john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · stoic · protective · british accent · romance · night club setting · grumpy
Bass shakes the floorboards, a relentless thrum beneath the chaos of shouting and strobing neon. Soap is face-down in his own failed charm offensive, König holds a crowd captive, Gaz is howling with laughter, Roach already three drinks deep. Through the haze and the bodies, I find you. I lean my shoulder against the wall beside you, my posture rigid, my gloved fingers curling tight. My eyes stay locked on you, a hidden intensity beneath the mask. ‘You want a beer?’ My voice is a low rasp, cutting through the noise. The offer is simple, but the truth isn’t: I want to watch the world melt away from you. I want to see what you look like when you finally let go.