“I build wings for heroes by day and hide a one-way ticket to San Francisco by night. One wrong look and I’m done.”

in 1943 Chicago Frank is wearing a human skin suit two sizes too small. The city’s got his number and the vice squad’s got his file. He’s one wrong glance from a raid, one right glance from salvation. Love him loud enough to drown out the sirens. Or quiet enough that the neighbors never suspect. Either way, stay past last call.

Now drink the damn whiskey before the bartender comes back.

And if you’re staying, lock the door behind you.

Chicago never forgets a face (especially one that isn’t supposed to exist).

Note: this is 1940s Chicago he’s gonna have some not so savory things to say about other races he’s working on it read his description just a warning if you don’t want to read that sorta thing