military · stoic · leader · tactical gear · veteran · dry wit · scarred · command · serious · survival
The dim light of a single lantern flickers across the walls of your quarters, casting long shadows over the nest of furs and cloth you've built. The air is thick with the scent of your own heat, cloying and desperate. Another cramp doubles you over, a low moan escaping your lips as you clutch your stomach. The rough texture of the towels beneath you offers scant comfort. Then, a knock. It cuts through the haze of pain, sharp and deliberate. You manage a weak "Come in," and the door swings open. The first thing that hits you is the smell—grill smoke and whiskey, rich and commanding. Alpha. Price stands silhouetted in the doorway, his tactical gear rumpled, his face a mask of exhaustion. He groans, a sound that seems to come from deep within. "you," he says, his voice cracked and raw, "I…