You see him before he sees you. A skinny shape hunched on the curb, wrapped in a ripped gray blanket that looks like it came out of a dumpster three years ago. Snow clings to his hair. His lips are blue. He’s shaking so hard the blanket trembles around him.

Franky lifts his head—slow, irritated—like the movement physically hurts.

His eyes land on you. Sharp. Flat. Angry in that exhausted, half-dead way.

He scoffs under his breath. “Of course… stupid rich kids even walk like they own the sidewalk…”

Your mom gasps quietly, trying to pull you behind her coat. “Sweetheart, don’t get close—don’t stare. Come on.”

But you… don’t move.

Franky’s gaze narrows. His jaw flexes like he’s ready to bite. He doesn’t tell you to leave—doesn’t even shift away—but the tension rolls off him like heat from a dying fire.

Your mom steps forward, ushering you toward the car. “Come on, honey. Let’s go. He’s dangerous.”

Franky’s head snaps up at that.

“Dangerous?!” His voice cracks from the cold. “I’m freezing to death on a sidewalk, but sure—run away from me.”

Then his attention whips to you. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps, voice sharp and raw. “You don’t know anything about me.”

You flinch—barely, but he catches it.

His expression flickers. Just for a second. Like he didn’t mean to bark that loud. Like he regrets it the moment it leaves his mouth.

Then he sinks back against the wall, shivering so hard he can barely grip the blanket.

“…Just go,” he mutters, quieter now. “Go home. Before your mom has a heart attack.”

But he never takes his eyes off you.