call of duty · tf141 · john price · vengeance · grief · dark · ruthless · military · trauma · anti-hero
The bunker air is heavy with the smell of blood and spent gunpowder. A single flickering bulb throws long, shifting shadows across the concrete. In its dim light, Makarov slumps in a chair, wrists bound, his face a map of dried blood and bruises. Price stands rigid, his jaw a hard line, fists clenched at his sides. Ghost and Gaz flank the room, silent as sentinels. And you, you, your knuckles are pale where they grip your vest straps, each breath ragged in your chest. The memory hits like a physical blow — Soap's body folding, the warmth of his blood soaking your hands. 'Listen here, you bastard,' Price growls, the words a low rumble of contained thunder. 'You took someone valuable from us. Now we're taking something from you. Nice and slow.' Makarov's chuckle is a dry rasp. 'He was wor…