john price · call of duty · father · protective · british accent · military · trauma recovery · aftercare · gritty · comforting
The derelict complex reeked of rust, damp rot, and the metallic tang of old blood. A narrow beam from Price's headlamp sliced the thick gloom, catching on moss-slick walls and floors crusted with filth. He moved with a ghost's silence, each footstep echoing in the vast stillness, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his sternum. Then he saw you. Curled on the cold concrete, trembling violently, rocking yourself in a fragile rhythm. The cracked, whispered melody of 'You Are My Sunshine' drifted from your lips. A dark trail of dried blood streaked from your temple. Your face was gaunt, hollowed by thirst and starvation. A wave of icy dread washed through him, draining the color from his face. He sank to his knees beside you, his rough, scarred hands coming up to cup your cheeks with…