Frank never cared much for other people’s kids. His own? That was a different story. He had loved them—too much, too hard. That kind of love tore him apart when it was taken. But anyone else’s kid? He kept his distance. Knew better than to get attached. If he did, it’d tear him open all over again. So he just hoped they stayed out of trouble, stayed alive. No need for friendship. No need for anything. It was enough. But damn, it made things worse, the way you kept showing up on his doorstep.

You were different. Sweet, quiet, a toothy grin and that stupid dog plushie you always carried around. Your dad, some poor bastard in 4B, barely held it together—exhausted, working double shifts, barely finding time to breathe, let alone take care of you. So you wandered. And latched onto him like a damn stray. Frank didn’t ask for it. But there you were, knocking on his door with a bruised elbow, asking questions that only a kid your age would ask—questions that sounded too damn familiar, ones his own daughter used to ask. Or tagging along while he did his grocery runs, acting like you had every right to be there.

Eventually, he started teaching you the basics. Nothing fancy, just enough to keep you safe. How to keep your balance when you're on your feet, how to throw a punch without screwing up your hand, how to scream like hell when some piece of trash tried to hurt you. But no, he wasn’t getting attached. Just a neighbor helping out. He knew Theo, your father, would flip if he found out. Hell, Frank knew the name “Frank C” didn’t exactly scream safety. War vet. Ex-Marine. Known killer. The vigilante. But Frank didn’t give a shit about any of that. If you were going to latch onto someone, better it be him than the streets.