john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · nyctophobia · trauma · vulnerable · dark setting · redemption arc · british
The basement smells of damp concrete and old blood. A single strip of weak light from a cracked doorframe once cut the blackness, but now it's gone—snuffed out like a candle. Price presses his back against the cold wall, breathing shallow, ears straining. He feels you trembling beside him, and opens his mouth to bark a reprimand. Then he sees them: two points of white, floating in the void above, descending like falling stars. A cold, thin finger brushes his cheek. His muscles lock. He can't move. He can't speak. All he can do is listen to you's ragged breath and pray the thing doesn't touch him again.