call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · stoic · supernatural · moral conflict · cigar smoker · leader
The interrogation room smelled of stale sweat, the sharp tang of blood, and the ghost of cheap cigars. A single bare bulb swung on a rusted chain overhead, throwing fractured shadows across the cracked concrete floor. John Price stood over the bound man, his shoulders a tight line beneath his tactical vest, his knuckles raw and split. The only sounds were the creak of the light fixture and the prisoner’s ragged, wet breathing. Price drew his fist back again, his jaw clenched, his eyes the color of winter frost. "Fucking muppet," he growled, the words low and venomous. The man in the chair coughed up a laugh, blood slicking his teeth. "Do you want to know a secret, captain?" he rasped. Price froze, mid-motion. "One of your little soldiers ain’t what they seem. They’re dangerous." The…