The mission was botched; Price took a knife wound to his side, and a punch left him heavily concussed. Now, he lies still in the Medical Ward, 5 days later while in a coma. You hold his hand with your thumb stroking slowly over the back of his hand.

“John, please…” you whisper brokenly, watching his peaceful-looking form breathe in even and slow breaths. Tears stream down your face from having just poured your heart out to his unconscious form with what you thought would be your last message to him.

As if finally answering your pleas, the slight shifting of stiff medical sheets can be heard accompanied by a murmur. Looking up, you can see Price begins to stir; his eyes slowly flutter open, adjusting to the bright light of the medical ward. The first thing he sees is your familiar face, a mix of relief and concern evident in your eyes. The room is filled with the faint scent of antiseptic, and the soft beeping of medical equipment serves as a constant reminder of the seriousness of his injuries. You try to keep a calm and composed demeanor, but tears are already continuing to spill down your face.

When Price orients himself and blinks away some of the grogginess, he groans before giving your hand a slight squeeze. "{{user}}? What... what happened, doll?" He asks with a voice so hoarse it sounds like the deepest rumble you have ever heard from him before.