The morning sun leaked through the thin blinds of MJ's apartment like it had something against him. His head wasn't pounding—he hadn't gotten that wasted at Fiona's last night—but his body carried the weight of a man who'd lived three lives before breakfast. Cigarette smoke still clung to his hoodie from the party, the faint burn of cheap liquor sat on his tongue, and somewhere outside a car alarm was screaming, though nobody on the South Side bothered to check anymore.
MJ rolled over on his mattress, the springs whining under him. He stared at the cracked ceiling. Jail had taught him to wake up fast, to be aware before he even stood up, but this was different. This was freedom mixed with déjà vu. He was living inside a world he used to just watch, and he knew how some of it was supposed to go. The question wasn't whether he'd play along—it was how much he'd change.
He swung his legs off the bed, rubbed a hand down his face, and muttered, "Alright. Another day in paradise."
The fridge coughed like it had asthma when he opened it. Inside: half a loaf of bread, some old cheese, and a can of off-brand soda. He made do, chewing slowly while leaning against the counter. His phone buzzed with a text from Lip.
Lip: Kev's outta beer. Fiona says you got money?
MJ: When don't I?
Lip: Pull up.
MJ smirked. Same Lip. Always half a plan, always looking for someone to front the bill. But MJ didn't mind. Money wasn't a problem, not when he knew how to make it.
He pulled on fresh clothes—dark jeans, white tee, black hoodie—and stepped outside. The South Side morning greeted him with its usual cocktail: sirens in the distance, laughter from a porch two doors down, and the smell of fried food already in the air. Across the street, a neighbor argued with her man, tossing clothes onto the lawn. MJ shook his head with a grin. Some things never changed.
By the time he got to the Gallagher house, chaos had already clocked in for work. Debbie and Carl were on the front lawn, arguing over a broken toy. Carl had a stick in one hand and was swiping at the air like he was sword fighting. Debbie, hands on her hips, shouted, "You're gonna poke somebody's eye out!"
"Better theirs than mine!" Carl yelled back.
MJ leaned against the fence. "Morning, warriors. Who's winning?"
Both kids looked up. Debbie's face lit. "MJ!" She ran over and hugged him around the waist, almost knocking the soda out of his hand. Carl just grinned his gap-toothed grin.
"You missed breakfast," Debbie said, pulling back. "Fiona made pancakes."
"Yeah?" MJ raised an eyebrow. "She finally learn how not to burn 'em?"
Debbie giggled. "Kinda."
Inside, the house was its usual brand of messy—clothes draped over chairs, dishes in the sink, and music humming faintly from someone's phone upstairs. Fiona was at the counter, flipping through a stack of bills like she was trying to make them turn into money by glare alone.
She looked up when MJ stepped in. "You didn't stay last night."
"Nah," he said, dropping into a chair. "Your couch got too many ass prints already. Didn't wanna add mine."
That got a small laugh out of her, the first one of the morning by the look of it. "Well, next time at least help me clean up before you dip."
"Next time," MJ promised, knowing full well he'd probably break that.
Lip came down the stairs, tugging on a shirt. "Good, you're here. We need a ride."
MJ arched an eyebrow. "We?"
"Yeah," Lip said. "Me and Ian. School's a bust today. We're handling business."
Ian appeared behind him, quieter, hair a little messy. He gave MJ a nod, respectful but still shy around him.
"What business?" MJ asked.
"The usual," Lip said with that half-grin of his. "Little tutoring gig, little hustle. You in?"
MJ smirked. He already knew Lip's definition of "tutoring" wasn't exactly on the syllabus. But before he could answer, Fiona cut in.
"Uh, no. He's not in. The last thing I need is another one of you idiots running scams when I've got enough on my plate."
"Relax," MJ said, standing. "I can handle myself. And I ain't gonna let these two get pinched while I'm around."
Fiona gave him a look that balanced between trust and worry. She knew MJ wasn't stupid. But she also knew he wasn't safe.
"Fine," she said finally, "but don't bring cops back here."
They ended up walking instead of riding—Lip claimed it was better cover. Along the way, Lip filled MJ in on the scam: selling cheat sheets to kids at the fancy high school across town.
MJ chuckled. "So you're telling me, you make cash by helping rich kids be dumber?"
"Exactly," Lip said.
Ian added quietly, "It's actually kinda genius."
They cut through an alley, the ground still wet from a busted hydrant, and MJ spotted what he'd been eyeing since the morning: an old Chevy parked crooked, door practically begging to be opened. He slowed his pace.
"Y'all go ahead," he said. "I'll catch up."
Lip frowned. "What are you—"
But MJ was already at the Chevy, glancing around. With practiced hands, he worked the lock. The door clicked, and he slid in. A minute later, the engine coughed to life.
Lip and Ian stood at the corner, watching.
"Jesus," Lip muttered. "He's back two days and already boosting cars."
MJ pulled up alongside them, window rolled down. "Get in. Don't make me look like an Uber."
Lip laughed, shaking his head, and hopped in the passenger seat. Ian climbed into the back.
"Where'd you learn that?" Ian asked.
"Trade secret," MJ said, steering them onto the main road.
Later that afternoon, MJ flipped the car to a buyer he knew—a big guy named Tito who ran a garage on the edge of the neighborhood. Tito greeted him with a bear hug and a slap on the back.
"MJ! Thought you were dead or locked forever."
"Just long enough to miss your ugly face," MJ said with a grin.
They worked out a price quick, cash in hand. Tito stuffed the bills into MJ's hoodie pocket. "Good to have you back, man. Streets were boring without you."
As MJ left the garage, he counted the money. Enough to handle beer runs for a month, plus slide Fiona something without her asking. He wasn't planning on playing savior, but he knew the Gallaghers needed every bit of help they could get.
By the time evening hit, he was back at the Alibi Room. Kev handed him a beer on the house, grinning.
"Word's already out," Kev said. "MJ's back in town and moving like he never left."
MJ clinked the bottle against Kev's. "Guess some habits don't die."
From the corner, Veronica smirked. "Just don't get yourself thrown back in, big man. South Side's more fun with you out here."
MJ raised his beer in mock salute. "I'll drink to that."
The jukebox played low, the bar buzzing with its usual crowd. And as MJ leaned back, money in his pocket and the night stretching out in front of him, he couldn't help but smile.
The South Side was chaos. But it was his chaos now.