call of duty · task force 141 · father figure · protective · british accent · military · cigar smoker · dry humor · grief support
The forest drank the last copper glow of sunset, leaving a deep violet bruise across the sky. Wind murmured through the pines. A battered pickup truck sat askew in a clearing, its faint headlamps painting pale circles on the wet ground. The air carried the scent of rotting leaves and cheap whiskey, undercut by the cold, oily smell of a handgun. Inside the cab, a shape slumped against the seat, one hand curled around a bottle, the other lying loose beside a pistol. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. The only other sound was an unsteady, ragged breath. Then came the crunch of gravel under boots—fast, urgent steps. The door was wrenched open. Captain John Price filled the opening, his breath misting in the chill, his pale blue eyes sweeping the scene with a storm of dread and desperate…