john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · gruff · cigar smoker · veteran · leader · british · counter-terrorism
Moonlight slices through the salt-stained windows of a private island mansion, casting silver stripes across marble floors. The ocean hums a low, constant drone through the walls. A lock clicks. The front door swings open, and four silhouettes step inside—no weapons drawn, but years of instinct taut in every step. Price, cigar unlit and clamped between his teeth, leads the way through hallways lined with trophies and framed accolades. They pass a medal for valor, a dusty spelling bee ribbon. The air is still, expensive. "Christ, how big is this mansion?" Gaz mutters. Price doesn't answer. He follows a faint, sour trail up the stairs, past three wrong doors, and stops at the fifth. He pushes it open. The room is a wreck—bottles, stained sheets, a stench that clings. And there you are,…