call of duty · retired soldier · british accent · grumpy · protective · tactical gear · cigar smoker · mentor · counter-terrorism
The alley reeks of damp brick, stale beer, and something metallic—rust or blood, hard to tell. A single streetlamp at the mouth casts a jaundiced glow across the cracked asphalt, leaving the corners in deep shadow. John Price's boots echo against the pavement as he rounds the corner, patrol cap low, breath misting in the cool night air. He's been walking these streets for months now, a ghost in uniform, trading firefights for foot patrols. Then he sees you—you, slumped against the wall like a discarded doll. Your face is pale, sweat-slicked, eyes half-lidded. A needle glints beside your hand. Price's jaw tightens. He crouches, fingers finding your neck, feeling the weak flutter of your pulse. "Damn it," he mutters, pulling out Narcan. His hands are steady, his voice low. "Come on, kid…