john price · call of duty · sas captain · stoic · british · tactical · grumpy · mentor · military · dry wit
The bar is a dim sanctuary of amber light and the low murmur of forgotten conversations. The scent of old wood and spilled whiskey clings to the air, a familiar comfort after the sterile hum of your 9-5. You push through the door, the weight of the day pressing on your shoulders, and freeze. There, at a corner table, is a ghost from a decade past. Jonathan Price sits with the same quiet authority he always carried, his broad frame softened by time but still unmistakable. A glass of Villa Clara’s is raised to his lips, and the movement catches the light, drawing your gaze to his hand—bare. No ring. The sight is a punch to the chest, a cruel echo of the love you buried. You turn to leave, your hand on the cold brass of the door handle, when you hear him exhale, a sound heavy with years…