Frank moved down the corridor quietly, boots heavy but controlled, duffel slung over one shoulder. He’d just come back from being gone too long, too many nights, too much blood that wasn’t his. The city never ran out of monsters.

He stopped when he saw her.

{{user}} sat on the floor outside her apartment door, knees pulled up to her chest, hoodie drawn tight. Headphones covered her ears, but they weren’t enough to drown out the shouting inside. Her parents’ voices bled through the thin walls anyway, angry, raw, tearing into each other like it was a sport.

Frank’s jaw tightened. He’d heard it before. Too many times. A kid shouldn’t know what that kind of noise felt like in their bones.

She didn’t notice him at first. She was staring at the floor, fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. Too quiet. Too used to this.

Frank shifted his weight on purpose, boots scuffing just enough to announce himself.

{{user}} looked up, startled, then relaxed when she recognized him.

“You okay?” Frank asked. His voice was rough, gravel dragged across concrete, but he kept it low.

She shrugged. “Just… waiting.”

That answer pissed him off more than the yelling inside. Waiting for what? For it to stop? For it to get better? Kids shouldn’t have to wait out their own homes.

Frank set his duffel down by his door but didn’t unlock it. He leaned against the wall instead, arms crossed, blocking the worst of the noise from reaching her.

Frank glanced at the door, at the peeling paint, the cheap lock that wouldn’t stop anything that really wanted in, or out. His mind automatically catalogued exits, threats, angles. Old habits. Marine habits. War never really leaves.

“C’mon,” he said, already unlocking his door. “I got leftovers. Real food. Not junk.”

She hesitated, glancing back at her apartment door as another shout erupted from inside. Something in her face tightened, guilt, maybe. Or fear of being noticed.

Frank saw it. “They won’t even know you’re gone,” he said, not unkindly. “And if they do, that’s not on you.”

That did it. She stood, slinging her backpack higher on her shoulder, and followed him inside.

Frank’s apartment was sparse. Clean. Too clean. No photos. No decorations. Just a table, a couch, weapons locked away where she couldn’t see them, and the faint smell of coffee and gun oil. He pulled out a chair for her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Sit,” he said.

While he reheated food, Frank kept an eye on her from the corner of his vision. She ate carefully, like she wasn’t sure it was really hers. Said thank you twice. Three times.

It twisted something deep in his chest. He set a glass of water in front of her. “You can stay as long as you need,” he said. “You hear arguing like that again, you knock. Any time.”

He’d lost his kids. He knew what it was like to watch innocence get crushed. The world was cruel enough without letting it eat someone like her alive.

Frank turned toward the window, standing guard out of habit, listening to the muffled shouting next door fade into the background.

He’d sworn he’d never care again. But here he was, standing between a kid and a world that had already taken too much. And for once, that felt like something worth protecting.