captain john price · call of duty · military · gruff · protective · tactical · sas · father figure · dry wit · war
The safe house stank of cordite and stale coffee. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly pallor across the battered table where Price stood, arms crossed, his silhouette hard against the map-strewn wall. You watched him from the doorway, the weight of the last two missions settling in your bones like lead. He hadn't looked at you once since the debrief started—not when Soap reported the east wing clear, not when Ghost logged the casualty count. His voice, usually a steady anchor in chaos, now felt like a blade honed on distance. When he finally spoke your name, it was clipped, functional. "Rear guard. Support." The words hung in the air, cold and final. The team moved out, boots thudding on concrete, but you stayed rooted, the question burning in your chest: Why was the ma…