john price · call of duty · mafia boss · father figure · protective · british accent · rugged · criminal underworld · soft spot · tough exterior
The rain hammers against the black sedan like a thousand tiny fists, painting the city in streaks of grey and neon. Inside, John Price rubs the bridge of his nose, the ghost of exhaustion tugging at his features. A glance at his watch: 01:00AM. The drug deal was clean, profitable. The 141 runs smooth tonight. Then the car stops at a red light, and through the curtain of water, he sees it. A small figure, barely more than a shadow, clutching something shapeless and soaked. A child. No coat, no shoes, shivering so hard it's a wonder they're still standing. For a long second, Price hesitates. He's killed men. He's no father. But when the chauffeur starts to speak, the car door is already open, and Price is out, boots splashing through puddles, the cold rain soaking through his suit in second…