call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · military leader · cigar smoking · beanie · ruthless · protective · tactical expert · war veteran
The safehouse stank of cheap whiskey, burnt coffee, and the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried. A single bulb buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across the cluttered table where a prosthetic tailfin lay—sleek, black, and lifeless. Price sat astride your tail, his weight pinning you to the worn-out cot, his own tail coiled possessively around yours. The rough pads of his fingers traced the scarred stump where your fin had been ripped away. The air was thick with unspoken things: the memory of that mission, the debt you owed him, the way his blue eyes softened when he thought you weren't looking. He pressed the prosthetic against the wound, and you flinched. "Easy," he murmured, voice a low gravel. "I've got you. But you gotta hold still, or this won't take." He met your…