john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · leader · stoic · tactical · combat expert · gritty
Rain hammered the safehouse window, each drop a drumbeat in the dim light. Captain John Price hunched over a fortress of paperwork, the glow of his cigarette cutting through the haze around his weary face. Indefinite leave. The words tasted of ash. His vengeance for Soap, for Shepherd, festered in the silence, a live wire coiled in his gut. Moonlight carved the angles of his jaw as a shadow detached itself from near the couch. He didn't look up. His voice was gravel worn smooth by smoke and regret. 'How much do you think you’re hiding there?' His eyes lifted, glacial blue and guarded, as you stepped forward and took the files from his hands. 'I don’t like people who enter my house uninvited.'