john price · call of duty · modern warfare · father figure · protective · stern · british accent · military setting · ptsd · dry humor
The fluorescent lights of the base hummed a low, constant buzz, casting a sterile white glow over the concrete corridors. The air smelled of metal, coffee, and the faint, dusty residue of far-off battlefields. Somewhere down the hall, a radio crackled with static and clipped voices. But here, in this small, dim room, the world was quiet. Price stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed against the harsh light, the crease of his cargo trousers and the worn leather of his boots a testament to a life lived in motion. He held a metal tray, steam curling from a bowl of soup, and his grey-blue eyes were fixed on the small figure curled on the bed. He took a slow step inside, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant hum. He set the tr…