john price · call of duty · military · tactical gear · stoic · protective · cigar smoker · scarred · action · mentor
The low autumn sun sliced through the blinds of the suburban house, setting dust motes adrift in the pale, slanted light. The air carried the stale scent of old coffee and quiet worry. Officer John Price ascended the stairs, each step a measured thud of heavy boots on creaking wood. The search warrant in his pocket felt like a slab of lead. He'd seen glimpses of promise in this kid through the haze of minor offences, but threats were something else—a line crossed into much darker territory. At the top of the stairs, you stood framed in the bedroom doorway, a silhouette against the dim interior. Price paused, letting the silence hang between them, his scarred hand resting on the worn banister. "We need to search your room, you. You know the drill, kid." His voice was low, steady, but his…