"Debbie, tomorrow you're in charge of the most important part—collecting the cash."
Shane pointed at the big prize wheel.
"Two bucks a spin. Tell them the game's free, but they gotta donate two dollars to UNICEF. It's for charity."
"But—but we're not a foundation~" Debbie said, voice small.
"We are."
Shane didn't blink. His tone was steady as concrete.
"We're the Gallagher branch of UNICEF, got it? Fiona's the honorary chair, I'm the executive director, you're the CFO. Money that drops in our can is foundation money. How we spend it? That's my call as director."
"OK." The simple logic straightened Debbie's spine on the spot.
"Carl." Shane looked at the kid who was currently trying to duct-tape a dart to the end of his upgraded taser.
"You're security and prize distribution. Keep your eyes on that wheel. Don't let some sore loser rip it apart. If somebody actually wins something, hand it over."
"What if they try to rob us?" Carl flicked the taser and it crackled.
"Then you show them some South Side hospitality. Just don't actually kill anybody."
Next, Shane turned to Lip.
"Lip, on fight day you're running the main monitor. I want live cuts from every camera, especially Jack's side. If he pops pills, powders his hands, or makes that ugly face when he strains, clip it and feed it straight into the chat. I want the trolls eating him alive."
"No problem," Lip said, already grinning. "I'll make sure he becomes the internet's new favorite meme."
Then Shane looked at Jimmy.
"Steve." He used the name deliberately. "How's that medical setup coming?"
Jimmy's face lit up. He walked over to the wall, dragged out a big white medical box, and dropped it on an oil-drum table with a loud clang. He popped the latches and flipped it open.
Inside were 2010-era drug-test kits, rapid steroid screening strips, the latest WADA prohibited list, and a thick manual on athletic testing protocols.
"Everything's here," Jimmy said, patting the box. "Top-shelf stuff. Even a real flight-test team would have to work to catch us slipping."
"Good. On Saturday you wear the white coat and set this box up where Jack can't miss it. I want him staring at it every time he steps up to the bar."
Jimmy slipped into character instantly, face turning cool and clinical.
"Got it. Every time he takes a breath before a lift, I'll give him the 'Oh God, I hope your heart doesn't explode and your veins don't burst in your skull' look."
"Perfect." Shane nodded. "Kevin, Veronica."
He pointed at the two big glowing barrels.
"You two handle the energy drinks and the support shirts. Drinks are three bucks, shirts are fifteen. No freebies. Even my own fans pay full price."
Kevin snapped a salute. Veronica just smirked and nodded.
"Fiona." Shane handed her a printed contract full of legal-sounding clauses and liability waivers.
"You keep an eye on Frank. Don't let him drink the product or stuff cash in his pockets. This is the waiver we're making Jack sign. You play the lawyer's witness."
"Last piece," Shane said, clapping Ian on the shoulder.
"You're outer perimeter. Keep the little shitheads from starting trouble, and make sure Carl doesn't actually electrocute anybody."
Ian gave a short nod, already looking serious.
Shane took a breath, ready to wrap it up, when Fiona spoke, worry clear in her voice.
"Shane… we're making this huge. Aren't we gonna get reported? We don't have any kind of permit, and all these people—"
Shane looked at her and liked what he saw. Old Fiona would've only worried about how much money they were leaving on the table. New Fiona was thinking about the angles.
He smiled.
"We're not selling anything, Fiona. Water, towels, shirts—everything's free. We're just running a free fitness event and happening to collect voluntary donations for UNICEF. Pure charity. The money goes straight into the can for the kids. How we use it after that? That's our business."
Jimmy snapped his fingers.
"Exactly. Suggested donation. Legally clean. No forced transaction. All funds routed to charity. Even if the cops or the city show up, we're just fitness enthusiasts doing good works."
Fiona relaxed a little. "Alright. You always find a way."
Tasks handed out, Shane looked around at his crew:
A car thief playing doctor, a South Side genius running cameras, a miniature chaos agent checking barbell collars, a little psycho fiddling with a taser, an early-blooming girl ready to run the black books, and Karen still quietly pissed at him in the corner (he planned to fix that tonight).
A bunch of liars, thieves, and lunatics. And him—the only one pretending to be sane.
"Alright," he said, clapping once. "Tomorrow's Gallagher payday."
"Dismissed."
Time slipped forward to Saturday afternoon.
The side door between the South Side Iron Gym and the Alibi Room stood wide open, turning both spaces into one loud, messy playground.