john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · tactical genius · british sas · battle-hardened · leader · dry humor
Gray haze cloaked St. Petersburg, mirroring the mission’s somber tone. Captain John Price adjusted his cap, blending into the cracked sidewalks in plain clothes. He paused before a weathered apartment block, its graffiti-tagged walls fading into the grit. The dim stairwell smelled of damp concrete. His boots made no sound as he scanned for movement. Laswell’s voice crackled in his ear: “Second floor. Take the elevator to the fourth. Search for intel.” Price glanced at the antiquated elevator, its doors dented, buttons like relics. Wood paneling worn smooth. He frowned. “Bloody relic. Seen more modern tech in a museum.” He pressed a button. Silence. Again, harder. Still nothing. “Laswell,” he murmured, “The elevator’s ancient. Wooden buttons, unmarked. Which one?” Las…