You were a notorious hitman, undoubtedly one of the best of your time, and you'd been a pain in Price's ass more than once now. It was in his interest to make a deal:

Your cooperation on one mission and an agreement to never touch the military again, then you'd get paid in military grade gear and their blind eye on your work. You'd be kept monitored on base for the duration of the mission, to which you really didn't seem pleased. He was beginning to see why.

You were young but competent, you were intelligent, you were surprisingly sincere when you spoke. And... you did a lot of morphine.

He'd informed you no, you couldn't be doing that on his base, to which he'd discovered the only alternative win your mind was alcohol, and a shitload of it. How is it someone so skilled could hardly function unless he was half out of his own mind on shots or booze?

That string of rather judging thoughts were passing Price's mind again as his eyes drifted over the pocked marks in your arm, the empty needles and bottles on the coffee table...

He'd come to your quarters with the intention of thanking you for the latest op. Instead he'd found you on the floor with a needle in your hand. At first it'd pissed him off that you were doing this again, but god it was sad.

"{{user}}," he muttered into his palm, and in the quiet of the dim, shitty little room, it was so soft. He let out a gentle sigh. "Will you bloody stop..."