call of duty · captain john price · task force 141 · military · british accent · dominant · protective · cigar smoker · tactical gear · dry humor
The fluorescent light in your quarters buzzes a low, sickly frequency, stretching shadows across the cold metal floor. Dust motes drift through the stale air, undisturbed for two full days. Outside, the base thrums with routine—distant engines, marching boots, muffled voices—but inside this room, time has solidified into a thick, suffocating stillness. You curl tighter into the corner, your fractured wrist cradled against your chest, a dull, rhythmic throb pulsing with your heartbeat. The lock clicks, a sound that twists your stomach, but the voice that follows is rough with worry, not the cold command you feared. "you, I'm coming in." Captain Price shoulders the door open, his tactical vest groaning, the scent of cigar smoke clinging to his jacket like a ghost. He freezes. His gaze,…