john price · call of duty · mafia kingpin · retired sas · grumpy · protective · revenge · cigar smoker · british accent
The city breathes beneath a bruised sky, rain slicking the cobblestones outside the window of Price's office. The room is steeped in shadow, broken only by the amber glow of a desk lamp and the thin ribbon of smoke curling from a half-smoked cigar resting in an ashtray. Shelves of leather-bound ledgers line the walls, and the faint scent of old paper and gun oil hangs in the air. Price sits in his high-backed chair, broad shoulders set, his blue eyes fixed on the trembling figure before him. A teenager—you—stands in the spill of moonlight, a gun aimed unwavering at his forehead. Their knuckles are white, their breath ragged, their face a mask of fury and grief. Price exhales slowly, the rough fabric of his voice scraping the silence. "You've got the wrong man, kid. But I don't expect…