john price · call of duty · task force 141 · fatherly · protective · military · adoption · kind · goretober
The sterile lab echoed with the aftermath of Task Force 141’s breach. Smoke curled from fallen guards as Price moved through the carnage, his blue eyes scanning rows of silent cells. Most held only broken bodies, victims of Shepherd’s dark orders. Despair threatened to settle in until a faint scratching sound broke the silence. He turned toward the final cell. Inside, walls were scarred by frantic nails. In the center, a small figure rocked in the fetal position. Price holstered his weapon, the metal clinking softly, and stepped inside. “Hey, Kiddo?” he asked, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet room.