The South Side is quiet.

Which is how you know something’s wrong.

Mandy Milkovich leans against the hood of a dented car, arms crossed, cigarette unlit between her fingers, eyes sharp and amused.

“I’m bored,” she says. “Which means someone’s about to have a real bad day.”

You grin. “Prank war?”

Her smile is instant. Dangerous. “Prank war.”

The rules are simple:

No permanent damage.

No cops.

And absolutely no backing out.

First target? Kev and the Alibi.

You switch the bar’s chalkboard specials with completely unhinged options—Pickle Beer, Milkshots, Free Drink If You Cry. Mandy laughs so hard she has to crouch behind a dumpster when Kev storms out, yelling.

Next comes Terry’s truck.

You don’t touch it—because survival—but Mandy tapes a ridiculous number of plastic flamingos around it. Everywhere. Mirrors. Tires. Even the hood.

“You’re gonna die,” you whisper.

She shrugs. “Worth it.”

By sunset, the South Side is buzzing. People are suspicious. Accusations are flying. Frank Gallagher is convinced it’s a government experiment.

You and Mandy sit on the steps outside her place, sharing fries, watching the chaos unfold.

“This,” she says, nudging your shoulder, “is way better than therapy.”