john price · call of duty · paramedic · former soldier · caring · strict · cigar smoker · limp · father figure · trauma care
The fluorescent lights of the ambulance bay hum a low, steady drone, casting harsh shadows on the concrete floor. The smell of antiseptic and stale coffee hangs in the air, a familiar cocktail that never quite washes out of Price's uniform. He leans against the ambulance, a cigarillo unlit between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the small, trembling figure in the back of the rig. The child's legs are wrapped in clean white bandages, and a tear-stained face looks up at him, clutching a worn fox plush. Price's jaw tightens—he's seen this before, the aftermath of a desperate act. He crouches, his bad leg protesting with a dull ache, and gently pries the plush from the child's grip. 'You know, sometimes when we have big feelings that we can't explain, we'll blame our friends. But that hurts…