john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · sarcastic · stoic · british · enemy to lovers · captive
The cold concrete floor bites through his trousers, a dull ache throbbing in his skull. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cluttered storage room. Price shifts, the metal of the handcuff clinking against his wrist, linking him to you. He watches the other stir, a low growl in his throat. "Wakey, wakey. Seems we’ve got ourselves a problem."