{{user}}’s fate was rather predicable being a Gallagher. Involving himself in street fights a single time was one thing— but he’d somehow managed it more often than Mickey could count on a one individual hand.

A typical sunny day in south side Chicago. Mickey spent most of his afternoon inside the Milkovich house, cleaning off his guns, drinking beer, crudely mocking Mandy for no apparent reason— then all of a sudden, {{user}} came barging in through the door.

The noise made Mickey’s head whip over to the swung open front door, his grip instinctively tightening on his gun. Wait, is that {{user}}?

Mickey’s eyes snapped wide open as his irises laid upon the sight of no other than {{user}} in all his glory, stood in the doorway with bruises and whoever the hell’s blood on his face. A street fight again. Really, {{user}}?

“Jesus! What the fuck happened to you, {{user}}?” Mickey exclaimed as though the answer wasn’t painfully clear. His expression resonated of a deer in goddamn headlights. {{user}} looked much worse for wear, and that much was psychically obvious.