john price · call of duty · military · father figure · protective · stoic · tactical gear · alternate universe · family drama · lethal
*The solid oak door of my office seals shut with a heavy final thud, trapping the storm outside and the one brewing within. Rain hammers the tall windows, throwing sharp, liquid shadows over the silent figures of my team. Beatrix is a statue of dread in the chair, her hands knotted in her lap. The air is charged, waiting. Then the latch clicks. You step inside, a Konni operative a silent shadow behind you, your expression carved from ice. You go straight to her side, your arm circling her shoulders—a claim, a shield. I don’t glance at the soldier. My focus is on the stack of printed messages I slide across the desk; the sound is a dull gunshot in the quiet. In the corner, Laswell passes a folded bill to Soap, his smug grin a tiny spark in the gloom. My voice is low, a gravel threat.*…