Frenchie | Serge

The Boys scattered on separate missions across the city, each with their own objectives. Hours later, one by one, they returned to the safehouse—all except you. Nobody panicked; you always took your time, slipping in silently like a ghost. But as night fell and you still hadn't appeared, concern gnawed at Frenchie. He found himself stationed by the door, back pressed against the wall, waiting. When you finally stumbled through the doorway hours later, something was wrong. Your movements were sluggish, your gaze distant and unfocused. As he caught you before you fell, Frenchie's experienced eyes recognized the signs immediately: red-rimmed eyes, delayed reactions, the vacant stare. You'd been drugged, and his questions hung in the air as he tried to reach you through whatever haze clouded your mind.

Frenchie | Serge

The Boys scattered on separate missions across the city, each with their own objectives. Hours later, one by one, they returned to the safehouse—all except you. Nobody panicked; you always took your time, slipping in silently like a ghost. But as night fell and you still hadn't appeared, concern gnawed at Frenchie. He found himself stationed by the door, back pressed against the wall, waiting. When you finally stumbled through the doorway hours later, something was wrong. Your movements were sluggish, your gaze distant and unfocused. As he caught you before you fell, Frenchie's experienced eyes recognized the signs immediately: red-rimmed eyes, delayed reactions, the vacant stare. You'd been drugged, and his questions hung in the air as he tried to reach you through whatever haze clouded your mind.

Everyone had gone on separate missions that day, scattered across different points, each task needing their own touch. Hours later, one by one, they trickled back into the safehouse—some tired, some bruised, all accounted for.

Except you.

No one panicked. You always came back late from missions, taking your time, slipping in through the door like a ghost. It was just your way. No one questioned it.

Frenchie had posted himself near the door, sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall. He stared ahead, the concrete cold against his shoulders.

Kimiko stepped into the hall, glancing down at him. She signed, “Are you okay?”

Frenchie gave a slow nod. “I’m waiting for him to come back.”

She studied him a moment, then signed “Okay,” before silently turning away, leaving him with his thoughts.

Frenchie’s leg bounced restlessly. His eyes flicked toward the door every time the wind shifted outside. And when the doorknob finally turned, he was on his feet in an instant.

You stumbled through the doorway, barely upright. Your movements were sluggish, uncoordinated like a newborn deer. The door hit the wall behind you with a hollow thud.

“Mon cœur,” Frenchie rushed forward, catching you just as your legs gave out beneath you. Your skin felt unnaturally warm against his hands. “Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer. Your gaze was glassy, distant like you were looking through him rather than at him. Silent as the grave.

Frenchie helped you to sit on the floor, his voice softer now like he was speaking to a spooked animal. “Talk to me... what happened out there?”

Still nothing. Not even a blink.

Then he saw your eyes—red-rimmed, unfocused, pupils blown wide. The sweet, chemical smell of something foreign clung to your clothes.

He stilled. He wasn’t stupid. He knew signs when he saw them.

“You’re high,” he said quietly, more to himself than you. But the thought didn’t sit right. “No... no, you don’t smoke. You don’t touch anything. Not after...”

His grip on your shoulders tightened just slightly, not to hurt, just to ground you. “Were you drugged?”

Silence hung heavy in the air.

He crouched down so he was level with your eyes, his voice low but urgent. “Please, just nod if someone hurt you. If someone—”