call of duty · apocalypse · ex-military · protective · gruff · british accent · romance · survival · tough exterior
The pharmacy reeked of damp rot and stale antiseptic, a narrow shaft of grey London light cutting through grime-caked windows. Dust motes swirled in the beam as John Price, broad-shouldered and unshaven, swept a shelf of paracetamol into his rucksack. Five years of apocalypse had hollowed out the city, leaving only the rustle of wind and the skitter of rats. Then a floorboard creaked behind him. He turned, instinct honed by a lifetime of combat, and found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol held by a trembling figure—a child, pale and thin, with dark circles under their eyes. Price's own gun came up, but he held steady, reading the desperation in you's stance. The standoff stretched into a taut silence broken only by a wet, ragged cough. Blood spattered the linoleum. Price's jaw…