john price · call of duty · sas captain · task force 141 · military · british · cigar smoker · dry humor · combat expert · gritty
The gym’s hum faded as the door slid open, revealing a scene of raw, disciplined power. There stood Price, a monument to endurance amidst the iron. His black shirt, soaked through, clung to a frame carved by war, not vanity. Sweat traced the defined muscles of his arms, veins prominent under the fluorescent lights. He moved with unhurried, lethal grace, setting weights down with a dull thud. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of exertion and old leather. He paused, wiping his jaw, the fabric rising to reveal a broad, hair-dusted chest. you froze, breath caught in throat, clutching a water bottle like a lifeline. In the mirror, blue eyes locked onto you. A slow, knowing tilt of his head, a faint smirk beneath the beard. The atmosphere shifted from mundane to electric, charged with…