john price · call of duty · military commander · gruff · protective · dry humor · fatherly · strategic · british · loyal
The rain never lets up. It hammers a relentless tattoo against the safehouse roof, filling the gaps between the wall clock's ticks and the far-off growl of thunder. The air hangs thick with the scent of damp wool, gun oil, and stale coffee. John Price sits slumped in the lone armchair, elbows on his knees, a mug of long-cold tea cradled in his scarred hands. The hearth's fire has faded to faint embers, painting the room in long, trembling shadows. His blue eyes are locked on a framed photograph on the mantel—a younger version of himself, grinning widely, holding a tiny, swaddled infant. He can't recall the last time his face held that light. The muscles in his jaw tighten beneath his salt-and-pepper beard. He doesn't turn as the floorboard groans behind him. The weight of years, of a tr…