The hot water of the shower didn't feel like it was cleansing anything from the night before; it felt more like a ritual, a scalding baptism washing away the feel of the grimy apartment and leaving only the cold, hard facts of the transaction. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, the tribal tattoos standing out vividly against the flushed canvas. When she stepped out, wrapped in a cloud of steam, the world outside the bathroom door felt sharp and hyper-real.
She dressed in her comfort uniform—soft, worn sweatpants and an oversized band t-shirt, the fabric a comforting shield. She was running a towel through her damp hair when a soft knock, followed by the creak of her door, announced a visitor.
Her father stood in the doorway. He looked older in the soft afternoon light filtering through her blinds, the lines around his eyes deeper, but there was a taut energy about him she hadn't seen since before the Madrazo incident. It wasn't relaxation; it was focus.
"Hey," she said, a tentative, questioning smile touching her lips. "What's up?"
Michael stepped fully inside and closed the door quietly behind him. He didn't speak at normal volume. His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper that sent a thrill down her spine. "Day after tomorrow," he said, the words heavy with finality. "It's the day. I've got the Bugstar van. The pest control suits are in the back. The BZ gas canisters are loaded." He met her eyes, his gaze intense, searching for any flicker of doubt. "You need to be ready. At the bikes, by 10 AM sharp. No delays."
The reality of it, with a date and a time, slammed into her chest. She nodded, her own voice matching his quiet seriousness. "Okay. I'll be there."
She expected him to leave then, the business concluded. But he didn't. He lingered, his hands shoved into the pockets of his chinos, looking strangely awkward in her chaotic, poster-covered room.
"You, uh… you got everything you need?" he asked, not about the heist, but vaguely, gesturing around.
"Yeah, Dad. I'm good."
He nodded, then let out a long breath, the professional mask softening just a fraction. "You know, I was thinking about that time you tried to jump your dirt bike over Jimmy's stupid plastic playhouse. You were, what, fourteen? Nearly broke your arm."
Megan blinked, caught off guard. "You were pissed. You grounded me for a month."
"I was terrified," he corrected, a faint, genuine smile touching his own lips. "You had no fear. Just like your…" he trailed off, not finishing the thought about her mother. "Just like that. No fear."
And they talked. Not about gas canisters or escape tunnels, but about stupid, mundane things. The terrible pizza place they used to order from in North Yankton. The time the pool cleaner shocked himself and fell in. The absurdity of Tracey's various reality TV auditions. It was stilted at first, then easier, flowing in a way conversation hadn't between them in years—maybe ever. The weight of their mutual disappointment, the unspoken contract of mutual neglect, seemed to lift momentarily.
She watched him, this man who was both her feckless father and a suddenly capable criminal mastermind, and she saw something new in his eyes as he laughed at one of her sarcastic remarks. It wasn't just relief at her cooperation. It was… pride. A raw, unguarded flicker of it. He was looking at her not as a problem or an accessory, but as a part of his solution. As someone capable.
She didn't want to admit how it warmed her, how it filled a hollow place she'd pretended didn't exist. This clandestine, terrible thing they were about to do had somehow built a bridge over a decade of silence.
Eventually, he glanced at his watch, the spell breaking. "Alright. I've got things to… finalize. You get some rest. Big day coming." He gave her shoulder an awkward pat—a gesture so unfamiliar it was almost shocking—and then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Megan stood frozen in the middle of her room for a full minute, the echo of his voice, his laugh, the pat on her shoulder, swirling in the quiet.
Then, it erupted.
A giddy, uncontrollable energy shot through her. She threw herself backwards onto her bed, a stifled squeal bursting from her lips. She kicked her legs against the mattress, a frantic, joyful pedaling motion, and rolled over, burying her face in a pillow to muffle the sound of her own absurd happiness. She was a二十二-year-old woman who had just bargained with a crackhead and planned a felony, and she was giggling into her bedding because her dad had talked to her.
"Oh my god, get a grip," she muttered into the fabric, her voice trembling with laughter. She sat up, her face flushed, and gave her own cheek a light, stinging slap. "Chill. The fuck. Out."
But the feeling was too big to contain. It needed an outlet, however cryptic. She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, her thumbs flying over the screen. She navigated to Bleeter, her mind racing. She couldn't say anything real. But she had to say something.
She typed, her style a blend of careless abbreviation and deliberate aloofness: "guess the old man ain't a total write-off after all. weird flex but ok."
She stared at the post for a second, then hit send. It was out there, a tiny, encrypted burst of her euphoria, meaningless to anyone but her. She tossed the phone aside and fell back onto the pillows, a wide, foolish grin still plastered on her face. The fear was still there, a cold knot in her gut. But for now, it was tangled up with something warm, something dangerously like hope, and the electric, terrifying sense that she was finally, for better or worse, part of something real.
***
The morning before the day dawned clear and bright, a cruel parody of a perfect Los Santos day. Megan needed noise, distraction, the familiar inane chatter that could drown out the low-frequency hum of impending chaos. She arranged to meet Amy and Eliza at El Café Rojo de Madera, a little slice of faux-authenticity nestled in the old Mexican plaza of Alta.
The plaza was bustling with tourists and locals, the air smelling of spilled beer, frying churros, and exhaust. The café had rickety iron tables spilling onto the cracked pavement. Amy was already there, meticulously adjusting the filter on a selfie, while Eliza was texting furiously, a frown of intense concentration on her face.
"You look… rested," Amy said, not looking up from her phone as Megan slid into a chair.
"You look like you didn't get any," Eliza added, finally putting her phone down. "Trouble in paradise?"
"Paradise is boring," Megan said, flagging down a waiter. "I'll take an iced coffee. Black." She leaned back, letting the sun warm her face, trying to soak in the mundane reality of it all—the gossip about someone's botched lip filler, the debate over which club had the best DJ that weekend, the endless, looping drama of people whose biggest problem was a fading tan.
It was comforting. It was a language she understood. For an hour, she was just Megan De Santa, spoiled brat, racing enthusiast, and professional fun-haver. She laughed at the right moments, rolled her eyes at the stupid stories, and felt the tight coil in her chest loosen just a fraction.
Then, the music started.
A warm, rhythmic strumming cut through the plaza's noise. A man, maybe in his late forties, was sitting on the edge of the dry fountain, a weathered guitar in his hands. He was handsome in a worn, lived-in way—salt-and-pepper stubble, intense dark eyes, fingers that moved over the strings with a casual mastery. He wasn't playing for money; he was just playing, lost in the chords of some old, melancholic canción rancher.
Megan's friends kept talking, but her focus narrowed to a point. The music, the man, the effortless confidence. It was a different kind of thrill, simple and immediate. An itch that demanded scratching, one last taste of uncomplicated, sensory distraction before tomorrow swallowed her whole.
Without a word, she stood up.
"Where are you going?" Amy asked, following her gaze. "Oh. Damn. Go get him, tiger."
Megan ignored her. She walked across the plaza, the music growing louder. The guitarist looked up as she approached, his song trailing off. She didn't smile. She just looked at him, her gaze direct, unblinking. She tilted her head slightly toward the side of the café, where a sign for the restrooms was barely visible.
He held her look for a long moment, a slow, understanding smile spreading across his face. He didn't ask questions. He didn't speak. He simply set his guitar carefully against the fountain, stood up, and followed her.
The bathroom was a single, cramped, marginally clean room. He locked the door behind them. It was fast, wordless, and intense—a collision of heat and need against the cold porcelain sink. There was no pretense, no transaction beyond the immediate one. When it was over, he kissed her shoulder, whispered something in Spanish she didn't understand, and slipped out, leaving her alone in the sudden, ringing silence.
She splashed cold water on her face, met her own dark-eyed reflection in the smudged mirror, and gave a sharp, humorless nod. One for the road.
The next morning, there was no coffee. No music. No chatter.
The house was a tomb. Megan was already dressed—black, form-fitting clothes suitable for wearing under a bulky pest-control suit, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She stood in the hallway, a coiled spring.
Her door opened. Michael appeared. He was dressed similarly, his face a granite mask of focused tension. No words were necessary. Their eyes met. He gave a single, curt nod.
She returned it.
That was it. The entire briefing.
They walked down the stairs together, their footsteps echoing in the silent mansion. They didn't get into her bright yellow Elegy. They got into his black Obey Tailgater—the boring, sinister sedan. The drive to La Mesa was conducted in absolute silence, the only sound the purr of the engine and the rhythmic click of the turn signal. No radio. No small talk about the weather. The bridge they'd tentatively built yesterday was gone, replaced by the steel girder of shared purpose.
He pulled into the now-familiar lot behind Darnell Bros. For a moment, they both just sat there, staring at the grimy factory door. The weight of what was about to happen pressed down on the roof of the car.
Simultaneously, as if choreographed, they both took a deep, sharp breath in, held it for a second, and let it out in a slow, controlled exhale.
Then, they got out.
Their movements were synchronized, purposeful. They didn't hurry, but they didn't dawdle. They walked side-by-side through the loading bay door, past the silent, watchful seamstresses who didn't even look up this time. They took the stairs to Lester's office, their footsteps a matched beat on the metal steps.
Michael pushed the door open.
Uncle Lester was there, standing by his planning board, which was now covered in final, precise notations. He turned, his glasses glinting in the low light. He looked from Michael to Megan, his expression unreadable.
Without a word, Michael moved to the worn couch against the wall and sat down, his body language broadcasting a tense readiness. Megan followed, sitting beside him, leaving a careful inch of space between them. She didn't slouch. She sat straight, her hands on her knees, mirroring her father's posture.