The sound of metal sliding against metal echoed down the dim prison corridor. A guard's voice, deep and impatient, cut through the stale air.
"Frank Gallagher."
The young man sitting on the hard bench didn't move at first. He had his elbows resting on his knees, head tilted slightly down, eyes on the floor like he was lost in thought. Around him, inmates glanced up at the sound of the name. One of them, a tattooed guy leaning against the wall, let out a low whistle.
Again, the voice came, sharper this time.
"Gallagher. Let's go."
The young man blinked, finally looking around. He saw the eyes on him—every face in the room turned in his direction. That's when it clicked.
Oh. They meant him.
He stood quickly, almost too quickly, pushing his hands into the pockets of the worn prison-issued pants. His hair was messy but had a careless style to it, dark and just long enough to fall slightly into his eyes. He was young—twenty-one at most—but his expression carried a strange mix of energy and calm, like someone who didn't take much too seriously.
The guard didn't waste time. "This way."
The young man followed, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the concrete floor. The corridor was narrow, the air thick with the smell of old metal and disinfectant. Every step echoed like it was part of a slow reveal in a movie. The guard opened another set of doors, handed him off to another officer at a small desk.
The release process was mechanical, almost boring. Papers were signed, items in a plastic bag were slid across the counter—his old clothes, a half-empty lighter, and twenty-eight dollars in crumpled bills. He changed in a small, stale room, pulling on a faded T-shirt and a denim jacket that smelled faintly of cigarettes and detergent.
"Alright, Gallagher," the officer at the desk said, stamping something. "You're free to go. Don't make us see you again."
The young man gave a faint, non-committal shrug, then stepped toward the exit. The heavy door buzzed and clicked, opening to spill sunlight into his face. He squinted against it, blinking rapidly.
On the other side of the gate, leaning against a black sedan, stood his PO—probation officer—wearing a gray jacket, aviator sunglasses, and a look that said he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Gallagher," the PO greeted flatly, pushing off the car. "Let's walk."
They moved a few steps to the side, out of the way of the entrance. The PO spoke like a man who'd given the same speech a hundred times.
"Alright. Here's the deal. You keep your head down, check in with me every week, and you stay out of trouble. That means no fights, no theft, no disappearing for days. If I don't hear from you, or if your name pops up somewhere it shouldn't, I'll have you back in there before you can blink. Got it?"
The young man nodded casually. "Yeah. Got it."
"Good." The PO opened his car door. "And Gallagher? Don't be an idiot."
With that, the man got in the car and drove off without looking back.
The young man stood there for a moment, the prison gate behind him, the road stretching out ahead. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and let out a quiet breath.
"So…" he murmured to himself, glancing around. "I'm in the world of Shameless as Frank Gallagher."
It still sounded unreal when he said it out loud. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in his apartment back on Earth—the real Earth. Not this one. Not this TV world he'd binged through more times than he'd admit.
And yet here he was.
He couldn't remember how it happened. One moment, he was just some guy on a couch with a beer, laughing at the chaos on screen. Now… he was in it.
But there was something off.
"Why Frank though?" he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of all people… why not Lip, or Ian, or—hell—Kev? Why Frank?"
It was only then, as he turned his head toward the sidewalk, that he saw her.
She was walking toward him with that easy, confident stride—brown hair tied back, eyes locked on him, the corners of her mouth curving into a smile. She looked exactly like she did on the show, except now there was no TV screen between them.
It hit him instantly.
Oh.
He wasn't the Frank. Not the older, drunken, chaotic hurricane of a man. He was… something else.
Frank Jr.
Her smile widened as she closed the distance. "Hey, stranger. Took you long enough."
He blinked, still caught between disbelief and the surreal wave of recognition. Up close, she felt real in a way the show never captured—her voice softer than he expected, her eyes sharper.
"You're… here," he said without thinking.
"Where else would I be?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow. "C'mon. Let's get you home before you do something stupid five minutes out of the gate."
He smirked faintly, following as she turned. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement. He kept stealing glances at her, still trying to process the fact that he was standing next to someone he'd only ever seen on a screen.
The city around them was alive—car horns, snippets of arguments spilling from open windows, the smell of fried food from a corner stand. It felt… exactly like the world he'd watched from the safety of his couch, but heavier, more textured.
"You gonna keep staring at me like that?" she asked suddenly, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk.
He grinned slightly. "Just making sure you're real."
She rolled her eyes, but there was amusement in it. "I'm real. And so are you. Which means you've got to start pulling your weight. I don't have time to babysit."
He hummed in agreement, though inside his head, the thought kept circling.
Frank Jr. That's who he was now.
The walk wasn't long, but every step felt like he was slipping deeper into this new reality. The streets were familiar, the faces too—he passed by people he recognized from the series, even if they didn't notice him.
When they reached a corner, she stopped and looked at him seriously.
"Listen," she said, "whatever got you locked up—leave it there. I've got enough going on without you adding to it. You wanna stay out? You stay smart."
He nodded again, hiding the smirk that threatened to pull at his mouth. The irony of her telling him to stay smart wasn't lost on him.
"Got it," he said simply.
"Good." She started walking again. "Now let's get to the house. Debbie's been asking about you. And Carl—well, he's been Carl."
He chuckled, following her into the rhythm of the city. Somewhere inside, that weird mix of excitement and confusion still burned. He didn't know how long he'd be here, or what exactly he was supposed to do.
But one thing was certain.
This wasn't the show anymore. This was real.
And he was right in the middle of it.