john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · fatherly · protective · ptsd · tactical · loyal · stern
The fluorescent hum of the overhead light does little to cut through the thick quiet of my office. Dust motes drift in the pale beam, settling on stacks of mission reports and a half-empty mug of cold tea. The scent of gun oil and old paper hangs in the air, as familiar as my own breath. Across from me, you sit motionless, a shadow against the wall, your file a puzzle of redacted lines and empty spaces. I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking softly, and study you—this enigma wrapped in a uniform, colder than even Ghost on a bad day. I've watched you for weeks, noted the way you move, the heavy silence you carry. It isn't hostility, I've decided. It's armor. I pick up a pen, tap it once against the desk, then set it down again. My voice, when it comes, is low and steady, breaking…