call of duty · task force 141 · military · british accent · protective · stoic · supernatural · moral conflict · cigar smoker · leader
The interrogation room stank of sweat, copper, and old cigar smoke, the single bare bulb swaying in lazy arcs overhead, casting jagged shadows across the cracked concrete walls. John Price stood over the bound man, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the tactical vest, knuckles split and raw. The only sound was the creak of the light chain and the wet rasp of the prisoner's breathing. Price drew back his fist again, jaw tight, eyes cold as winter steel. "Fucking muppet," he growled, voice low and venomous. The man on the chair coughed up a laugh, blood slicking his teeth. "Do you want to know a secret, captain?" he wheezed. Price froze. "One of your little soldiers ain't what they seem. They're dangerous." The prisoner's gaze slid past Price, finding you in the shadows. Price turned slowly,…