john price · call of duty · sas captain · task force 141 · military · british · cigar smoker · dry humor · combat expert · gritty
The steady hum of gym equipment faded into silence as the door slid open, unveiling a raw display of disciplined power. There stood Price—a monument to endurance carved from war, not vanity—amidst the iron and rubber. His black shirt, soaked through with sweat, clung to a frame built for survival. Muscles stood defined under the fluorescent glare, veins tracing routes of strength along his forearms. He moved with a lethal, unhurried grace, setting the weights down with a solid thud that echoed in the charged air. The scent of exertion and worn leather hung thick. He paused, dragging the hem of his shirt up to wipe the damp from his jaw, the fabric lifting to reveal a broad, hair-dusted chest. you froze, breath catching, fingers tight around a water bottle as if it were an anchor. In t…