A call came before sunrise.
Francis was in the kitchen, coffee steaming in his hand, cigarette burning down to the filter when the phone buzzed across the counter. He glanced at the screen. Reynolds.
His smirk flickered faint. Perfect.
He answered. "Yeah?"
On the other end, Reynolds's voice was ragged, words slurring even through the static. "We need to talk. Now. Alibi."
Francis didn't hesitate. "On my way."
---
The Alibi looked half-dead when he walked in. Early light cut through the blinds, dust hanging in the beams. Kev leaned behind the bar, arms crossed, eyes red like he hadn't slept.
"Your PO?" Kev asked as Francis pushed the door shut behind him. "Been here all night. Getting himself wasted." He gestured to the far corner. "Didn't pay a dime either."
Francis sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Jesus."
Reynolds sat slumped in the corner booth, tie crooked, shirt half-untucked, empty bottles crowding the table. His eyes were glassy, his face slack with the heavy weight of self-pity. He looked up when Francis approached, a sloppy grin tugging at his mouth.
"Gallagher," he slurred, lifting a glass like a toast. "My favorite criminal."
Francis slid into the booth across from him, calm as stone. "What's going on, man? You look like hell."
Reynolds leaned forward, spilling half his drink across the table. "Everything's gone. Jess wants a divorce. My kids—my kids are gonna hate me. And me? I'm stuck. Stuck in a job where half the city hates me, stuck in a marriage that's over, stuck cleaning up after assholes like you just to keep busy."
He laughed then, bitter and broken. "You ever wonder if it's all a goddamn joke?"
Francis tilted his head, cigarette perched between his fingers. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Reynolds kept going, words pouring like poison from a cracked pipe.
"They want me gone. My bosses, my wife, my kids. They all want me out of the picture. But I can't stop. I can't walk away. You know why?" His glass slammed against the table, sharp. "Because without me, this city burns. I keep it balanced. I keep people like you alive."
Francis nodded, pretending to listen, sympathy painted across his face like a mask. Inside, his mind clicked cold. Every word Reynolds let slip was another lever, another piece to move into place.
"You did a lot for me," Francis said softly. "You covered my tracks. Helped me with the custody. You looked out for me."
Reynolds leaned back, grinning bitter. "Damn right I did. And now look at me. Drunk in a dive bar, talking to the one guy who owes me everything."
Francis stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, his eyes calm, unreadable. "Yeah. Everything."
---
Ten minutes later, Francis pulled him up from the booth. Reynolds stumbled, muttering curses, leaning heavy against him. Francis guided him out the door, Kev watching with a shake of his head.
Outside, the cab Francis had called idled by the curb. The driver rolled down his window, eyeing the two of them.
Francis slipped a wad of cash through the window. "Take him to this address," he said, sliding a card into the man's hand. "Don't ask questions. Don't stop until you're there."
The driver nodded, counting the bills quick before jerking his chin. "You got it."
Francis shoved Reynolds gently into the backseat. "You'll be fine," he said, voice smooth, steady. "Sleep it off. Things'll look clearer in a few minutes."
Reynolds grinned, drunk and oblivious, as the cab pulled away.
Francis stood on the curb, lighting another cigarette. The flame glowed sharp against his face as the car disappeared into the distance.
---
He pulled out his phone, dialed.
Mickey answered on the second ring, voice rough. "The hell do you want this early?"
Francis's tone was calm, deliberate. "Tell your old man something for me. Tell Terry that a fed's been sniffing around his block. Name's Reynolds. Says he's building a case. Big one. Against him. Against all of you."
There was silence on the line. Then Mickey laughed, sharp and ugly. "You're serious?"
"As cancer," Francis said. He exhaled smoke into the cold air, eyes narrowing. "Drop the name. Sit back. Watch."
Mickey chuckled again, low this time. "You're one cold bastard."
Francis smirked. "Comes in handy."
He hung up before Mickey could say more.
---
The plan moved like dominoes falling.
Reynolds, drunk and half-conscious, was on his way to an address Francis had chosen carefully: a dingy warehouse two blocks from the Milkovich turf. By the time he staggered out of the cab, word would already be in Terry's ear—an FBI man sniffing around, casing the family. Terry wouldn't think. He'd act. That's what men like him did.
Francis didn't need to lift a hand.
Terry would do the work for him.
---
Back at the Alibi, Francis slid into his usual seat, cigarette smoke curling around him. Kev poured a drink without asking, setting it in front of him.
"You really think he'll be okay?" Kev asked, glancing toward the door.
Francis smirked faintly, the smoke hiding the sharp edge in his expression. "He'll be exactly where he needs to be."
Kev frowned, uneasy, but didn't push.
Francis leaned back, sipping slow. In his head, the pieces lined up clean.
By tonight, Reynolds wouldn't be a problem. Terry's paranoia, his violent streak—that was the perfect blade. All Francis had to do was aim it.
No bullets from his gun. No fingerprints on his hands. Just whispers. Just smoke.
He smirked again, eyes narrowing as he looked out the window.
This is how Aizen would play it, he thought.
Quiet. Clean. Controlled.
And by the end of the day, Reynolds's story would be over.
And Francis's empire would be one step closer.
Back To The Warehouse
The warehouse sat crooked at the edge of Milkovich turf, its brick walls sweating with years of damp and graffiti curling up like scars. The cab pulled away, tires crunching gravel, leaving Reynolds swaying at the door.
He looked like a man already halfway gone—tie loose, shirt stained, eyes glassy with drink. He muttered to himself, fumbling with the handle before stumbling inside.
The air was colder there. Empty.
Except it wasn't.
From the shadows, a voice snapped. "Who the fuck are you?"
Reynolds blinked, head jerking up. Terry Milkovich stepped out of the dark, heavy boots echoing against concrete, pistol already raised. His face was sharp, cruel, the kind of anger that never cooled.
"You're on the wrong block, pig," Terry growled. "And you're drunk enough not to know what mistake you just made."
Reynolds squinted, confusion mixing with fear. "Wait… I'm not—"
"You're Reynolds," Terry cut in, spitting the name like poison. "Fed sniffing around my business. My sons. My house. You think I don't hear things?"
Reynolds shook his head, panic creeping through the fog of whiskey. "No… no, I'm not here for—"
The crack of the gun silenced him.
Reynolds dropped against the floor hard, the sound echoing in the empty warehouse. Blood spread quick beneath him, his chest stilling almost instantly. His glassy eyes stared blank at the ceiling, the life gone in an instant.
Terry stood over him, breathing heavy, the smoke from his pistol curling slow into the cold air. For a second, he smirked.
"Snitch," he muttered. "Not on my turf."
He turned, ready to slip back into the shadows, but the screech of tires outside froze him.
Red and blue lights cut through the grime-coated windows. Sirens wailed, close, too close. Doors slammed outside, voices barked orders.
"Police! Surround the exits!"
Terry's eyes widened, rage and panic colliding. "Fuck."
Boots thundered against the gravel. Flashlights swept across broken glass.
"Milkovich! Drop your weapon!"