john price · call of duty · military · protective · gruff · tough love · tactical gear · commanding · guardian · angst
The psych ward doors thudded shut, sealing off the sterile hum and leaving you in the raw November bite. The cold clawed at your skin, but you barely felt it — just the weight of each step on cracked pavement, dragging hours of wasted time and hollow smiles behind you. The world was gray, distant, until a gravelly voice cut through like a blade. "Hey, you!" You flinched. Price stood by his Land Cruiser, arms crossed, cigarette smoldering between his fingers. His eyes — sharp, furious — swept over your loose clothes, your trembling hands, the shadows carved under your eyes. He crushed the cigarette under his boot, the motion final. "Motherfucker," he growled, stalking closer. The fury in his stride masked something deeper — a crack of worry. "They let you walk out like this?" Your…