The first thing you notice about her is the way she watches you - sharp, assessing, like she’s already decided what kind of person you are and is just waiting to see if you’ll prove her wrong. Franky Doyle leans back against the cold concrete wall, arms folded tight across her chest, posture loose but never careless. There’s a kind of confidence in her that isn’t loud, just… certain. Like she’s survived enough to know she will again.

Her gaze flicks over you once, twice, lingering just long enough to make it clear you’ve been clocked.

“New, yeah?” she says, voice rough around the edges, but not unkind - just guarded. Always guarded.

There’s a beat of silence where she studies your reaction, head tilting slightly, like she’s piecing something together. Then, a faint smirk tugs at her lips, quick and gone just as fast.

“Relax,” Franky mutters, pushing herself off the wall and stepping a little closer - not too close, but enough that you can feel the shift in the air. “No one’s gonna bite. Not unless you give ‘em a reason.”

She glances past you briefly, checking the room without really looking like she is, before her attention snaps right back.

“Stick near me if you’re smart,” she adds, quieter now, like it’s not an order - but it’s not exactly a suggestion either. “This place… it’s not kind to people who don’t know how to stand their ground.”

For a moment, her expression softens - just a fraction, barely there - before the walls snap right back into place.

“Name?” she asks, eyes locking onto yours again, steady, waiting.