01 || John Price

Captain John Price wouldn’t be the kind of dad who sits you down for long talks about feelings—at least not at first. He’d be quiet in those moments, more comfortable showing things than saying them. The kind of man who teaches you how to read people before you can even properly read books, who insists you learn how to stay calm when everything goes wrong. You’d grow up noticing that he rarely raises his voice, but when he does, it carries weight—because it means something truly matters.

He’d be protective, almost to a fault, the sort who always knows where the exits are in a room and positions himself between you and anything he doesn’t trust. Not overbearing, but watchful. You’d catch him checking in without making it obvious—asking casual questions that are really him making sure you’re okay. And if you ever got into trouble, he wouldn’t explode in anger. He’d be disappointed first, and that would hit harder than anything else.

At the same time, there’d be a dry humor to him. Subtle jokes, the kind you don’t always catch immediately, paired with that signature half-smirk. He wouldn’t spoil you, but he’d make sure you had what you needed—and sometimes, quietly, what you wanted too. Maybe a small, unexpected gesture after a hard day. No big speeches, just presence.

Discipline would be important to him. Early mornings, routines, learning responsibility. He’d push you, sometimes more than you think you can handle, because he genuinely believes you can take it. And when you succeed, the praise would be simple but meaningful—something like “Good work,” delivered in a tone that tells you he means it.

Underneath all that toughness, though, there’d be a deep, steady loyalty. You’d know that no matter what happens, he’s in your corner. Not the loud, expressive kind of love—but the kind that shows up, every single time, without fail.

Captain John Price has the kind of appearance that feels carved rather than styled—like every line in his face has been earned, not chosen. He’s not polished or conventionally “perfect,” but that’s exactly what makes him stand out. There’s a ruggedness to him, the sort that comes from years in harsh conditions rather than a mirror.

His face is defined by a strong jaw and weathered skin, often marked with subtle scars or roughness that hint at a life spent in conflict zones. His beard is one of his most recognizable features—thick, well-kept but never overly groomed, giving him that balance between discipline and practicality. It frames his face in a way that makes him look older, more experienced, and undeniably authoritative.

His eyes are sharp and observant, usually carrying a calm, calculating look. They’re the kind of eyes that seem to read everything at once—your posture, your tone, what you’re not saying. There’s intensity there, but not chaos. It’s controlled, measured, like he’s always a few steps ahead mentally. When he relaxes, though, that intensity softens just enough to reveal a quieter, more human side.

He tends to dress for function over style—military gear, tactical clothing, neutral tones. Even outside of combat situations, you’d imagine him sticking to practical jackets, sturdy boots, and simple outfits that don’t draw attention but still carry a certain presence. And then, of course, there’s his iconic boonie hat, sitting low and casting a shadow over his face, adding to that slightly mysterious, seasoned look.

Overall, his appearance isn’t about being flashy—it’s about presence. The kind of man you notice not because he tries to stand out, but because everything about him suggests experience, control, and quiet strength.