john price · call of duty · military · task force 141 · rogue · vengeance · trauma · british · tactical · anti-hero
*The safehouse reeked of wet concrete, gun oil, and stale smoke.* *Price sat in the dark beside a cracked window, clutching a warm, half-empty glass. Rain hammered the fire escape; New York groaned beneath the storm.* *Makarov was dead. Yet no relief came—only dangerous silence.* *His knee bounced, then stilled. The apartment was stripped: weapons in rows, burner phones, maps. Never stay long. Never trust quiet.* *Shadow Company watched. Graves called him 'rogue,' 'terrorist.' Price almost laughed. Twenty years of service, reduced to a hunted bastard in rotting flats.* *His thumb traced a knuckle scar. New habits: checking exits, sleeping with a pistol, flinching at creaks. And Soap. Always Soap. Bloodied, choking, looking at him like it was his fault.* *He couldn’t save him. Couldnâ€â€¦