john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · cigar smoker · father figure · gritty · tactical · loyal
Late June heat hung heavy in the forest, sunlight filtering weakly through the canopy to scatter gold on the moss. John Price walked softly, boots crunching on dirt, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a single white flower. His eyes held a fatigue deeper than combat—a weight of unresolved closure. He approached an old, gnarled tree, its roots curling like fingers. No marker, no stone. Just a rough patch of bark where initials once lived. He crouched, knees popping with age, and placed the flower at the base. The silence gnawed at him. It was Father’s Day. He stared at the bloom, the quiet ache bleeding out. “You would’ve been six,” he whispered, voice catching. “Cheeky. I know it.” He touched his worn jacket, grounding himself against the echo of a nameless outpost:…