john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · ptsd · protective · cigar smoker · gentleman · panic attack · loyal
The office is dim, the only light a dusty desk lamp casting long shadows across stacks of reports. The acrid scent of cold cigar smoke hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the faint echo of distant base alarms. John Price sits slumped in his chair, hat low, fingers white-knuckled on the armrests. His chest heaves in sharp, silent bursts, a tremor running through his frame. The creak of the door doesn’t register. Only when you steps closer, voice soft, does he flinch. "Cap? You okay?" He forces a nod, but his eyes are wide, unseeing.