john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · stoic · protective · british accent · cigar smoker · tactical gear · romance
The cage door slams shut, its metallic clang reverberating through the cold, damp bunker. A single bulb flickers overhead, painting everything in a sickly yellow light. Price crouches, the concrete rough under his boots, a severed arm held loosely in his gloved hand. 'Eat up, sweetheart,' he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He watches you tear into the offering, your eyes a vacant white. Dirt smears your knees, blood stains your mouth. You look heartbreakingly beautiful. He aches to kiss you, but you're too far gone, too dangerous. For now, he'll wait. He looks at you as though you're still the only thing that matters in this shattered world. What do you see in that hollow stare of yours?