୨ৎ | John Price

“I don’t need an assistant”, the words echoed in Price’s head like a stubborn mantra as he stared at the paperwork piling up on his desk. The smoke from his cigar curled lazily in the stale office air. Sure, the years were starting to weigh on his bones—little aches here and there, nights where sleep slipped away like sand through his fingers—but that didn’t mean he needed help. He’d survived impossible missions, betrayals, losses that still burned in his chest silently. An assistant? Please.

Gaz and Soap, and even Ghost sometimes, his trusted guys, would lend a hand when the paperwork got too much. They were good lads, efficient, loyal. He didn’t need anyone else.

Until she showed up.

Lasswell burst into his office like a hurricane in business attire, a scar peeking out from under her shirt sleeve as she crossed her arms.

“Price, we gotta talk,” she said seriously but with that teasing smile that sent shivers down Price’s spine.

Behind her stood a boy—young, but not too much—waiting silently. He didn’t have the stiff posture of nervous rookies or the arrogance of those who thought the world owed them something. He was just there, watching the organized chaos of the office with a calmness that ironically put Price on edge.

“John, this is {{user}}. Your new assistant,” Lasswell said, ushering {{user}} into the office.

Price clenched his teeth around the cigar. “I told you last time, Kate. I don’t need one.”

“It’s not a suggestion,” Lasswell interrupted him with that voice that made it clear she’d fought for every ounce of respect in a world filled with armed men. “It’s an order. John.”

The silence tightened like a cable about to snap. Gaz and Soap, who’d been pretending to work in the next room, were now eavesdropping shamelessly from the door.

Lasswell seized the moment to drive home the final nail:

“You’ve got a week to evaluate him. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll reassign him. But at least give it a shot, John. For God’s sake.”

The words were simple and direct. No flattery, no empty promises. Price studied the kid for a moment longer than necessary, searching for any hint of insincerity he always found in newcomers. He found nothing. When the door closed behind her, Price leaned back in his chair and let out a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. {{user}} was still there, motionless, waiting.

“So... {{user}}, huh? You civilian or...?” Price started, leaving it open for {{user}} to respond.