The stairs creaked under Frank Jr.'s boots as he came down slow, the papers tucked into his hoodie like they were more than paper—like they were loaded, dangerous, alive. The hum of the Alibi hit him harder than the stale smoke in Stan's room. The bar was awake—glasses clinking, low chatter bubbling under the weight of cheap beer, the neon sign flickering on the wall like it was trying to keep up with the moment.
Kev stood frozen halfway down, wide-eyed, like he still hadn't processed what the hell just happened upstairs.
The floor gave way to the usual scene. Tommy sat slouched in his chair, his red Cubs cap pulled low, eyes half-glazed but locked sharp whenever someone mentioned sports or politics. Kermit leaned back beside him, scratchy laugh already ready, lips stained like he'd been drinking since morning. And at the bar, nursing something that wasn't his but had somehow become his, was Frank Gallagher himself.
Frank Sr. swiveled lazily on his stool, bleary eyes cutting toward the stairs when he heard the steps. The air shifted. Even through the buzz and the background noise, people noticed the way Frank Jr. carried himself—too straight, too sharp, too sure.
He reached the last step, boots hitting the sticky floor. The papers came out, folded once, crisp. He lifted them in the air without flourish, his voice cutting clean through the smoke and chatter.
"The Alibi's mine."
The whole bar stilled. It wasn't a shout, but it landed like one.
Kev rubbed his forehead. "Jesus Christ, you couldn't ease into it?"
Tommy blinked, leaning forward. "What the hell did he just say?"
Kermit laughed, a dry wheeze. "Kid thinks he owns the joint. That's rich."
Frank Sr. turned fully now, both elbows on the bar, eyes narrowing, the fog in them starting to burn off. "Wait. Wait a goddamn second. Run that back."
Frank Jr. walked forward, sliding the papers across the bar, right under the neon light. "Stan signed it. I'm the owner now. Every inch of this place—mine."
Kev muttered, "Oh, he signed it all right…" then let his voice trail, because no one in this room was ready for the details.
Tommy grabbed the papers like he actually had the right to check them, flipping through with squinted eyes. "Holy shit… he's not lying."
Kermit leaned over his shoulder. "Hah! The kid hustled Stan? Legendary. That old bastard never lets go of anything."
Frank Sr. was dead quiet. For one rare second, the man looked stunned—like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Then it hit. That grin. That ugly, missing-teeth grin that meant trouble. He slapped the bar with both hands, voice booming across the room.
"That's my boy!"
The bar erupted. Not applause—just noise. Tommy's cackle, Kermit's wheeze, Kev muttering curses under his breath. But Frank Sr. wasn't done. He stood, swaying only slightly, and pointed at his son like he was seeing the future.
"Look at this! Gallagher blood, baby. You see this? Huh? Legendary! You just took the Alibi out from under Stan's bitter, racist ass. That's history right there!"
He stumbled closer, threw an arm around Frank Jr.'s shoulders, pulling him in like he was hugging a prize. His breath stank of whiskey and cigarettes, but his eyes were lit, clear for once. "You did what I would've done if the universe hadn't screwed me sideways. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."
Kev groaned, shaking his head. "Yeah, until it blows up in all our faces."
Tommy lifted his glass. "Nah, man, this is poetry. Kid's a Gallagher through and through."
Kermit nodded, that scratchy laugh spilling out again. "Straight savage move. Stan won't even show his face in here after this."
Frank Sr. lifted his own glass, shouting over the din. "Drinks! Drinks on the house! Everything, everyone, tonight—we're celebrating! The Alibi belongs to a Gallagher!"
The bar roared. Chairs scraped, glasses slammed. Tommy and Kermit raised their beers high, the regulars whooped like they'd just been freed from prison. The sound filled every corner, shook the walls, made the neon flicker harder.
Frank Jr. didn't roar with them. He sighed, low, heavy, like he already knew this was exactly what would happen. He shook his head, muttering under his breath, "Jesus Christ, Frank…"
But Frank Sr. was in his element now, climbing on top of a chair like a half-broken king reclaiming a throne. "Listen up, you beautiful bastards! My son—my flesh and blood—just pulled off the most legendary Gallagher play in history. You'll tell your kids about this day. You'll whisper it in alleys. Frank Jr. Gallagher owns the Alibi!"
The bar shook with noise again. Tommy pounded the table like a drum. Kermit whistled through crooked teeth. Kev just poured himself a shot and knocked it back like maybe that would make reality easier to swallow.
Frank Jr. sat at the bar, shoulders slouched, eyes half-lidded as he watched the chaos unravel. In his chest, though, there was a fire. The kind that didn't roar out loud but burned steady, quiet, dangerous.
Kev leaned close, voice low so only he could hear. "You really think you can run this place? It ain't just pouring beer. It's cops. It's drunks. It's bills stacked higher than you can breathe."
Frank Jr. didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on the crowd, his voice steady. "I'll run it. And I'll make it bigger than Stan ever dreamed."
Kev shook his head again, muttering, "You Gallaghers are insane."
Frank Sr. hopped down from the chair, stumbled only once, and slapped his son on the back hard enough to jolt him forward. "Damn right he's insane. That's how you survive in this world. Insane. Legendary."