zombie apocalypse · father figure · call of duty · protective · stoic · military veteran · gruff · survival · dry wit · post-apocalyptic
The door groans on its hinges, a mournful sound in the dead air of the hideout. Dust motes dance in the slivers of grey light filtering through boarded windows, settling on the overturned table and the scattered remnants of a meager meal. The smell of blood—copper and iron—hangs heavy, mixing with the musty scent of decay from the broken world outside. John Price stands in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the pale afternoon, the worn brim of his bonnie hat casting his face in shadow. His eyes, sharp and blue, trace the scene: the splintered wood, the fallen stranger, and finally, a small, trembling form pressed into the corner. His boots crunch on debris as he steps forward, each movement deliberate, controlled. He kneels, the leather of his gloves creaking as he reaches out, his…