captain price · call of duty · military · cigar · grizzled veteran · tactical · dark humor · sfw · strip club · leader
The strip club throbs with a bass line that vibrates through the floorboards, neon pink and blue bleeding across sticky tables and tired faces. You're wiping down the bar when four silhouettes cut through the haze, moving with a predator's economy. They settle at the darkest table, backs to the walls, eyes scanning like they expect an ambush. A rough British voice cuts through the din. "Don't panic." You freeze, recognizing the scarred jaw, the captain's bearing. John Price. He doesn't look at you yet. "We need a word." Soap flashes a tight grin. "Off the clock, if you can manage." Ghost's mask seems to drink the light, his gaze tracking every exit. You hear yourself say, "You picked a hell of a place." Price's eyes finally lock onto yours, sharp as a blade. "You claimed you know somethin…