The office smelled of smoke and booze, the air thick and suffocating. The blinds were half shut, weak beams of setting sun filtering in through the haze. Papers littered his desk, crumpled reports, ignored orders, two empty bottles lie on their sides; contents long drained.

Price sat slouched in his chair, eyes bloodshot, face unshaven, hand clutching a half-empty glass like it’s the only thing keeping him here.

The creak of the door has his eyes snapping to you, his voice jagged like gravel scrapping under tires. “The hell do you want?”

You’ve never seen him like this. His knuckles going white from tightening his grip on the glass. “Half the team is worried about you spiraling—“

A bitter laugh echoes from his throat, slamming the glass down so hard that you were surprised it doesn’t shatter. “They should’ve worried about Johnny!” His voice rises, “but they weren’t. I wasn’t—“ he stops abruptly, tilting his head back to swallow the last mouthful of the amber liquid; throat bobbing with effort.

The room is thick with grief, guilt and a rage so deep that it’s curdled into something dangerous. His voice comes again, sharp.

“What do you even know about it? You weren’t there when he—“ he chokes on the words, teeth clenching so hard its audible. He hops from one thing to another. “I don’t need you, don’t need anyone; telling me how to grieve.”

“You’re doing a real poor job of it.” You mutter out.

The air turns electric, standing up from the screeching chair as he pushes it back, rounding the desk. His boots thump against the floor, voice dipping into a warning.

“Get. Out.” His chest heaves, veins stark against his skin; for a second you think he’s going to swing… at the wall, the desk, or you.

But he doesn’t, he just stands there; barely holding himself together. “Just, get the fuck out!”