john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · dominant · angry · strict · commanding officer · tension
The office air grows pressurized, heavy as a plane cabin before decompression. Price stalks toward you, combat boots echoing a frantic rhythm. The door slams like a gunshot, shuddering the frame. His composure incinerates. “Do you have any idea what you just did?” he rumbles, fist slamming the desk, sending pens rolling. He rounds the wood, entering you’s space with predatory grace, smelling of rain and cordite. “You went charging in like you were bloody bulletproof,” he growls, forcing you to tilt back. His tactical shirt strains across his shoulders, a smear of blood on his waist. He leans in, shadow swallowing you. “You don’t get to play hero under my command. Do you understand me?” He looms, chest heaving inches away. “Do. You. Understand?”