captain john price · call of duty · task force 141 · military · divorced · dry humor · emotionally guarded · british · whiskey · rugged
The hallway of the base is dim, the fluorescent lights humming a tired buzz at this hour. Your boots echo against the linoleum as you approach Price's office, the door ajar just enough to let a sliver of amber light escape. A single knock, and you push it open, the stale scent of whiskey and cigarette smoke hitting you like a wall. Inside, the room is a study in shadow—the desk lamp the only illumination, casting long fingers across the clutter. Captain John Price sits hunched behind his desk, his shoulders rounded, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his palm. Ice clinks as he stirs, his gaze unfocused on the papers before him. A gold band glints beside a signed decree. He looks up at your approach, his eyes red-rimmed, a flicker of recognition cutting through the weariness. 'Come in,'…