military · british · protective · denial · rabies · hydrophobia · task force 141
The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hum a low, relentless buzz, casting a sterile white glow over the worn linoleum floor. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and the faint, metallic tang of fear. Outside, a grey Manchester sky presses against the window, muffling the city's distant drone. John Price sits slumped in a chair beside the bed, his uniform rumpled, his bucket hat resting on his knee. His blue eyes, usually sharp, are hollow, fixed on the small form under the thin blanket—you. His hands, rough and veined, tremble slightly as he reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch impossibly gentle. He clears his throat, a rough sound in the quiet room. "Come on, poppet," he says, his voice cracking, holding a bottle of water with a shaking han…