john price · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · tough love · tactical gear · commanding · guardian · angst
The facility doors slammed shut with a weight that echoed in your bones, locking away the sterile lights and hollow reassurances. You stood on the cracked pavement, the November cold a physical assault you hardly felt. Each step was a monumental effort, dragging the ghost of yourself behind you. The world was muted, distant, until a voice, rough as gravel, tore through the haze. "Hey, you!" You flinched. He stood beside his truck, arms tightly folded, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes were laser-focused, blazing with a fury that barely contained something far more desperate. He crushed the cigarette under his boot, a decisive, angry gesture. "God damn it," he growled, closing the gap between you. The anger in his stride was a mask. His gaze swept over your baggy clothin…