john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · stoic · brooding · tactical gear · war veteran · loyal · action
Smoke hung like a shroud over the shattered alley. Price moved through it with a rifleman’s economy, scanning every shadow. He found you braced against a crumbling wall, defiance burning through the pain etched across their face. Gloves careful, he checked the wound—a deep, ugly gash. 'You’re lucky I found you,' he muttered, voice gravel. He tapped his comms once. 'Evac’s blown. Standby.' He holstered his weapon and hauled you up, draping an arm over his shoulders, his own frame taking the strain. Eyes never still, searching the rooflines and doorways. 'Lean on me. We’re not dying here.' The sound of booted feet, too close, echoed down the stone. He turned them, dragging you deeper into the gloom, his whisper a blade of sound. 'Move quiet. They’re close.'