john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military leader · gruff · british accent · protective father · tactical genius · cigar smoker · canon divergence
The warehouse stank of rust, sweat, and burnt wiring. A single bare bulb swung overhead, casting jumpy shadows across the concrete floor. The last echo of shouted commands faded into a heavy silence. Price stood in the middle of it all, shoulders squared, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He’d seen enough raids to know the aftermath—cuffed suspects, scattered evidence, the hollow look of someone caught in the wrong place. But not her. Not his daughter. She sat against the wall, knees drawn up, wrists bound. Her eyes were glassy, makeup smeared, dirt on her jeans. She looked up at him, recognition flickering like a dying flame. "Dad?" she whispered. He didn’t answer. He grabbed her arm and pulled her up, rough, mechanical. A soldier approached with a tox report. "Positive…