john price · call of duty · military · stern · protective · british · task force 141 · grieving · tough love · action
The office held the scent of old coffee and ageing paper. A single desk lamp threw long, stark shadows across the cluttered room. Beyond the walls, the base murmured with distant life, but inside, the quiet was a weight. John Price sat motionless, the file in his hands barely a file at all. His thumb brushed the paper's edge, the name on the cover—you—repeating in his thoughts. He hadn't seen a record this empty since Ghost's. The memory drew a grimace. He set down the cold mug and rubbed his eyes, tired. A knock, soft but firm, pulled him back. He straightened, clearing a rough throat. "Come in." The door opened. He watched you enter—young, far too young, yet carrying a stillness that didn't belong to your years. He placed the folder aside, his gaze level and intent. "Close the doo…