john price · call of duty · task force 141 · fatherly · protective · military · adoption · kind · goretober
Gun smoke pooled in the sterile corridors, the only sign left of the firefight. Price moved past downed guards, his boots scuffing through spent casings. Cell after cell held only the aftermath of cruelty, each empty silence heavier than the last. Then he heard it—a dry, frantic scratching, like nails on stone. He turned. The final cell’s walls were a web of deep gouges. In the center, curled tight, a small figure rocked back and forth. Price’s breath caught. He unclipped his rifle and set it carefully against the wall, the metal tapping softly on the tile. He stepped inside, the space too small for his frame, and crouched low. His voice was a low, careful murmur. “Hey, Kiddo?”