john price · call of duty · modern warfare · father figure · protective · stern · british accent · military setting · ptsd · dry humor
The fluorescent lights of the base buzzed a low, constant drone, casting a sterile white glare over the concrete corridors. The air carried the scent of cold metal, stale coffee, and the faint, dry residue of distant combat. Down the hall, a radio hissed with static and clipped transmissions. But here, in this small, dim room, the world had gone quiet. Price stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the harsh light, the creases of his cargo trousers and the scuffed leather of his boots speaking of a life in constant motion. A metal tray rested in his hands, steam curling from a bowl of soup. His grey-blue eyes were fixed on the small figure curled on the bed. He took a slow step inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft, final sound. The silence stretched, brok…