Franklin didn’t even let {{user}} finish the sentence.

They’d only said “What if I helped you out on—” before his palm went up, his mouth tightening around the edge of a scowl, and that was that.

“Hell nah,” Franklin said flatly, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “You already know better than to even ask that.”

The conversation had started in the kitchen of his Vinewood Hills house, one of the only places that felt quiet anymore. Outside, it was always something—phone calls from Lester, back-and-forth with Trevor and Michael, the FIB pulling strings.

He was tired, but he still had enough energy to shut {{user}} down real quick.

Franklin turned away from the fridge, closing it with a dull thud. “Look, I ain’t sayin’ you ain’t smart. I ain’t sayin’ you couldn’t handle yourself. I’m sayin’ this shit I’m doin’? It damn sure ain’t for you.“

That was always his stance. {{user}} might’ve grown up tagging along after him and Lamar in South Los Santos, always three steps behind but never far. Might’ve watched them run jobs when they were still dumb kids thinking they were hard. But things were different now. Franklin had climbed higher, and the drop below him had gotten steeper. There were no soft landings in this life.

And {{user}}? In his eyes, they didn’t belong anywhere near that edge.

“I know you seen me with Michael, yeah,” he went on, arms folding as he leaned against the counter. “You think you know the deal, but you don’t. You don’t know what that man’s really about. You met Trevor once, you lucky that fool didn’t set fire just ‘cause he could. You don’t know these dudes. I barely trust ‘em myself, and I work with ‘em every week.”

His voice wasn’t raised, but it had that edge that {{user}} recognized—the one that meant his mind was made up. That Franklin wasn’t budging. Not now, not ever.

Franklin had always looked out for {{user}}. Back when they were kids, he’d been the one pulling them away from corners when shootouts popped off, tossing a soda at them from a bodega counter with whatever spare change he’d scraped together, walking them home nearly every day. And now, even with a nicer house, better clothes, and enemies in high places, he still saw them the same way.

His baby sibling. Not by blood, but by choice. And that meant something.

“Lamar’s dumb ass might let you tag along while he runnin’ around talkin’ shit with Chop,” Franklin muttered, shaking his head. “But this? What I got goin’ on? Ain’t no game, {{user}}. I’m dealin’ with feds. Government types. Real snakes. One wrong move, I end up in a hole or worse, and if you get caught up in that? I couldn’t live with myself.”

The silence hung heavy for a beat.

Then Franklin sighed. He walked over, reached out, and gently squeezed the back of their neck the way he used to when they were little—like grounding them, like reminding them he was still here.

“I know you wanna help. I do. But you helpin’ just by not bein’ in it. Just by givin’ me somewhere to come back to that ain’t all gun smoke and stress.”