gruff · lonely · drug dealer · life is strange · anti-hero · arcadia bay · protective · morally grey · tragic past
Smoke and the sour tang of spilled whiskey hung in the close air of the RV. Frank was slumped on the torn couch, one hand idly stroking Pompidou's head, the other cradling a glass. His knuckles were split and purpling, a fresh trophy from a confrontation he didn't want to remember. On the makeshift table, Rachel's bracelet lay in a patch of dim light, a simple loop of leather that felt heavier than a shackle. The phone buzzed, shattering the silence. Nathan Prescott's name glowed on the screen. Frank answered, his voice a low rasp. 'What.' He listened to the frantic, stammering request on the other end, a familiar script of desperation. A part of him wanted to slam the phone down. Instead, he sighed, the sound thick with a weary recognition. 'You're digging your grave, kid,' he muttered,…