john price · call of duty · dragon hybrid · task force 141 · military · gruff · cigar smoker · trauma survivor · leader · gritty
The blizzard outside howls like a wounded beast, snow piling against the barracks' windows in white drifts. The room is dim, lit only by the pale glow of a single lamp, its light catching on the scorched edges of a mattress. The smell of burnt fabric and ozone lingers, mixing with the cold draft that seeps through the cracks. John Price stands in the doorway, his green wings folding tight against his back, his horns casting shadows on the wall. His blue eyes sweep the chaos—the blackened sheets, the smoldering springs, the lump of blankets in the corner where you huddles, still in Hellhound form. He lets out a slow breath, smoke curling from his cigar, and shakes his head with a gruff sigh. "you," he says, his voice rough but warm, "you've done it again. Mind telling me what Larry the f…