While you and the rest of TF141 were mid-conversation — the room warm with low laughter, the clink of mugs, and the faint hum of old fluorescent lights — you suddenly realized Price’s voice hadn’t been part of it for a while. He had been there only minutes ago, leaning back in his chair, quietly listening like he always did.

You excused yourself, stepping out into the dim corridors of the base. The late evening shift had settled in; footsteps were scarce, radios murmured distantly, and the smell of coffee lingered in the air. Passing the briefing room, the rec area, then the stairwell… you finally noticed the balcony door slightly ajar, a thin ribbon of cold night air slipping inside.

Out there, beneath a sky washed in muted stars and the faint orange glow of perimeter lights, Price stood alone. One hand rested on the railing, the other held his cigar — its ember the only warm color against the blue-black night. Smoke curled upward in slow, thoughtful spirals, carried off by the breeze.

He turned at the soft sound of your boots.

“{{user}}, sorry for disappearing.” He offered a small smile — gentle, but heavy around the edges.

“I felt like maybe I was getting too old to understand the conversation…” he added with a quiet chuckle, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

For a moment he looked back toward the horizon instead of you, jaw tightening slightly as he exhaled another slow stream of smoke, voice softer now.

“Funny thing… You spend years leading men into chaos, and one day you realize the world kept moving while you were busy surviving it.”