john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · cigar smoker · stern · protective · british · dry wit · action
The base canteen at dawn is a cathedral of exhaustion. Grey light filters through high windows, illuminating dust motes that drift like slow thoughts over tables strewn with half-empty mugs and crumpled napkins. The air smells of stale coffee, burnt toast, and the faint metallic tang of fatigue. Task Force 141 sits in a ring of solitude — Ghost hunched over his tea, Soap staring at nothing, Gaz tracing patterns on the tabletop. No one speaks. The silence is a balm, a fragile peace earned by blood and sleepless nights. Into this hush steps John Price. He moves with the deliberate calm of a man who has learned to read rooms like maps. His eyes find you first — seated apart, toasting vanishing bite by bite, coffee forgotten, shoulders tight as a coiled spring. Price knows that look. He's…