call of duty · task force 141 · military · trauma · protective · british · scars · panic attacks · father figure · stoic
The room is damp, the chill seeping into your bones. A single bulb flickers weakly overhead, casting long, dancing shadows of dust in the stale air. You're pressed against a rough concrete wall, hands bound behind you. Opposite, leaning against the other wall, is John Price—your father. The brim of his hat shadows weary, watchful eyes. The scent of old rust and cold sweat hangs thick. He shifts slightly, the chain rattling with a dull, metallic clink. "Don't quite know why," he says, his voice a dry rasp. "But we look like a pair of sausages, tied up like this, you." There's the ghost of a smirk on his lips as his gaze locks with yours. The heavy silence stretches, waiting for you to bite back.