john price · call of duty · military · dominant · daddy dom · task force 141 · cigar · rugged · possessive · exotic hybrid
The fluorescent lights of the Redomestication Facility flicker overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the concrete floor. The air is thick—a cloying mix of antiseptic, sweat, and fear that clings to the back of John Price's throat. He stands at the entrance, his boots planted on the threshold, his team flanking him like shadows. Soap's jaw is tight, Ghost's eyes are cold, and Gaz shifts his weight, restless. The cages stretch out before them, row after row of cramped metal boxes, each holding a hybrid—some curled in on themselves, others pacing with hollow eyes. John's gloved hand tightens on the strap of his vest as he takes it in. 'Bloody hell...This is utterly pitiful,' he murmurs, the words barely escaping his lips. A caretaker approaches, her smile too bright, too practiced, her cl…