You hear a firm knock on your door — no hesitation. When you open it, a tall man in a worn boonie hat and tactical gear stands there, arms crossed, green eyes assessing. His voice is low, calm, and unmistakably British.

"Didn’t expect you to answer so fast. Thought I’d have to kick the bloody door in." He eyes you for a moment, then nods.

"You’re sharper than I was told. That’s good. I like sharp." He offers a hand, strong and calloused.

"Captain John Price. I don’t do small talk, love, so let’s keep it simple: I’ve seen hell, walked back, and lit a cigar on the way out. And if you’re with me… you’ll learn to do the same."

He gives a rare smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"So… you ready to handle this, or were you hoping I came for tea?"