The Gallagher house sat quiet when Francis came back. The Chevy's engine cooled in the alley out back, its low tick fading into the hum of the block. He slipped inside through the kitchen, the smell of grease and cigarette smoke still clinging to his clothes, gunpowder sharp on his gloves.
The house was empty—no Fiona, no kids. Just the faint creak of pipes and the steady rattle from below.
Francis peeled off his jacket, tossed it over a chair, and went straight to work. He set pans on the stove, cracked eggs into a bowl, pulled sausages from the fridge. The motions came easy, steady. Knife against board, oil hissing in the pan. The kind of rhythm that felt normal in a house where normal didn't exist.
By the time he was done, the table was laid out—food steaming, plates stacked. Dinner ready. A picture of calm.
But the calm cracked the second he looked toward the basement door.
Chains rattled again, louder this time. Frank's voice rose with them, raw and jagged.
"Jesus Christ, my tongue's dry! You trying to kill me down here?!" His voice cracked into a howl. "Come on, Junior! Gimme a goddamn drink before my liver stages a protest!"
Francis wiped his hands on a rag, exhaled slow, and walked to the door. He pulled it open, the wood groaning like it didn't want to.
The basement hit him with damp air and the stench of sweat. Frank sat slouched in the chair, shirt stained, eyes wild. His face was pale, twitching with the edges of withdrawal. He shook against the chains, restless, his grin jagged even through the pain.
"Look at this," Frank rasped, voice hoarse but still full of venom. "The prodigal son comes to gloat. You get your rocks off watching your old man sweat, huh? Sick bastard."
Francis leaned on the doorframe, arms folded. His voice came low, steady. "Who am I kidding? You can't change. This—" he gestured at the chains, at Frank's twitching frame, "—this isn't rehab. It's just punishment."
Frank snorted, spitting onto the floor. "Rehab? You think some rusty chain act is rehab? Kid, I've detoxed on every couch and gutter from here to Joliet. This? This is a Tuesday."
Francis didn't flinch. His eyes sharpened. "Then hear this. Don't come back here. Don't step near this house again. You do, and I'll put you down myself. I've got new toys now, and I won't hesitate to use them."
Frank chuckled, shaking his head, chains rattling with his laugh. "Oh, scary, scary. Frankie's got guns. You gonna shoot your old man? That's the family legacy? Gallagher patricide?"
Francis stepped closer, crouched so they were eye to eye. His voice cut through the room, clean and sharp. "The scam on Aunt Ginger—it's over. I'm ending it. You tell anyone she's dead, you stop cashing in with her social. I'll take the house. My name. Not yours. I'll be the guardian of the kids. You'll have nothing left to leech off."
Frank's smile faltered. For just a flicker, the words hit. Then his face twisted, rage and mockery spilling out together. "You ungrateful son of a bitch. That scam kept a roof over your head your whole damn life! You think you're a hero for killing the golden goose? You're a moron. You'll drown in bills before you even find a pencil to sign the papers."
Francis didn't blink. "Better drowning in bills than drowning in you."
Frank spat again, laughing raw, coughing through it. "You think you're some savior? You're just another Gallagher, boy. You'll end up in the gutter same as me. And when you do, you'll wish you had one more Ginger check to cash."
Francis's jaw clenched, but he didn't take the bait. He stood, grabbed the chain's lock, and unclicked it. The sound was final. The iron loosened around Frank's chest, legs. The old man sagged forward, catching his breath, but the grin slid back across his bloody mouth.
"You're really letting me go?" Frank rasped, testing his freed wrists. "After all that tough talk? You ain't got the stones to finish me off, do you?"
Francis's eyes stayed cold. "I'm not finishing you off. I'm giving you one shot. Walk out. Never come back. That's it."
Frank rose slow, groaning, stretching his stiff limbs. He looked around the basement like it was some kind of joke. Then he looked at Francis, eyes glittering spiteful. "You're making the biggest mistake of your life, Junior. I'll be back. You can't erase me. I'm the goddamn ghost of this family. No matter how far you run, you'll see me in the mirror."
Francis opened the basement door wider, his stance hard, unflinching. "Then consider this an exorcism."
Frank staggered up the steps, muttering under his breath, swearing at shadows, spitting curses. He reached the top, shoved past Francis, and stumbled into the night.
The door shut behind him. The chains clinked one last time, then went quiet.
Francis leaned against the wall, exhaling slow. His chest was heavy, but his eyes stayed sharp. Upstairs, the table was still set, dinner still warm. Fiona and the kids would be home soon.
For the first time, the house would feel like theirs.