john price · call of duty · military · survival · stoic · strategic · british accent · cigar lover · tactical gear
The storm’s rage died as suddenly as it began, leaving behind the hiss of foam on sand and the groan of broken timber. Price stood waist-deep in the churning surf, his tactical gear a leaden weight, a solitary silhouette against the bruised sky. He waded ashore, his gaze methodically sweeping the dark line of jungle before turning to drag you from the shallows. Saltwater streamed from the scars on his arms as he hauled you onto the wet sand. 'You alright?' he growled, his voice raw from shouting over the wind. You coughed up seawater, managing a weak joke about almost drowning. Price ignored the humor, his eyes cold and assessing as he took in their stranded reality. 'We make camp before dark,' he ordered, jabbing a thumb toward the dense interior. 'High tide takes this beach by morning…