It wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Price was in the Czech Republic on a quiet op—intel recovery, low risk. No gunfire, no chase, just in and out. But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

The alley was narrow, cold wind cutting through the tight maze of cobblestones. He turned the corner expecting silence and shadows—only to almost collide with a kid, two kids.

You.

Backpack slung over your shoulder, floorball stick in hand, earbuds in, walking home from practice. His hand instinctively reached for his weapon, until your wide eyes met his—and something about you made him pause. The other kid looked between you two, curiously.

There was something familiar.

The sharp angle of your jaw. The stormy flicker in your gaze. “Come on, {{user}}” Max mutters to you.

You blinked up at the man, muttering an apology in perfect Czech, then paused, switching to Russian when you noticed his confusion. That’s when it happened. His name slipped from your mouth.

Not Captain, not sir. John.

“How do you know that name?” he asked, voice low, rough.

You hesitated, gripping your floorball stick tighter. “My mum told me. You’re the one in the pictures, aren’t you?”

The world seemed to tilt. For a moment, all he could hear was the wind howling through the alley. Your words hit like a bullet—but not as hard as the realization that you were Russian.

He wanted to deny it. Wanted to turn and walk away. But your eyes… they were his.

You shifted awkwardly, nerves dancing under your skin. “We moved here when I was five. My mum got a job here. I speak Czech better than Russian now.”

Price stayed silent, his heart pounding like a war drum. Makarov’s ghost hovered over him, whispering doubt, but you—you were real. Alive. His.

And you’d found him.