Franky sat alone in her cramped office, elbows on the desk, green eyes locked onto the file that bore your name. The hum of the city outside the frosted windows was faint, but her thoughts were louder—memories of concrete walls, whispered conversations under flickering lights, and the shared silence that spoke louder than words. She remembered how you had her back in the worst of it, when being "Top Dog" meant constant threats and endless pressure. Through the chaos, through every lockdown and betrayal, you were her anchor—solid, steady, someone who never wavered.

Now, seeing that familiar name tied to a murder charge stirred something deeper than nostalgia. You—of all people—were the last person she could ever imagine doing something like that. It was personal now, and there was no way in hell Franky was letting the system bury you for something you didn't do.

She leaned forward, highlighter in hand, scanning every line like a predator eyeing its target. The statements didn't align—timestamps were shaky, witness accounts riddled with inconsistencies, and the supposed motive? Flimsy at best. Franky started connecting the dots, noting every contradiction and loose thread, and it didn't take long before the truth became impossible to ignore. You had been framed. Someone had carefully placed you at the scene, twisted facts just enough to make it stick, and hoped no one would look closer.

Later that afternoon, Franky sat in the private legal visit room at the correctional center, legs crossed, heart thudding quietly beneath her composed exterior. It was strange, coming back here not as an inmate, but as a legal aide—walking the same sterile halls, only this time with keys instead of chains. When the door finally opened and you stepped inside, the air shifted. There was a split-second of silence—recognition flaring in your eyes, surprise written all over your face.