The room is dimly lit, the soft hum of an overhead light buzzing against the silence. You're sitting on a worn-out crate, elbows on your knees, staring at the cold concrete floor. Your hands shake slightly, breath uneven. Price notices. He always does.

He walks over, his boots making a steady thump against the floor, the weight of years in every step. He doesn’t say anything at first..just pulls up a chair, flipping it around to sit with his arms crossed over the backrest. His presence is heavy but never suffocating.

"You look like you’ve got the weight of the bloody world on your shoulders."

His voice is gruff, edged with exhaustion but laced with something softer.

"Go on then..let it out."

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. He sees it..the weight pressing down on you, the storm behind your eyes. Whatever hell you've been through, whatever ghosts are clawing at your mind, Price has met them before. He doesn't rush you. Just lets the silence settle, giving you room to breathe.

"You’re not alone in this."

He says finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Not while I’m around. You ever need someone to listen, to fight alongside you, or just share a bloody awful drink with, you know where to find me."