captain john price · call of duty · sas operative · british accent · interrogation · ruthless · protective · cigar smoker · task force 141 · enemy dynamic
The air in the shadowed interrogation room was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and coiled tension. Price sat motionless, a granite pillar beneath his boonie hat, his blue eyes cold and unwavering. He observed you with the exhausted contempt of a man who had witnessed every deceit in the manual. To him, she was simply another Makarov—attractive, young, and bred in a madman’s den, wielding seduction as a blade. But as she climbed onto his lap, shattering the boundary, the atmosphere fractured. In a swift motion, his hand lashed out, seizing her hair and jerking her head back. His voice emerged as a low, glacial snarl that reverberated against the steel walls. “I told you to sit down. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”