"You have something I want?"
Frenchie stared at the man in front of him who smelled of alcohol and swallowed.
"Of course, although that bastard Homelander has cleaned up a lot of dens, I still have a lot of inventory."
Frank grinned, showing his yellowed teeth, and rubbed his two fingers together, "But, do you have this?"
Frenchie subconsciously reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a roll of banknotes tied with a rubber band.
There were one hundred bills and ten and twenty yuan in change, crumpled into a thick pile.
Frenchie looked at the money in his hand and frowned slightly.
He was a little puzzled.
I am just a rotten drug addict controlled by gangs, how can I carry so much clean cash with me?
And the money was neatly folded, as if... it was saved little by little for a special purpose.
Before he could figure it out, Frank's cloudy eyes lit up instantly.
The old scoundrel rolled his eyes, already planning in his mind how to kill this fat sheep until no bones were left.
"Follow me, buddy."
Frank hugged Frenchie's shoulders, as enthusiastic as a long-lost brother, "Come to my house, I have good goods there."
Frenchie's brain was like a mess due to drug addiction. He was too lazy to delve into the origin of the money. He put the money back in his pocket and followed Frank forward.
After passing through several dilapidated alleys covered with graffiti, the two pushed open a shaky wooden door.
The house is not big.
The sofa was piled with unwashed clothes, empty beer cans and expired bills were scattered on the coffee table, and the air was filled with the smell of smoke and mold.
Standing in front of the kitchen stove is a young girl, the eldest daughter of Frank.
Fiona Gallagher is wearing a gray T-shirt that has been washed white, and is using a spatula to deal with the sticky eggs in the pan.
When she heard the door knock, she turned her head and glanced at Frank coldly, then her eyes fell on Frenchie behind him.
After just one glance at Frenchie's distracted eyes and twitching corners of his mouth, Fiona Gallagher rolled his eyes.
Another rotten drug addict.
She didn't bother to speak at all, turned around and continued to fight with the fried egg, as if the two of them were nothing.
The movement in the room attracted others.
A teenage boy with a bandage on his head was sitting on the stairs, burning a plastic soldier toy with a lighter. The pungent smell of plastic soon drifted over.
That is the third son of Carl, Frank.
Debbie Gallagher, who was wearing braces, came over holding a piggy bank.
She glared at Frank warily, then hugged the piggy bank tightly in her arms, fearing that the old bastard would suddenly reach out and grab the money.
There was an older boy trapped in the broken sofa.
Lip Gallagher had a cigarette in his mouth and a thick textbook in his hand.
He didn't even raise his head, he just shook his legs irritably and pushed the baby Liam Gallagher crawling next to him to prevent him from falling off the sofa.
The whole house is in chaos, but it maintains a strange balance.
Frank is obviously used to this kind of scene.
He walked over in a swaggering manner, picked up half a piece of leftover toast from the dining table and stuffed it into his mouth, shouting vaguely:
"Fiona Gallagher, there are guests at home, bring out two bottles of beer!"
"There is only tap water in the kitchen. You have to drink it yourself, or else get out and die in the street."
Fiona Gallagher cursed without looking back.
Frank shrugged, turned to Frenchie, gave a flattering smile, rubbed his hands and said:
"Don't mind, the children have reached the rebellious stage, let's go to Basement to talk about business."
Frenchie stood at the entrance and did not move.
His eyes slowly swept across the home.
Frenchie admits that he is a bastard, but deep down in his heart he always yearns for the beauty of his family.
The indifferent eldest daughter, the irritable second son, the defensive sister, and the baby who was casually thrown on the sofa.
What caused a family that was supposed to be happy and happy to become like this?
Frenchie Got it.
Because a father with no bottom line turned into a hopeless mess.
Frenchie looked at the flattering Frank, looking at this man who didn't even give up his dignity for drug money, and his head suddenly felt like he was hit hard.
He closed his eyes suddenly and pressed his temples on both sides with both hands.
It hurts.
The blood vessels in his temples were pulsing, as if something was trying to tear its skull apart and get out.
In their distracted vision, the faces of the children in front of them suddenly began to distort.
Three familiar faces flashed through the back of his mind.
Three children carrying old schoolbags stood at the corner of the dark corridor, looking at him in horror.
the youngest girl shouted timidly.
Dad.
Frenchie's body trembled violently, he was breathing heavily, veins popped up on the back of his hands, and his nails were almost embedded in his scalp.
"Are you sick?"
Frank still smiled mischievously. He hoped that this man would die at his home so that he could take the money directly.
"Get lost."
Frenchie felt like his head was about to explode, and he almost crawled out of the house.
Ward.
Becca leaned on the pillow and looked at the leaves outside the window in a daze.
She has been lying here for almost a week, and the wounds on her body have healed.
She had long wanted to be discharged from the hospital and go back to work at Vought.
But Butcher always had a stern face and forced her back into bed.
The stubborn man told her that work was not as important as life, and she must take good care of herself before she could get out of bed.
I was really uncomfortable with my free time, so Becca asked a colleague to help deliver the laptop.
Turn on the computer and connect to the Internet.
She habitually opened social forums that she usually visited, just to kill the boring time.
The moment the webpage loaded, the dazzling red headlines all over the screen came directly into her sight, occupying almost all the page.
"Desperate Man's Blood and Tears Accusation! Vought Plaza Self-Immolation Incident"
"The self-directed and self-acted Butcher, Homelander have fallen off the altar"
Becca's eyelids jumped and he clicked on the most popular video.
The picture is a bit jittery and the pixels are not too high.
A dazzling fireball burst into flames in the square in front of the Vought building.
In the flames, a tall man wearing a black trench coat held up a banner with blood written on it, roaring in pain in the fire.
Becca The hand holding the mouse suddenly froze.
Although the fire and thick smoke blurred the man's face, the washed-white windbreaker, the messy beard, and the tall and straight outline that looked familiar... were too similar.
A chill ran down Becca's spine and hit the back of his head.
Billy.
Tears burst out of the bank in an instant, falling down onto the keyboard with big drops on his pale cheeks.
Her mind went blank.
At that moment, Becca looked at the burned figure on the screen, and even had an idea.
She wanted to pull out the IV tube on the back of her hand and jump out of the window to be with him.