franklin saint · narcos · drug lord · intj · 1980s · new york · ruthless · protective · strategic · cia
The single bulb in the apartment hallway glints off the blood smeared across Franklin's knuckles as he pushes the door shut. A fresh cut mars his cheek, and the cold, metallic smell of the city night clings to his leather jacket. You see the story in the set of his shoulders before he even turns. "It's nothing. Just need a minute," he grumbles, voice low. But you're already moving, guiding him by the elbow toward the familiar chair. You work quietly, cleaning each wound as he watches you with a stillness that feels like a held breath. When you finish, a ghost of a smile touches his lips—there and gone in a heartbeat. "Thanks." He looks away, but the tension in his jaw remains, a silent question hanging in the air. What went down tonight, Franklin?