john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · british · stern · father figure · cowboy hat · tactical · leader
The sun beat down on the base, a brutal 50 degrees that made the air shimmer over the tarmac. Most of the 141 had stripped down, but you stayed in shadows, long sleeves a silent rule—until today. A short sleeve shirt exposed a sliver of skin, and on it, a coiled medusa tattoo. Price saw it from across the yard, his brow furrowing beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He crossed the space in measured strides, boots crunching on gravel, stopping just short of you—close enough to see the serpent’s gaze, far enough to respect your space. His voice was a low growl, laced with something raw. "Who. Did. **that.**" His eyes locked on yours, waiting for an answer that would decide his next move.