The South Side was restless that night. Sirens had come and gone, echoing through cracked streets, and somewhere down the block, a couple screamed at each other like they were auditioning for a soap opera. MJ leaned against the Gallagher's porch railing, hoodie pulled tight, cigarette glowing between his fingers. He wasn't smoking out of stress—at least, that's what he told himself. But the truth was, his mind wouldn't sit still.
That SUV. Tito's offer. Fiona's bills.
All of it swirled together until the cigarette was half gone and his stomach felt hollow.
The door creaked behind him, and Lip stepped out, a beer dangling from his hand. "Thought you bailed."
"Where to?" MJ muttered, flicking ash into the night. "Ain't like I got beachfront property waiting for me."
Lip sat on the steps, swigging his beer. "You've been quiet. Which usually means you're up to something."
MJ smirked faintly. "You sound like Fiona."
"She's not wrong," Lip shot back. "Word's already going around. People are saying you're back in the game. Cars, maybe more. That's not the kinda heat we need around here."
MJ studied him. Lip had that sharpness in his eyes, like a kid who saw too much too early and learned not to flinch. "And what, you want me to go straight? Stack pennies until my hair turns gray?"
"I want you not to get locked up again."
MJ let the silence stretch, then finally stubbed his cigarette out on the railing. "Good luck with that, kid. South Side doesn't do retirement plans."
The next morning was chaos wrapped in syrup and burnt toast. Fiona banged around the kitchen, making eggs that looked like they'd been through a war. Debbie helped Liam into a jacket three sizes too big, Carl tried to sneak a BB gun into his backpack, and Ian came down looking like he hadn't slept.
"MJ, do something with him," Fiona ordered, pointing at Carl.
MJ raised an eyebrow. "What you want me to do, frisk him?"
"Keep him from killing someone," Fiona snapped, shoving plates onto the table.
MJ stood, blocking Carl at the door. "What's in the bag?"
"School supplies," Carl said innocently, clutching it tighter.
"Uh-huh." MJ reached in and pulled out the BB gun. "Nice pencil case."
Carl scowled. "Snitch."
"Call it what you want. You're not bringing this to school."
Carl stomped off, muttering curses, while Fiona gave MJ a quick nod of thanks. It wasn't much, but it meant something.
Later that day, MJ met Tito at the garage. The smell of oil and metal clung to the place, old cars stacked like grave markers in the back lot. Tito leaned against a workbench, arms crossed, grin wide.
"You in?" Tito asked without small talk.
MJ didn't answer right away. He walked the perimeter of the shop, scanning the shadows, the exits. Jail had taught him never to walk blind into anything.
"What's the job?" MJ finally asked.
Tito tossed him a small duffel bag. MJ caught it, unzipped it. Inside were bricks of something wrapped tight in plastic. Not weed. Not coke. Something heavier.
"Deliver to the west side," Tito said. "No stops, no questions."
MJ zipped the bag shut slowly. "And if I get pulled over?"
Tito grinned. "Then you better drive fast."
By the time MJ hit the street, the weight of the duffel bag in the passenger seat felt like a second passenger, breathing heavy. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, every red light stretching longer than usual, every cop car that passed in the opposite lane making his heart thud harder.
But he made the drop. No cops, no problems. Just a stranger waiting at the curb, cash handed off clean. Easy money. Too easy.
On the drive back, MJ's gut twisted. Tito's jobs weren't small-time anymore. And easy money always carried a price.
When he pulled up to the Gallagher house later, Fiona was outside on the porch, arms crossed. She didn't look angry. She looked tired.
"You been running around all day," she said. "What's going on?"
"Errands," MJ said smoothly.
"Errands that come with stacks of cash?" Her voice sharpened.
MJ met her eyes, unflinching. "I told you before. I'm not bringing trouble here."
Fiona searched his face like she was trying to see through him. But in the end, she just sighed. "Just… don't make promises you can't keep."
That night at the Alibi, Kev was behind the bar, Veronica dancing along to the jukebox. Lip and Ian sat with MJ at their usual corner table. The place buzzed, loud with laughter and bad decisions.
"You looked wired," Ian said, studying MJ.
"Just tired," MJ lied.
Lip raised an eyebrow. "Tired from what? Or should I not ask?"
MJ smirked faintly. "Smart man."
Before Lip could push, the door swung open and the black SUV rolled to a stop outside. Heads turned. The bar went quiet for a second.
Two men stepped in—sharp suits, sharp eyes. Not South Side regulars. Not even close.
They scanned the room, then zeroed in on MJ.
"Michael James," one said, voice smooth but cold. "We need a word."
The entire bar shifted, the air thick. Veronica froze mid-laugh. Kev gripped a beer glass too tight. Fiona wasn't here, but if she had been, MJ knew she'd already be dragging him out the back door.
MJ leaned back in his chair, casual on the outside, adrenaline burning inside. "Funny. Don't remember inviting you."
The taller man smiled thin. "We don't wait for invitations."
Lip glanced between them, jaw tight. Ian's hand curled into a fist under the table.
The men didn't sit. They just stood there, the weight of their presence pressing down on the entire room.
MJ finally set his beer down, slow. "Alright then. Let's talk."
And with that, the South Side's game board shifted again