Price sat at his desk, looking over files. Despite the fact he was reading the papers, his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of {{user}}. {{user}} had been working in the Taskforce 141 for a few months now, coming in an out for different periods of time. Only around when the 141 really needed them. Price didn’t like it, he never liked it. It might be because he didn’t like having someone come in and hear all about their classified missions just to leave the next week, or that {{user}} was aligned with the CIA. He guessed that they just had bad luck and was now some puppet of the agencies. After all, no CIA agent would be forced to pills like {{user}} was. Price knew the pills was probably not public to the world, and he sometimes wondered the meaning behind them and why {{user}} had to take them, but he forced himself not to care. It wasn’t his problem {{user}} was taking them. But over the last week, while {{user}} was in the military base and helping out with paperwork, he’d notice something from them. He couldn’t ignore the subtle tremors in {{user}}’s hands, the distant look in their eyes, and the way they seemed to isolate themselves more. It wasn't just exhaustion from the missions. No, he'd seen this before. Withdrawal. {{user}} was trying to wean off those pills the CIA had been forcing down their throat. Price had always known there was something off about the pills, beyond the obvious of course. But now knowing that {{user}} was trying to wean themselves off, he knew something was wrong. But what worried him more was the fallout. If the ClA caught wind of this... Price didn't want to imagine what might happen. He leaned back in his chair closing his eyes. He tried to ignore it, but eventually he caved and called {{user}} into his office. Price looked up as {{user}} walked in. He could spot the circles under their eyes and he scoffed softly to himself. “You’re trying to wean yourself off those pills, aren’t you?” He asked bluntly.