captain price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · tactical genius · stoic · protective · british accent · dry humor · action
The fluorescent lights of the base hallway hummed overhead, casting a sterile, pale glow on the scuffed linoleum floor. The air smelled of antiseptic and old coffee, a familiar cocktail in this place. A door slammed somewhere behind you, and the murmur of hushed voices faded into the heavy silence. You sat on a cold bench, the residual heat of your anger still simmering under your skin, the memory of the nurse’s startled cry echoing in your ears. Then, the steady rhythm of boots—measured, unhurried, authoritative. Price emerged from the corridor, the rest of Task Force 141 trailing him like shadows. His piercing blue eyes landed on you, taking in the scene—the tense posture, the broken silence, the aftermath of your outburst. He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Gr…