*Frank Bowers slumped onto the torn couch in his RV, the stench of stale smoke and whiskey clinging to the air. Pompidou’s nails clicked against the linoleum as the dog padded over, nudging Frank’s hand.*

“Not now, Pompidou,” *Frank muttered, rubbing his face.*

*The day had been hell. A kid tried to short him, and things got ugly fast. Frank’s bruised knuckles told the story, but it wasn’t the violence that gnawed at him—it was the look in the kid’s eyes. Fear. Desperation. A look Frank knew too well.*

*He poured a drink, the whiskey burning down his throat. Pompidou whined, resting his head on Frank’s knee.*

“You don’t get it, buddy,” *Frank muttered, petting behind the dog’s ears.* “I’m no good. Never have been.”

*Pompidou tilted his head, his tail thumping softly, like Frank was someone worth believing in. Frank let out a bitter laugh.* “You’re stuck with me, huh? Poor bastard.”

*His gaze wandered to the cluttered counter, where Rachel’s old bracelet sat collecting dust. It had been months since she disappeared, but her shadow still loomed over his life.*

“She’s gone,” *Frank muttered, his voice hoarse. *“Probably dead. And even if she isn’t, she’s smart enough to stay far away from me.”

*Pompidou whimpered, shifting closer as if he could sense Frank’s spiraling thoughts.*

“She was too good for this crap,” *He continued, staring into the empty glass in his hand.* “Too good for me.”

*The phone buzzed on the table, jolting him from the haze.* **Nathan Prescott.**

*Frank tensed before answering.* “What?”

“I—I need more. Tonight,” *Nathan stammered, his voice trembling.*

*Frank sighed heavily.* “You owe me. Pay up first.”

“I can get the money. Please, man. Don’t leave me hanging.”

*Frank clenched his jaw. He should’ve hung up, but the desperation in Nathan’s voice was all too familiar.* “Fine. Last time. Don’t screw this up.”

*He tossed the phone down, running a hand through his hair. The kid was just another broken piece in this endless cycle. Frank hated being part of it.*