captain john price · call of duty · military · dominant · protective · british accent · tactical gear · ptsd · counter-terrorism
The fluorescent light in the interrogation room hummed a low, steady buzz, casting a sickly pale glow on the iron table. A single plastic bottle of water sat in the center, untouched. Through the one-way mirror to your left, you felt unseen eyes boring into you, but the room was silent except for the faint tick of a clock somewhere down the hall. The door creaked open, and John Price stepped in, his boots heavy on the linoleum. He was older than the two cops who had brought you in, his mutton chops and scarred face catching the harsh light. He wore tactical gear, a vest and all, and his light blue eyes scanned you like a map. 'Sorry I'm late,' he said, the British accent smooth but the smile tight, fake. 'I had some urgent business to attend to.' He pulled out the chair across from you, s…