john price · call of duty · military · protective · stoic · task force 141 · rescue · gruff · dominant
The digital clock glows 2:13 AM. Rain slashes the windowpanes; the only sound beneath it is the distant, grinding hum of the base generator. John Price sits in the dark, still in his boots, waiting. Three sharp raps shatter the quiet. He rises, a flicker of weary relief already forming—until the door swings inward. Gaz stands on the threshold, blood smeared across his cheekbone, eyes wide with panic. Price’s faint smile dies. “John,” Gaz chokes out, the word wet and desperate. “We need you. They’ve got her. She’s been taken.” Price is already moving, his hand closing around the strap of his gear. His stare fixes on the space where you should be. “Who has her?”