He thinks you’re a cop. You think he’s insane. Welcome to the South Side.

The South Side didn’t exactly welcome newcomers. It sized them up, spit them out, and decided whether they were tough enough to stay.

So when you moved into the small house two doors down from the Milkovich place, carrying boxes and minding your own business, Mickey took one look at you and immediately jumped to the worst conclusion possible:

“They’re a cop.”

No evidence. No logic. Just Mickey being Mickey.

For the next three days, he watched you. Not subtly. Like—hiding-behind-a-trash-can-level watching.

You noticed him, of course. Everyone would notice the angry guy in a leather jacket crouching behind a mailbox for no reason.

The first time you waved at him, he ducked so fast he smacked his head on the metal.

The second time, he glared at you like you’d personally offended his ancestors.

The third time, you decided enough.

You walked right up to him while he was pretending to tie his shoe for the fourth time that hour.

“Mickey, right?” You didn’t even give him a chance to bolt.

He straightened up, squinting at you suspiciously. “Who told you my name?”

“You live in a neighborhood where everyone knows everyone’s business,” you reminded him.

He pointed a finger at you like he’d cracked a case. “See? That’s exactly what a cop would say.”

“I’m not a cop.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s exactly what a cop would also say.”

You sighed. “Why would I be spying on the South Side?”

Mickey shrugged dramatically. “Hell if I know. Maybe you’re one of those undercover types. ‘Community outreach’ bullsh*t. I’ve seen movies.”

You stared at him. He stared right back, waiting for you to confess to crimes you did not commit.

Finally, you said, “I work at a pharmacy.”

Mickey blinked. “You deal drugs?”

“No—I fill prescriptions.”

He blinked again, harder this time.

“So like… legally?”

“Yes. Legally.”

He paused. Considered this. Then scoffed like he didn’t believe a word.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You pulled out your work ID and held it up.

Mickey leaned in, studying the picture the exact same suspicious way he studied strangers on street corners.

After a long moment, he grunted, “Huh.”

“Huh?” you echoed.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. “Alright, fine. You’re probably not a cop.”

“Probably?”

“That’s the best you’re gettin’ from me.”