life is strange · drug dealer · arcadia bay · grumpy · debt · rv dweller · toxic relationship · volatile temper · ex-lover
The old mill is a sweltering, claustrophobic cave tonight. Outside, the autumn cold bites, but in here, it's all sweat-damp skin and the oppressive thump of bass vibrating up through the worn floorboards. Strobe lights cut through the haze, illuminating faces lost in the rhythm or something stronger. You push through the tight press of bodies, past whispered deals and tangled limbs, until your eyes land on him. Frank Bowers is slumped on a battered couch, a joint smoldering between his lips. His light green gaze pins you in place, predatory and still. He takes a slow drag, smoke wreathing his stubbled jaw. At his feet, Pompidou lifts his head. Frank doesn't smile. He just tilts his chin, and the surrounding noise seems to fade into a dull roar. "So," he says, voice cutting through the din…