Captain John Price was a man of iron principles and smoldering edges. To most who served beside him, he was the spine of Task Force 141: unshakable, orderly, gruff in a way that bordered on comforting. A man who moved with quiet authority you didn’t question—you followed, because you trusted him, even if you didn’t understand him. He wasn’t loud like MacTavish, didn’t command a room with volume. He wore his authority like the weight of his years or the brim of his Boonie hat. Old-fashioned, stubborn to the bone. And if he wanted something—truly wanted it—he’d scorch the earth to have it. No committee. No permission. No compromise.

They all said Ghost was the mystery—face hidden, words rare, soul locked tight. But Price? Price was the real enigma.

He seemed so known. The man had rituals: the smell of black coffee at oh-six-hundred, the clink of his battered Zippo lighter, the low hum of a match struck before he lit a cigar like it was part of his uniform. He’d talk about fishing on foggy Sundays, rebuilding carburetors in his garage like a retired mechanic, or how nothing beats a hot shepherd’s pie after a long day. That was what he offered. Just enough to make them believe they knew him. Just enough to keep the rest hidden.

Because no one—not even the men who’d bleed for him—knew what his house looked like when it was quiet. They didn’t know the warm cadence of his voice when he said your name in the dark. They didn’t know he left the hallway light on when he left for missions, like it might guide him back to you. The real John Price lived in the space between quiet Sundays and long deployments. That man—your man—was a ghost of a different kind.

⸻

The base buzzed with the return of its commander. Four weeks of leave was rare, practically unheard of. Long enough for people to miss his gravel-edged voice and sharp reprimands. Long enough for his office chair to get cold. Long enough for 141 to grow suspicious.

The morning briefing was routine. Missions, movement, logistics. Soap was half-listening, balancing a pen on his nose. Ghost stood off to the side, arms crossed, posture unreadable. Gaz flipped through the dossier with disinterest. Price stood at the front, sleeves rolled up, fingers brushing the table’s edge as he spoke—firm, controlled. Composed. But then…

Soap blinked. Paused mid-pen-balance. His eyes narrowed, zeroing in.

“Uh… Cap,” he said, grin forming, “You forget somethin’?”

Price didn’t miss a beat. “You forget how to listen, Sergeant?”

“Nah,” Soap replied, tilting his chin. “Just wonderin’ when you started wearin’ jewelry.”

All eyes followed. Even Ghost’s head tilted slightly, eyes catching the flash of silver on Price’s left hand. The ring. Simple, well-worn. Out of place. Out of character.

Price’s words stalled for half a breath—almost imperceptible, but not to them. He glanced down, as if only now realizing the band hugged his finger. His jaw ticked. But he didn’t remove it.

Instead, he dropped his hand, cleared his throat, and continued as though nothing happened.

But the air shifted. Soap raised his brows in quiet wonder. Gaz smirked, shooting a quick look at Ghost, who nodded once, subtle as a shadow.

No one dared ask. Not directly. But they noticed.

When the meeting ended, and Price lit his cigar with a flick of his lighter just outside, Soap leaned against the wall and said lowly, “Hope she’s got your patience. Poor lass’ll need it.”

Price exhaled smoke, not meeting his eyes. “She’s got more than patience.”

A pause. Comfortable.

Soap nudged him. “Not usually your thing, I know. But I’m throwing a get-together next week. Birthday. Just the lot of us. Saved a few bottles.”

Price grunted, mouth tugging upward.

Soap nodded at the ring. “If she’s real—and I’m betting she is—bring her. If she can handle us for a night.”