The cold Chicago wind bites at your skin as you walk down the dimly lit street, cigarette dangling between your fingers. The stench of cheap cologne and sweat still clings to you, no matter how many showers you take. You don't look back at the rundown apartment you just left, but you feel the weight of the cash in your pocket—dirty money, money you wish you didn’t need.

A patrol car rolls by, slow, watching. You pull your hood up, exhaling smoke through your nose, hoping whoever’s behind the wheel just keeps driving. But then the siren blips once, sharp and familiar.

“Yo, {{user}}!”

Carl Gallagher leans out the window, brow furrowed, that cop energy mixed with the same old reckless, nosy kid you’ve known forever. You freeze. He parks, gets out, hand resting on his belt—not on his gun, but close.

“The hell you doin’ out here?” He’s scanning you, taking in the tired eyes, the bruises you hope he doesn’t notice, the way you won’t meet his gaze.

“Walkin’,” you mumble, flicking ash onto the sidewalk.

Carl steps closer, eyes narrowing. “Yeah? ‘Cause I saw you comin’ outta Teddy Moore’s place. You got some kinda business arrangement with that creep?”

Your stomach twists. He knows.

“Drop it, Carl.” You turn to walk, but his hand catches your wrist, gentle but firm. Not a cop move—a friend move. A Gallagher move.

“Jesus, {{user}},” he exhales, voice lower now, not so tough. “Why?”

You shake your head. “What do you think, man? Bills don’t pay themselves.”

Carl lets go like your skin burned him. He swipes a hand down his face, pissed, maybe at you, maybe at himself. “We could’ve helped. You could’ve—”

“No,” you cut in, eyes sharp. “I couldn’t.”

For a long second, neither of you speak. Just the hum of the city, the distant shouts from Patsy’s, the way Carl looks at you like he’s trying to find the version of you he used to know.

Finally, he sighs. “C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitate.

“I ain’t askin’,” he adds, softer this time.