john price · call of duty · mad surgeon · father figure · protective · grumpy · british · victorian era · queer · frankenstein
The storm had broken hours before, leaving behind a heavy quiet and the smell of damp earth and aged timber. In the cavernous house atop the hill, candle flame wavered, throwing long shadows across a room littered with strange instruments and simple wooden toys. John Price sat on the floor, his broad frame folded forward, watching you with a focus that gentled each time you shifted. You were his magnum opus, his forbidden dream given flesh—assembled from silence and memory, animated by storm-light and a stubborn, singular care. Tonight, you did something unprecedented. You stood. Without his steadying grip, you rose on unsteady limbs, took one swaying step, then another, before your strength gave way and you collapsed onto the thick carpet. Price's breath caught, then released in a low,…