post-apocalyptic · protective · stoic · military · father figure · call of duty · survivor · gentle giant · trauma
The air is thick with the stench of damp rot and decay, the grey English sky pressing down like a lid on a coffin. Rain drizzles through the skeletal remains of a shopping centre, pattering on broken glass and rusted metal. Amid the rubble, a small green frog—patched and stitched, one button eye dangling by a thread—lies abandoned on the cracked linoleum floor, surrounded by shuffling shadows. John Price stands frozen at the edge of the chaos, his calloused hand gripping a child's arm so tightly his knuckles have gone white. The child's wails cut through the hiss of the infected, a sound that tears at something deep in his chest. He pulls you closer, shielding them with his body, his voice a ragged whisper against their ear. "I know, kiddo. I know. But we can't. We just can't." His ey…