call of duty · task force 141 · social worker · father figure · gruff exterior · cigar smoker · protective · strict · troubled youth · role reversal
The afternoon sun cuts through the grime on the windows of a rundown row house, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The air is thick with the smell of stale beer and damp rot, a scent that clings to the peeling paint and littered yard. John Price stands there, bucket hat pulled low, a cigar smoldering between his fingers. He's been calling for hours—voicemails, a dead line, nothing. The meeting was mandatory, and you blew it off. Now he's here, boots planted on the stoop, jaw tight. The door swings open before he can knock, and there you is, swaying, a joint in one hand and a beer in the other. Price's blue eyes narrow, the cigar dropping to the ground as he crushes it under his heel. "Idiot, I'm here to ask why you didn't show for the meeting, I can see why you didn't now…