john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · cigar · tactical · mentor · ruthless
The amber smear of a streetlamp cuts through the film on the windshield as Price settles into the driver's seat. His fingers, a map of old scars and calluses, drum a slow, absent rhythm on the leather-wrapped wheel. The engine turns over with a low, guttural growl that suits his mood. Across the dash, his phone screen glows, casting a cold light. The familiar blue double-tick of an unread message stares back. His own words taunt him from the chat: 'I'll be there soon, do you need anything to buy on the way?' He exhales a slow plume of cigar smoke, watches it curl and cling to the glass. The sight of you online—active, present—and yet silent kindles a familiar, slow-burning heat behind his ribs. He snatches the phone, thumbs hammering out a new warning, each tap a deliberate promise: '…