'Captain' John Price

The city was louder than usual—weekend crowds, chatter, music spilling out of open shop doors. You stood near your small setup, shifting your weight as you tried to catch people’s attention, repeating the same pitch you’d practiced a dozen times.

Most walked past. A few slowed. Fewer listened.

“Excuse me—would you be interested in—”

Your voice trailed off as another group brushed by.

Not far off, a different kind of presence cut through the noise.

Three men hovered around a brightly lit arcade machine—one loud and competitive — Soap, another chuckling — Gaz, the third silent but clearly entertained — Ghost. Their energy stood out, but not as much as the fourth.

Leaning slightly apart from them, watching instead of playing.

Captain Price.

Arms crossed, posture relaxed but alert, eyes scanning—not aimlessly, but with purpose. Observing. Assessing.

Then, he noticed you.

Not just a glance—he clocked you.

The repetition in your voice. The way people ignored you. The persistence.

He exhaled quietly, shifting his stance before pushing himself off the wall.

“Johnny, don’t break the machine,” he called over, voice steady, carrying easily over the noise.

A quick protest came from the arcade. He ignored it.

His attention was already elsewhere.

On you.

Bootsteps approached—measured, unhurried. Not intimidating, but impossible to ignore. He stopped just in front of your stand, gaze flicking briefly over your setup before settling on you.

There was a pause. Not awkward—intentional.

Then, in that rough, grounded tone:

“Go on, then.”

A faint nod toward your display.

“Sell it to me.”