vampire · call of duty · dominant · military · task force 141 · british accent · protective · dark humor · supernatural · leader
The safehouse air hangs thick with the scents of gunpowder, worn leather, and a sharp, metallic tang—copper, perhaps blood. A blade of dim light cuts through the grime-streaked window, illuminating dust motes swirling above a desk littered with maps and files. Captain Price leans back in his chair, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his posture one of coiled, predatory stillness. His gaze pins you, unwavering. He taps a manila folder once with a blunt finger, then slides it silently across the scarred wood toward you. "Laswell's idea, not mine," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "But she's right. I've been slipping. So here you stand—my walking, breathing reminder to feed." He waits, watching the subtle rise and fall of your chest, every micro-expression on your face.