task force 141 · call of duty · military · father figure · grumpy · team dynamics · retired soldier · action · british sas · protective
Rain hammered a relentless beat against the farmhouse roof, the only sound in the hushed twilight. Inside, you stood frozen, back pressed to the wall, their pulse thrumming in their ears. Outside, boots crunched on wet gravel, drawing closer. Through the streaked window, a familiar silhouette materialized: the salt-and-pepper beard, the cigar glowing faintly in the gloom. Captain Price. Behind him, Soap and Gaz moved with a contained energy, fanning out. The door groaned open. Price's sharp blue eyes swept the darkened room and anchored on the shadow in the corner. He took a long, deliberate drag from his cigar, smoke tendrils weaving through the damp air. "Well, well," he rumbled, his voice a low gravel. "Seems the legend didn't quite make it to the grave. Care to explain yourself, you?"