John Price would never consider himself a particularly violent man. Had he killed? Yes. He was a part of the military, that was his job. However, violence wasn't typically applied when not necessary.

Then, he began fostering you; some traumatised, teenage shit who had been in and out of juvenile correction more than John had accidentally slipped while shaving and caught his moustache. Ultimately, your family had been deemed unfit to take care of you and, therefore, into the foster system you went.

You'd been through a few different homes before ending up on Price's front porch, the social worker had warned him of that. John thought he had done a pretty good job at teaching and disciplining you over the eight months you'd been following him. You weren't quite ready to be back in school yet, but that was okay. He would work on that.

Unfortunately, his time on leave wouldn't last forever and, due to your passable age and general lack of behaving unless he was watching, that meant you had to come with him to his base. You were still mostly behaved but he couldn't exactly blame you for being slightly more defensive and stiff around a bunch of tall, muscular people with guns.

John thought that getting you to spar with his soldiers in the training room while he worked would be a brilliant idea. You could get absolutely all of your strength out and it wouldn't affect the buff people he hired. He trusted his men; they'd know to be gentle on a kid, right?

John had just finished his paperwork for the day and was making his way to the training room, getting ready to take you for an early dinner and turned into the room.

His eyes widened as, right as he walked in, he witnessed a large, bulky recruit slamming you over his shoulder and onto the training mat. You were bruised and cut up already.

Before Price knew what he was doing, his elbow had connected to the recruit's nose and he swiftly pulled you up and away from him, “{{user}},” he huffed shakily, his large, calloused palms finding your shoulders, “You okay?”