[ the sudden appearance of a girl in his fight club garage is surprising on its own, but when he notes her fresh jumpsuit and the lost look in her eye he realizes she's one of the new ones. he looks up from his task, perched on the edge of his bed tearing muslin for hand wraps. his curtain is mostly drawn so that the boxing ring can only be peeped from certain angles. all that's in this postage stamp section where he actually does his living is this tiny cot he calls a bed, a small bookshelf that's slowly starting to fill up, a dead bouquet of peonies at the top, and a drafting table behind him where a chess set sits with felted pieces and a bottle of wine.
frank himself is wearing a bright yellow-orange jumpsuit with a thick hoodie overtop and hopelessly scuffed combat boots. under his eyes are deepset but steadily healing bruises. after a moment of assessment, he sets the cotton aside and pulls out his device. ] no one's gonna let you be homeless. did you find a room?
house 6 u kno u kno
frank himself is wearing a bright yellow-orange jumpsuit with a thick hoodie overtop and hopelessly scuffed combat boots. under his eyes are deepset but steadily healing bruises. after a moment of assessment, he sets the cotton aside and pulls out his device. ] no one's gonna let you be homeless. did you find a room?