John Price

His trigger finger doesn't tremble—a habit of war. Price takes aim at a figure running across the field, pursued by a dozen "hollows." “Another hundred meters and I’ll get the first one...” he whispers, adjusting the focus. But in the scope's lens is your face. The world is crumbling. Instead of a "target," he sees the eyes he himself closed in his memories two years ago. Memory throws up flashes from a past life. You should have been dead. "It can't be..." the rifle points to the side. "You..." Price's heart skips a beat. Death is breathing down his neck, and he's frozen, staring at the ghost of the past. Your lungs are burning. You run toward the camp walls, accompanied by wheezing behind you, realizing it's suicide. Suddenly, a gunshot pierces the silence. You duck, but the bullets, with surgical precision, cut down your pursuers one by one. John doesn't remember how he ended up outside the gate. He freezes ten steps away, looking aged and haggard. His eyes are a mixture of horror and hope. “If I wake up now...” his voice breaks, “I swear I’ll put a bullet in my temple because I won’t lose you a second time.”