The kitchen clock ticked in the quiet after Frank's rant. Francis drained the last of his coffee, set the cup down, and stretched his shoulders. He walked toward the front door, the floor creaking under his boots.
The morning light cut across the porch when he pulled the door open—only to come face to face with three figures.
The Milkovich brothers.
Mickey stood dead center, short, wiry, his shoulders stiff, eyes sharp and mean. His lip curled as soon as he saw Francis. Behind him were two of his brothers, bigger, bulkier, both with that same Milkovich edge like they were born looking for trouble.
They looked like they'd been about to knock, fists raised, but now they just stood there, sizing Francis up.
Francis tilted his head slightly, calm, unreadable. "And you are?"
Mickey spat to the side, glaring up at him. "Mickey Milkovich. I'm lookin' for Ian Gallagher. Where is he?"
Francis didn't move from the doorway. His voice stayed low, steady. "What do you want with Ian?"
Mickey's grin was sharp, humorless. "Your fairy brother messed with my sister. Thinks he can play around in our business like it's a game. I'm here to fix that."
Francis studied him for a moment, then shook his head. "Ian's not here. And whatever you think happened, it's got nothing to do with him. So stop looking."
Mickey blinked once, then laughed—short, harsh. "The hell you just say to me?"
The two brothers behind him shifted, restless. The taller one muttered, "He just told you to back off."
Mickey ignored him. He stepped forward, closing the gap until he was almost chest-to-chest with Francis, though Francis still stood taller. Mickey's eyes were sharp, daring. "Listen, I don't care who you are. Nobody tells me what the fuck to do. Especially not some wannabe hardass Gallagher."
Francis's stare didn't waver. "Step back."
Mickey smirked, tilting his head like a wolf about to bite. "Or what? You gonna cry about it? Maybe write me a strongly worded letter? Fuck that." He shoved at Francis's chest, not hard enough to knock him, but enough to make a point.
The porch went silent.
Francis didn't stumble. He didn't move at all. He just looked down at Mickey's hand, then back into his eyes. His fist came up fast, sharp, no warning.
The crack of knuckles against Mickey's jaw echoed down the block.
Mickey's head snapped sideways, and he staggered back, landing hard on his ass against the porch rail. His brothers barked curses, stepping forward, but Mickey held up a hand, spitting blood as he pushed himself up.
His grin was wider now, crooked, wild. "Oh, you're dead."
He lunged, throwing a wild right hook. Francis blocked it with ease, twisting Mickey's arm and shoving him back into the wall. One of the other Milkovich boys swung at Francis from the side, but Francis ducked low, his elbow driving into the guy's ribs. The man wheezed, folding.
The third brother grabbed Francis from behind, arms around his chest, trying to drag him off. Mickey charged again, fist aimed at Francis's face.
Francis dropped his weight, slammed his heel into the brother's foot, and broke free. He pivoted just in time, his left hook catching Mickey square in the nose. Blood sprayed, Mickey yelling as he crashed against the doorframe.
"Fuck!" Mickey screamed, wiping at the blood, eyes blazing. "I'll kill you, Gallagher!"
Francis's breathing was steady, his stance firm. He shook his head. "You should've stayed home."
Mickey lunged again, both fists swinging like he didn't care if he broke his own knuckles. Francis slipped the first punch, blocked the second, and drove his knee up into Mickey's gut. The smaller boy doubled over, gasping, but still snarled through the pain.
The bigger brother came back in, swinging wide. Francis sidestepped, grabbed his jacket, and slammed him against the porch post so hard the wood groaned. The man crumpled, clutching his shoulder.
For a moment, the fight paused. All three Milkovich boys circled him, breathing hard, eyes wild. Francis stood tall in the center, fists loose, chest steady, like he'd been here before.
Mickey spat blood onto the porch floor, his grin jagged. "Not bad. But you're still fucked."
He rushed again, and this time Francis didn't just block—he caught Mickey by the collar, slammed him against the siding, and threw a hard right into his ribs. Mickey shouted, fists flailing, but Francis absorbed the hits, his face calm even as knuckles glanced his jaw.
One of the brothers grabbed a loose board from the porch and swung it at Francis's back. The crack echoed. Francis staggered but didn't fall. He spun, ripping the board from the guy's hands and shoving him down the steps. The man tumbled into the yard, groaning.
Mickey tried to knee him low, but Francis twisted, shoving him down onto the porch boards. He planted a boot on Mickey's chest, pinning him.
The street was quiet except for their heavy breathing. A couple of neighbors had stepped onto their porches, watching the chaos like it was free entertainment.
Mickey coughed, blood on his lips, but his eyes still burned with defiance. "You don't scare me. You're just another Gallagher. And Gallaghers don't win shit."
Francis leaned down, his voice low, steady, almost calm. "Then stop coming here. Stay away from Ian. Stay away from all of us. Or next time, you don't walk away."
Mickey glared up at him, chest heaving. For a long moment, neither moved. Then Mickey laughed again, bitter and sharp. "You've got no idea who you're messing with."
Francis pressed harder with his boot, forcing another cough out of him. "Neither do you."
Finally, he stepped back. Mickey rolled onto his side, gasping, clutching his ribs. His brothers scrambled to help him up, glaring at Francis but not daring to rush him again.
"Let's go," one of them muttered, hauling Mickey to his feet.
Mickey spat one last time onto the porch, his voice hoarse but full of venom. "This ain't finished."
They stumbled down the steps, limping off toward the street. Mickey glanced back once, eyes locking with Francis's, promise written in blood and fury. Then they were gone.
Francis stood there a moment longer, breathing steady, knuckles raw but controlled. He glanced at the smear of blood on the porch boards, then at the neighbors still staring.
"Show's over," he said flatly.
One by one, they retreated back into their houses.
Francis turned, walked back inside, and closed the door. His hand lingered on the knob for a second, his jaw tight. Then he let go, exhaling slow.
Francis closed his eyes, his fists clenching once before he forced them to relax. He walked past the living room, into the kitchen, and ran cold water over his knuckles.
The house was quiet again. But the storm had just started.