South Side nights always carried a hum. The kind of restless vibration you felt in your bones long before you noticed the sirens, the shouts, or the occasional pop of gunfire echoing from blocks away. MJ sat on the Gallagher porch, cigarette glowing in the dark, ribs aching with every inhale. He hadn't told Fiona how bad the bruising was—couldn't bear to watch her worry more than she already did—but every time he breathed too deep, the pain reminded him of the suits and their promise.
"Last warning."
Their words replayed in his skull like a broken record.
Inside, the house was quiet. Liam was asleep, Debbie curled on the couch with the TV still humming, Carl passed out in his room. Fiona had long since given up and crashed upstairs. Lip though—Lip never really slept.
The front door creaked, and MJ didn't turn as Lip stepped out. He smelled the stale beer before hearing his voice.
"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"
MJ smirked, keeping his eyes on the empty street. "You've mentioned."
"I'm not joking." Lip leaned against the porch railing, bottle dangling from his hand. "You keep dragging this family into your mess, and sooner or later, someone's gonna pay for it."
MJ flicked ash into the dark. "Maybe I'm trying to keep the mess off you. You ever think of that?"
Lip scoffed. "You? Savior of the Gallaghers? Don't make me laugh."
"Not a savior. Just… making sure you don't starve while you play tutor for a bunch of spoiled kids at that college."
That one hit. Lip's jaw tightened. "At least I'm not getting jumped in alleys like some dumbass. At least what I'm doing doesn't put Fiona in the crosshairs."
Silence stretched. MJ's chest tightened—not just from the bruises. Lip's words had teeth, and every one of them sank in.
Finally, MJ muttered, "Then maybe it's time I end it."
Lip turned, eyes sharp. "End what?"
But MJ didn't answer. He just crushed the cigarette out against the railing and slipped back inside.
The next day, MJ went looking for Tito. The garage was loud with the buzz of saws, sparks flying from a welding torch. Tito stood at the center of it all, barking orders in Spanish, cigarette hanging from his lip.
"You didn't tell me they were coming for me," MJ said flatly.
Tito glanced at him, expression unreadable. "You're still alive. That's something."
"They jumped me," MJ snapped. "Three of them. Told me next time, I'm dead."
Tito smirked, blowing smoke. "Then don't give them a next time."
MJ's fists clenched. "You knew. You fucking knew this was coming, and you kept me in it anyway."
Tito stepped closer, eyes cold. "You want out? Fine. Walk. But don't think for a second those suits will just forget you. You're marked now, kid. Only choice you got is whether you stand with me or wait alone for them to finish the job."
MJ's stomach twisted. Tito wasn't wrong. That was the worst part.
At the Alibi that night, Kev slid him a beer on the house. "You look like hell, man."
"Feel worse," MJ muttered.
Vee leaned over, narrowing her eyes. "Word is, suits are sniffing around again. Asking questions about you, Tito, and anybody who works with him."
MJ's hand froze on the bottle. "And what'd you tell them?"
Kev looked offended. "What do you think? We told 'em to fuck off."
Vee shook her head. "That only buys time. You gotta do something, MJ. Before this whole block gets caught in crossfire."
MJ downed half the beer in one gulp. He already knew. He'd been trying not to think about it, but now it was staring him in the face. The only way out was through.
Back at the Gallagher house, Fiona cornered him in the kitchen.
"I know you're hiding something," she said, arms crossed, exhaustion lining her face. "And I'm done pretending I don't see it. You come home bloodied, you vanish for days, you bring danger right to our door."
MJ looked at her, and for the first time, he almost cracked. Almost told her everything. But he couldn't. Not yet.
Instead, he said, "I'm handling it."
Her laugh was bitter. "Handling it? Like you 'handled' it last time, when you ended up in the system? I can't keep cleaning up after you, MJ. I won't."
The words cut deeper than the suits' fists. He wanted to argue, to promise her it'd be different, but promises meant nothing here. Not on the South Side.
So he just nodded, grabbed his jacket, and walked out.
He met Tito again two nights later, this time at a warehouse lit by a single bulb. A handful of Tito's men lingered, armed, smoking, waiting. Tito spread a map across a table, tracing lines with a thick finger.
"They think they can scare us off," Tito said. "They think we'll crawl away. But they don't know the South Side. They don't know you."
MJ stared at the map, at the marks showing corners, bars, alleys. He felt the weight of it pressing on him—the war Tito wanted to start.
"Pick a side, MJ," Tito said, voice low. "With me, or against me. There's no middle ground."
MJ's chest ached, not just from the bruises. From the choice. If he walked, he was dead. If he stayed, the Gallaghers would be dragged into something they couldn't survive.
He thought of Fiona's tired eyes. Lip's warnings. Carl, dreaming of guns and glory. Debbie, still just a kid. Liam, too young to understand any of it.
And he thought of the SUV, of blood in his mouth, of the promise that next time, there wouldn't be mercy.
Slowly, MJ placed his hand on the map.
"Then let's make sure there isn't a next time."
The room went quiet. Tito grinned, wolf-like. His men straightened, their respect palpable. MJ's stomach twisted, but his face stayed stone.
He'd chosen.
But deep down, he knew what it really meant: there was no going back.
Not for him. Not for any of them.