The South Side didn't sleep much, but mornings still came too fast. The Gallagher house was loud before the sun even cleared the rooftops—Carl and Debbie bickering, Liam crying, and the sound of Fiona slamming cabinet doors like she was fighting a war against the kitchen itself.
MJ woke on the couch, body twisted under a half-torn blanket, the faint smell of cigarettes and pancake syrup already clinging to the air. His hoodie had become his pillow at some point, his shoes still on, one dangling off the edge of the couch like gravity was working overtime.
"MJ," Fiona's voice cut sharp through the noise, "get up. If you're gonna crash here, you're helping."
He cracked one eye open. Fiona stood with a stack of envelopes in her hand, expression tight. Bills. Always bills.
"Morning to you too," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "What's on the menu? Scrubbing dishes or fixing your credit score?"
Fiona gave him the kind of look that could peel paint. "Trash. Dishes. Take your pick."
"Trash it is," MJ said, standing with a stretch. His joints popped like fireworks. "Can't argue with tradition."
Carl barreled through the living room at that moment, holding a slingshot in one hand and a pair of Fiona's old pantyhose in the other. "MJ! You wanna test out my new weapon?"
"No," Fiona snapped before MJ could answer. "And put my damn clothes back where you found them!"
Carl grinned, unbothered. "Fine, but you're missing out. It's tactical."
Debbie followed right behind, arms crossed, tattling mode engaged. "He tried to shoot a squirrel out the window."
"I was this close!" Carl argued, holding two fingers an inch apart.
MJ smirked, grabbing the bag of overflowing trash near the door. "South Side Navy SEAL right here. Just don't end up on the news, little man."
Outside, the early Chicago air was crisp, filled with the faint hum of traffic and the distant bark of dogs. MJ hauled the trash to the bins, mind already running through the day. Hustles lined themselves up in his head like dominos: Tito had another buyer for hot cars, Kev always needed deliveries run quiet, and Lip had been pushing him to help with tutoring gigs. Too many options. Too many risks.
When he came back inside, Fiona was at the table with Lip, both hunched over a pile of bills. Lip scribbled numbers on a notepad, his brows furrowed like a man twice his age. Fiona's stress was practically a second person in the room.
"Rent's due in four days," she said, voice low but sharp. "And we're short. Again."
Lip didn't look up. "I got a couple tutoring things lined up. Might cover groceries, not rent."
Fiona's eyes flicked to MJ as he dropped onto the couch. "You still sitting on cash from that stunt yesterday?"
MJ leaned back, unreadable. "Depends who's asking."
"Don't play with me." Fiona's tone was flat steel. "You're under my roof, you help. That's how it works."
He didn't argue. He respected Fiona too much to. Reaching into his hoodie pocket, he pulled out a folded wad of bills and set it on the table. "Consider it rent."
Fiona blinked, surprised at the amount. "Where'd this come from?"
MJ smiled thin. "You don't wanna know."
Lip snorted. "Translation: don't ask unless you want cops at the door."
Fiona hesitated, then scooped the money into the pile of bills. She wasn't in the position to be picky. "Fine. But if you're bringing trouble in here—"
"I'm not," MJ said firmly. "Not to this house."
The moment held, tension buzzing in the air, until Carl crashed back in with Debbie chasing him, both screaming about pancake rights. Fiona groaned, and the house fell into its usual chaos again.
By noon, MJ was back on the street. Lip tagged along, claiming he had a "meeting," though MJ knew that meant hustling. They cut down alleys and side streets, the South Side in full swing around them—neighbors blasting music on porches, kids playing tag near broken hydrants, the smell of fried food mixing with exhaust fumes.
"You ever think about going straight?" MJ asked suddenly.
Lip raised an eyebrow. "Like a nine-to-five? Office job? Nah. That's not me. That's not us."
"Could be," MJ said.
Lip scoffed. "Says the guy boosting cars after breakfast."
MJ smirked. "Point taken."
They ended up at a corner near the high school, where a couple of clean-cut kids in polos were waiting nervously. Lip handled the exchange—papers slid out, cash slid back. Easy money. MJ kept watch, hands in his hoodie pocket, scanning for cops or nosy teachers.
Afterward, Lip counted the bills. "Not bad. Enough for beer and smokes."
"Dream big, kid," MJ said dryly.
Before Lip could respond, a black SUV rolled slow down the street, tinted windows, unfamiliar. MJ stiffened. Wrong kind of car for this block. Wrong kind of vibe.
"You know them?" MJ asked.
Lip glanced up. "Nope. But they're watching."
The SUV paused at the corner, then rolled on. MJ tracked it until it turned out of sight, his gut tightening. New players. He didn't like it.
That evening, the Alibi Room buzzed louder than usual. The jukebox was stuck on an old rock track, Kev was juggling three beer orders at once, and Veronica was laughing with a group of women near the bar. MJ sat at a corner table, nursing a drink, scanning the room out of habit.
Tito slid into the seat across from him, heavy frame making the chair groan. "Got another job," he said without preamble.
"I'm listening."
"Delivery. No questions, no delays. Big payout." Tito leaned closer. "But heavy heat."
MJ sipped his beer, eyes narrowed. "Define heavy."
"Let's just say, if you get pulled over, you're not talking your way out of it."
MJ leaned back, weighing it. Easy cash never was easy. But bills were bills, and the Gallaghers could use the help whether Fiona admitted it or not.
"I'll think on it," he said finally.
"Don't think too long," Tito warned. "Clock's ticking."
As Tito left, Veronica passed by, giving MJ a playful shove. "You look like you're plotting a bank heist."
"Maybe I am."
She smirked. "Just don't drag Kev into it. He's dumb enough to go along."
MJ chuckled, but his mind was already elsewhere. That SUV, Tito's job, Fiona's bills—everything stacking, pressing, demanding choices.
The South Side wasn't forgiving. And MJ knew every decision here carried weight.
As the night stretched on and the bar hummed with laughter and broken dreams, MJ sat back, drink in hand, the shadows around him growing longer.
The game was moving, pieces shifting on the board.
And he was right in the middle of it.