The South Side of Chicago never slept, not really. Sure, most of the windows on the block were dark at night, but the noise didn't stop. You always had something—music leaking out of a cracked window, sirens cutting across the sky, somebody yelling two streets over.
MJ felt all of it as he walked back down the cracked sidewalk of a place he hadn't seen in three years. The neighborhood looked the same, smelled the same, but it didn't feel the same. Not to him.
His hoodie hung loose over his shoulders, cigarette tucked between his fingers. Prison made you walk different. Made you carry yourself like you owned your space even when you didn't. He had leaned out, put on a little muscle, but the South Side air still clung to him like it had been waiting.
He cut past the corner liquor store—same busted neon sign buzzing, same group of kids hanging outside trying to look older than they were. One of them glanced up, squinting, and MJ caught the whisper ripple through the group.
"Yo, that's Marcus, ain't it?"
"Man just got out."
"No way—three years?"
MJ smirked, flicking his cigarette onto the curb. Let 'em talk. The South Side remembered everybody, one way or another.
By the time he turned onto Wallace, he could already hear the Gallagher house from down the block. Music thumped through the old siding like it was trying to break the place apart. Laughter spilled out into the street, bodies weaving in and out of the doorway. Typical.
He paused across the street, took in the sight. Same leaning porch, same Christmas lights from God-knows-when still dangling even though it was nowhere near Christmas. But tonight it glowed like a damn lighthouse, pulling in every South Side kid who needed beer, music, or a couch to fall on.
MJ tugged his hood tighter, crossed over, and stepped up onto the porch.
Inside, it was chaos. A humid mix of sweat, spilled beer, and cigarette smoke clung to the air. The living room was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with kids his age, music pounding from some blown-out speakers Lip had probably stolen.
First thing MJ saw was Debbie, running around like the world's smallest hostess, scooping up empty cups bigger than her. She bumped into his leg, looked up, and blinked.
"…Marcus?"
He grinned. "Still remembering faces, huh, little Debs?"
Her eyes went wide. "You're back! Fiona!" she hollered into the room, nearly dropping her stack of cups.
Before Fiona showed, Kev spotted him from across the couch, beer bottle raised high. "Holy shit! MJ! Look who decided to show his face!"
"South Side's finest, back in the flesh," MJ shot back, grin spreading as Kev stumbled over and hugged him like a long-lost cousin.
"Didn't think they'd let your ass out," Kev laughed. "You break out or what?"
"Good behavior," MJ said, though his smirk made it clear it was bullshit.
Veronica, draped across Kev's arm, gave MJ a once-over and whistled. "Prison did you good. Got that lean, mean vibe going. Careful, girls are gonna line up."
"Good," MJ said, grabbing a beer from the counter without asking. "Save me the work."
Lip popped his head in from the kitchen, smirk already plastered across his face. "Well, well. The ghost of South Side past. You here to ruin the party or just drink my shit?"
"Both," MJ replied easily.
Before Lip could fire back, Fiona pushed through the crowd. She stopped when she saw him—just stopped, like she'd walked into a memory.
"Marcus," she said softly.
"Fee," MJ nodded, taking a pull of the beer. "Still holding it down, I see."
Her arms crossed, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging her lips. "You're supposed to be in Indiana, not my living room."
"Got bored. Thought I'd come see the old gang. Looks like not much has changed."
"Oh, a lot's changed," she said, glancing toward Lip juggling beers in the kitchen, Ian trying to keep Carl from diving off the stairs, Debbie scolding somebody twice her size. Then back at him. "But you… you look the same."
"Same on the outside," MJ shrugged. "Inside? Different story."
They hugged, and it wasn't dramatic—just a long squeeze between two people who'd grown up on the same cracked sidewalks. When they pulled apart, Kev yelled something dumb in the background about getting a room, and Fiona rolled her eyes.
"Don't start," she muttered, pushing past him.
MJ settled onto the porch a little later, letting the cool night air cut through the heat of the party. He lit another cigarette, watching kids stumble down the block, laughter echoing.
That's when he heard it—an engine purring smooth. Not South Side smooth, not the coughing rattle of an old beater. This was expensive smooth. A black convertible rolled up, polished, clean, out of place as hell on Wallace.
Steve.
MJ watched him step out like he owned the block. Crisp clothes, confident smile, like he'd never tasted day-old pizza or had to duct tape his shoes. Fiona came out just as Steve walked up, and MJ leaned against the porch rail, smoke curling from his lip, saying nothing.
Steve handed Fiona her purse with some slick line, and she laughed. Too easy. MJ didn't butt in—wasn't his style—but he clocked everything, eyes narrowing slightly.
When Steve finally went inside with Fiona, MJ muttered under his breath. "Here we go. Story's starting."
Kev joined him on the porch, offering a swig from his bottle. "You see that car? Dude's either rich or stupid for showing up here."
"Maybe both," MJ replied.
The night spun on. Somebody knocked over a table, Lip argued with a drunk about poker, Ian disappeared into the kitchen, and Carl nearly set something on fire. MJ floated through it, dapping up old faces, trading laughs, brushing off questions about prison with vague answers.
But not everyone was friendly. Later, some dude too drunk to see straight bumped into MJ and decided to puff up.
"You think you're hard, huh?" the kid slurred.
MJ didn't even stand fully, just leaned back and looked him dead in the eye. "Nah. I know I am. Question is—you really wanna test that?"
The kid froze, caught between pride and the quiet weight of MJ's voice. Lip, half-drunk himself, leaned over from the couch.
"Yo, don't start nothing unless you wanna finish it. MJ don't play."
The kid muttered something and stumbled off.
"Back on your bullshit already," Lip said, smirking.
"Didn't even throw a punch," MJ replied, lighting another cigarette. "That's called growth."
When Frank finally staggered through the door hours later, half-conscious and reeking of whiskey, the Gallaghers barely blinked. Debbie sighed. Fiona scowled. Carl laughed. MJ just shook his head, watching the old man collapse into the corner chair like a bag of bones.
"Some things never change," MJ muttered, sipping the last of his beer.
By the time the party thinned out, bodies passed out across couches and floors, MJ was already slipping out. The air outside was cool, the street quieter now but never silent. He pulled his hood back up, hands shoved in his pockets, and started the long walk home.
He lit one last cigarette, smoke curling up into the South Side night.
The world felt familiar and strange all at once. He knew this story—he'd watched it once before. But now he was inside it, part of it. And nothing, not even fate, was gonna keep him from putting his stamp on it.
By the time he reached his place, his sneakers were coated in dust, his head buzzing from beer and smoke. He dropped onto his couch without even pulling off his hoodie, cigarette still burning in the ashtray.
Sleep came fast, and the South Side never stopped humming outside.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another chance to stir the pot.