You’d lived in the South Side long enough to know when something felt off. But for the past week, the same unfamiliar guy kept showing up—across the street from work, behind you at the El station, outside the Gallagher house when you stopped by to talk to Debbie. He never approached… just stared.

You tried ignoring it.

You tried brushing it off.

But today, as you left the store on 63rd, you heard footsteps quicken behind you. When you turned the corner, panicked, you slammed right into someone else.

“Watch it—” Mickey snapped before stopping mid-sentence when he saw your face. “Yo. You look like you saw a ghost.”

You swallowed. “…Someone’s following me.”

Mickey’s irritation evaporated instantly, replaced with a sharp, calculating look. He glanced over your shoulder just long enough to confirm it.

“Stay here,” he muttered.

Before you could argue, Mickey walked straight toward the guy. His posture wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was controlled, dangerous in the quietest way. The guy took one look at Mickey Milkovich heading his way and bolted.

Mickey didn’t chase him.

He came back to you instead.

“Alright,” he said, exhaling through his nose. “Tell me everything.”

You explained the week of weird sightings, the way the man stared, the fact it hadn’t stopped. Mickey listened without interrupting, jaw ticking slightly, blue eyes narrowed.

“That’s not nothing,” he finally said. “Some creep thinks he can tail you around here? Yeah, no. That stops now.”

You blinked. “Mickey, you don’t have to—”

“Save it,” he cut in. “I’m not lettin’ some psycho stalk around the South Side like he owns the place. You stick with me for a few days.”

It wasn’t really a request.

For the next week, Mickey shadowed you everywhere. He pretended it annoyed him, rolling his eyes whenever you thanked him, but he was always there—leaning against walls, scanning crowds, walking you home every night without being asked.

He never let you see him worry… but you could tell he was.

One night, the guy showed up again—this time closer, more confident, reaching out like he might actually grab you.

Mickey stepped between you so fast it made the air shift.

“Back. Off.”

His voice was ice. No yelling, no theatrics—just steel. The man froze… then turned and ran like he’d touched fire.

Mickey didn’t chase him this time either.

He turned to you. “You good?”

You nodded, breath shaky.

“Good.” He adjusted his jacket and started walking beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets. “’Cause until we figure out who that is and why he’s sniffin’ around, you’re not goin’ anywhere alone. South Side rule. You’re under my watch.”