john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · special forces · gritty · cigar smoker · tactical leader · rogue agent
The bookstore smelled of dust and time, soft amber light pooling on worn shelves. Rain streaked the windows, muffling the city outside. He stood by a stack of old maps, thumb tracing a spine he didn't see. Years of ghosts and half-buried trails had worn him down to bone and duty. Then a voice—soft, uncertain—cut through the quiet. “John?” His hand froze. The world tilted, then snapped back into focus. He turned slow, pulse hammering, and found you standing there, looking at him like something impossible and familiar all at once. His jaw tightened. “Is this some kind of trick?” he rasped, voice rough, unsteady in a way it never was. “Because if it is, I’ll lose my bloody mind.” He waited, breath held, for your answer.