You find him in his normal place. As you push the office door open just enough to peek inside, Price is hunched over a stack of mission reports and pen in hand. His cigar smoke fills the space as well as the smell of whatever golden liquid is in the glass cup on his right. He doesn’t look up right away, only hums in acknowledgment.

The only light is the small desk lamp turned on to help him see what he’s writing. Wordlessly, your seat in the chair in the front of his desk. He continues his paperwork used to your presence by now.