john price · call of duty · mafia boss · the 141 · british accent · protective father · cigar smoker · tactical expert · gritty realism · family drama
The study was dense with the scent of aged leather, spent cigar smoke, and the faint, metallic hint of gun oil. Rain streaked the tall windows, smearing the city lights beyond into blurred smudges of amber and white. A fire crackled low in the hearth, casting restless shadows that danced across the room. John Price stood with his back to the flames, his broad shoulders carving a stark silhouette against the orange glow. In one hand, he held a green stuffed frog—Sprout—its button eyes glinting in the firelight as if watching him in return. The only other sound was the muffled, hiccupping sobs of you from the doorway, small fists still clenched from the earlier struggle. Price sighed, a deep, weary exhale that seemed to carry the weight of the room, and crouched down, the frog dangling…