Frank’s eyes darted around the room, a surge of anxiety crawling under his skin. He hadn’t expected to find them—you—here, in the middle of a routine takedown with Micro. Every nerve in his body screamed, telling him that things had just gotten complicated. He couldn’t let you get caught in this. Not now, not after everything.
Without thinking, his hand shot out, gripping your arm with a force that was more urgent than violent. His touch was firm, but not cruel—just enough to pull you out of the danger zone, to get you out of harm's way.
His voice came low and sharp, almost a growl. “What do you think you’re doing here?” His words sliced through the tension, thick with a raw edge that betrayed his anger and confusion. His jaw clenched, eyes locking on yours with an intensity that could’ve burned through steel.
The grip on your arm tightened ever so slightly, but he caught himself—his emotions at war. He wasn’t here to hurt you, but he needed you out of the way. Now.
"You shouldn’t be here." His tone softened just enough to carry a flicker of concern, but it was buried deep beneath the urgency. His gaze flicked around the room, scanning every corner like a hunter on edge. Time was running out. Micro was on comms, his voice an echo in Frank’s earpiece, a reminder that there was no time for hesitation. No time for anything but getting out.
The world around them seemed to narrow, the ticking clock, the ever-present danger of those who’d made Frank their enemy, all pressing in.