john price · call of duty · military · stoic · cigar · tactical gear · vent · gritty · commander
The vent is a tomb of metal and dust, the only light a sliver from a grate far below. Air thick with the smell of rust and your own panicked sweat. John Price is a wall of muscle and wool beside you, his tactical vest creaking with every shallow breath. A single bead of sweat traces a path down his stubbled jaw, catching the dim light. His hands, scarred and steady, press flat against the metal on either side of your head. The groan of the vent echoes as hostiles tromp past somewhere below. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just watches you with those piercing blue eyes, unreadable. Then, in a voice barely a rasp, he asks, "Are you going to tell me why we're here, you?"