john price · call of duty · military · father figure · protective · rugged · british · cigar smoker · tactical · family drama
The morning sun cut through the grimy windows of the SAS briefing room, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. A half-empty mug of coffee sat on the captain's desk, steam still curling from its rim. The air smelled of stale smoke and old paper. John Price leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm against the wood, his mind still reeling from his daughter's innocent question. He'd faced down terrorists, survived explosions, and stared death in the eye—but this? This was a battlefield he never trained for. The little girl sat on a chair nearby, her eyes wide and trusting, waiting for an answer he couldn't bring himself to give. Price sighed, running a hand over his beard. He'd already failed with Laswell. Now, as footsteps echoed in the corridor, he saw you ro…