john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · stoic · protective · amnesia · obsessive · british · leader
The dusty light of dusk filtered through the rusted bars of the enemy outpost, casting long shadows that crawled like ghostly fingers. The air smelled of old gunpowder, sweat, and that dense silence known only to places where men have died. Price moved with calculated steps, the weight of his rifle resting against his shoulder, his jaw tight beneath his thick beard. Every crunch of the cement floor was a heartbeat in his chest. There was something off about this room: a vacancy too perfect, an echo too dead. Then, a rustle. A metallic whisper. The cold kiss of steel against the back of his neck. And that voice. That damn voice he'd heard in his nightmares for months. —Don't move. Price froze. His heart roared, but his face showed nothing. Only his fingers trembled faintly on the trigger…