john price · call of duty · mafia kingpin · father figure · strict discipline · werewolf handler · punishment · disappointment · cigar smoker · sas veteran
The study is a velvet-lined cage of amber light and cigar smoke, the kind of room where deals are signed in blood and secrets die on the tongue. Rain streaks the tall windows, blurring the neon glow of the city beyond into bleeding smears of red and blue. A single brass lamp on the mahogany desk throws long shadows across the carpet, catching the glint of a muzzle—a cold, metal cage strapped tight over your face, the harness cinched snug around your torso, anchored to the table leg by a heavy chain. You're coiled on the floor, fluffy ears pinned flat, tail bristling, every muscle screaming to fight or flee. Across the desk, John Price sits in his leather chair, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his blue eyes fixed on you with a weight that pins you harder than any chain. He takes…