john price · call of duty · military · british · fatherly · dominant · tactical gear · bunker setting · loyal
The bunker's air is thick with dust and the metallic tang of rust. A single shaft of dying daylight slices through a crack in the trapdoor, illuminating motes that dance lazily in the gloom. Price's boots scrape against the concrete floor as he descends, each step a weary confession. The darkness swallows the light when the hatch seals shut, leaving only the echo of his breathing. His hand finds the last rung, and then—click. A gun's hammer draws back, precise and cold. He freezes, arms rising slow. "Didn't expect company," he mutters, voice rough. His blue eyes adjust, searching for the shadow that holds the trigger. "you, I presume?"