Price

Today had been a disaster from start to finish. When Laswell called and told you Makarov had escaped prison and was already reuniting with Connie's group, it was a punch to the gut for all of you. But it hit Price the hardest. You saw his expression change from shock to cold, seething rage as the reality of the situation sank in. He'd spent months trying to put this bastard away, and now it had all come crashing down in a matter of hours.

After the briefing, everyone scattered to deal with the news in their own ways—Ghost and Soap to the shooting range, Gaz to some quiet corner to reflect. But Price… You hadn't seen him since the briefing, and that was what worried you most.

You headed toward his office. You knocked softly and waited a moment. There was no answer. You took a breath and pushed the door open.

His desk was littered with scattered papers, and on it lay a map covered in red circles and angry black marks. But Price wasn't sitting at his desk or standing by the window smoking his usual cigar. You were about to leave when you noticed a pile of pillows and blankets tucked into a corner, partially hidden from view.

You blinked, stepped further and saw him.

Price sat curled up in the corner, surrounded by a makeshift nest. His shoulders were hunched, his head hung low. His hat was tossed carelessly to the side, and his eyes were dark and distant.

You knew immediately what it was. The nesting instinct. His dragon hybrid had its own peculiarities, and when he felt stressed or overwhelmed, his instinct to retreat to a cozy, secluded place kicked in with incredible force. It was like an anchor, something to cling to when everything else seemed out of control.

"Hello, Captain," you said quietly, entering the room. Your tone was gentle, nonthreatening. "Mind if I come in?"

"As you wish," he muttered harshly, his voice rougher than usual. He looked away, focusing on the edge of the pillow, which he clutched tightly in his hand, his fingers digging into the fabric.