Francis had been walking for hours, boots scuffing over cracked sidewalks, the South Side stretching wide and ugly around him. He needed space away from the houses, away from the noise, away from the kids.
The night air was sharp, cigarette smoke clinging to every corner, the faint hum of traffic cutting through the blocks. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and kept moving, head low.
That's when it happened.
He turned the corner by an old liquor store, the neon buzzing weak, and nearly walked right into them.
The Milkovichs.
Not just one or two. A whole pack. At the center was Terry—built like a wall, shoulders squared, face meaner than sin. His eyes locked on Francis like he'd been waiting for this.
And behind him? Mickey. Bruised nose, lip split from the last time Francis put him down, his grin sharp and ugly. He jabbed a finger forward, his voice cutting the air.
"That's him. That's the Gallagher. The one who sprayed our house."
Francis stopped cold, jaw tight, scanning them. Too many to take at once. The block was empty except for them.
Terry stepped closer, pulling a pistol from his waistband. The streetlight caught the metal, flashing. He raised it, his voice low and cold.
"You picked the wrong fucking family, kid."
Francis didn't move. His muscles tensed, ready for anything, but his mind already knew—this was bad.
And then a shout cut through the air.
"Francis Gallagher!"
The voice boomed across the street, sharp, commanding.
Francis froze, eyes flicking sideways. His PO was standing on the curb, arms crossed, a cigarette burning low in his hand.
Terry paused, pistol still raised, then slowly lowered it. His glare burned holes through Francis, his voice dripping venom.
"Next time, Gallagher. Next time you ain't got babysitters watching your ass."
He shoved the gun back into his belt, nodded once to Mickey, and the Milkovich pack turned, walking off into the dark. Mickey spat on the sidewalk as he passed, grinning at Francis like he'd already planned round two.
Francis didn't say a word. He just watched them leave, chest rising slow and steady.
The PO flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot as he crossed the street. He stopped in front of Francis, smirking.
"So. Messing with the Milkovichs, huh?" His tone was casual, almost amused. "Want me to throw you in prison just to escape 'em?"
Francis's brow furrowed, his stare cutting sideways. "You serious?"
The PO laughed, shaking his head. "Nah. Just messing with you. Relax." He waved a hand, brushing it off. "You'll learn I'm a fun guy when I'm not doing paperwork. First day, yeah—I was stern. Had to be. Plus…" He scratched at his jaw. "Something happened that day. Bad mood. Not your fault."
Francis didn't respond right away. He was still wound tight from the almost-shooting, his fists clenched in his jacket pockets.
The PO tilted his head. "C'mon. You need a drink. My treat. Let's go to the Alibi."
Francis looked at him for a long second, then finally gave a small shrug. "Fine."
"Good man," the PO said with a grin, patting his shoulder once before heading toward his car. "Let's ride."
---
The drive was long. South Side blocks stretched past the windows, streetlights flickering over empty lots and rusted cars. The PO kept the wheel steady, one hand drumming on the leather, the other tapping against the gear shift in rhythm with some song humming low from the radio.
Francis leaned back in the seat, eyes fixed out the window, watching the blur of graffiti and dark alleys.
After a while, the PO broke the silence. "You know, I get a lot of guys like you on my list. Hot heads. Fighters. Always two steps from blowing it. But you?" He glanced over briefly, then back at the road. "You're different. Got more weight on your shoulders."
Francis smirked faintly, though his eyes stayed on the window. "That what the file says?"
The PO chuckled. "File says you're trouble. I don't buy files. I buy what I see."
They rolled past a corner store, a couple kids hanging outside, hoodies up, passing a bottle between them. Francis watched them until they disappeared in the rearview.
"You're raising your brothers and sisters, right?" the PO asked casually.
Francis didn't answer right away. Finally, he nodded once.
The PO whistled low. "Hell of a job for someone your age. Lot of guys would've bailed already."
Francis's jaw tightened. "Lot of guys aren't Gallaghers."
The PO smiled at that, like he respected the answer. "Fair enough."
They drove on in silence for a while. The city rolled by, loud in places, empty in others. Francis lit a cigarette, cracked the window, the smoke drifting out into the cold night.
Finally, the neon sign of the Alibi appeared down the block, buzzing weak but steady.
The PO pulled the car to the curb, engine rumbling low as he shut it off. He leaned back in his seat for a second, then turned to Francis. "Alright. Let's get that drink."
Francis nodded, pushing the door open. The South Side night was alive around them—dogs barking down the block, laughter spilling out of a corner house, sirens wailing faint in the distance.
But the Alibi stood there, waiting.
Francis slipped his hands back into his jacket pockets, shoulders loose but his eyes sharp. Whatever came next, he'd be ready.
A/N
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