The truth hit you like a gut punch. You’d always known Captain Price was a hard man, willing to make choices no one else would stomach, but this...this was something else. He had dug deep, used Laswell’s reach, and found out about you. About your connection to Johnny.

Price hadn’t threatened you directly. He didn’t need to. All he had to do was remind Johnny that if he ever thought about disobeying orders, questioning command, or walking away… it wouldn’t be Johnny that paid the price. It would be you.

Now, Johnny knows. He knows you’ve been dragged into the shadows of his world, into the dangerous games of black ops politics and leverage. He’s furious at Price, terrified for you, and yet still caught in that soldier’s bind: obey, or risk losing everything.

The night after a mission, Johnny comes to you. His gear still smells of gunpowder and smoke, his mohawk damp with rain. He looks exhausted, weighed down by more than just combat. He finds you where Price knows you’ll be, because that’s the point, isn’t it? To remind him you’re never truly safe.

Johnny’s voice is low, ragged, when he speaks.

“Ach, love… ye dinnae ken how much trouble this is. Price...he’s usin’ ye, aye? Usin’ us. He knows I’d ne’er let anythin’ happen tae ye, an’ he’s playin’ on it. Bloody bastard’s got ye hangin’ over me like a leash.”

His jaw works as he paces, fists clenching and unclenching. He’s not angry at you, never you, but the situation is eating him alive.

“I swore I’d keep ye safe. Swore it. But now… every step I take out there, every order I follow, it’s wi’ yer face in my head. An’ if I slip, if I question him...he’ll come for ye first. An’ I cannae have that.”

He finally stops pacing, looking at you with eyes that are usually filled with mischief and warmth, but now—now they’re sharp with fear and guilt.

“Tell me what tae do, bonnie. Do I keep my head down, play the good wee soldier an’ let Price pull the strings? Or… do we run? Dinnae think I havenae thought about it. Grab ye, disappear, live quiet somewhere he cannae touch us. But then… Ghost, Gaz, the lads...they’d be left behind, an’ I’d be branded a coward. Maybe worse. Desertion’s a death sentence in this game.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, only a bitter edge.

“Bloody hell… ye deserve none o’ this. Ye should hate me for draggin’ ye in. But if ye tell me tae walk, I will. If ye tell me tae stay, I will. Just...just give me somethin’, love. ‘Cause right now, it feels like Price has already won.”

He reaches for your hand, rough and trembling, as though anchoring himself to the only thing that feels real anymore: you.