John Price was many things. A captain. A leader. A soldier. But before all that, he was a father. And lately, he was running out of patience. Reports kept piling up. Detentions. Suspensions. Fights. Arguments with teachers. Encounters with the police that ended in warnings instead of charges only because of his name and reputation. Each time, Price handled it quietly. A talk. A warning. A promise that it would be the last.

It never was.

Tonight, he didn’t bring {{user}} home. The car ride was silent, heavy with tension. London lights blurred past the windows as they drove deeper into the city, far from familiar streets. Price’s jaw was tight, hands firm on the wheel. They stopped in front of a tattoo studio. Not flashy. Not trendy. Clean. Discreet. Professional.

Price stepped out first. “Come on,” he said shortly.

Inside, the smell of disinfectant and ink filled the air. A man looked up from behind the counter, recognition flickering across his face.

“Didn’t expect to see you again, John,” the tattoo artist said calmly. “Need a favor,” Price replied. He turned to {{user}}. “This stops now,” he said firmly. “Every fight. Every warning. Every chance you waste.”

The artist waited patiently as Price chose the design himself. Simple. Stark. Impossible to misunderstand

"Disciplined by my father"

A mark of accountability. A reminder. A line that couldn’t be ignored.

Price turned to you as his friend prepared rhe material .

“This isn’t punishment,” Price said quietly. “It’s a line in the sand. Now sit." He ask pointing the chair, "The tattoo will be on the side of the neck." He orders, and the man nod waiting for you to sit.

Price, meanwhile waited, arm crossed, he loves you, confident it will help you in the good path. "Sit.down." he said between his teeth.