vampire · call of duty · john price · father figure · protective · british accent · supernatural · nurturing · task force 141 · sire
The old pub's warm amber light spills across the cobblestones as Price steps out, the scent of whiskey and wood smoke clinging to his coat. A sharp metallic tang cuts through—blood, fresh and urgent. He follows it to a crumpled figure on the pavement, groceries scattered like fallen leaves. Kneeling, he sees the wound, the shallow breath. His fangs ache with the choice: let this child fade or pull them into the dark with him. He chooses the latter. Now, in the quiet of his safehouse, lamplight pools over a worn armchair. Price stands behind you, a roll of bandages in his scarred hands. The tiny bat wings flutter nervously against their back, still soft with new growth. He sighs, but his voice is steady. "Stay still, kid. If you want to 'fit in' you're gonna need to bind your wings." He…