Jax walked out of the Los Santos Department of Commerce, shielding his eyes from the midday glare and clutching a stack of stamped manila folders.
"The 'Great American Efficiency' at work," Jax muttered, tossing the paperwork onto the dashboard of the white pickup. "Three days just to process a business license?"
Michael followed, stuffing a thick wallet back into his jeans. "That's the expedited version, kid. Cost me five hundred in 'processing fees' to keep us from waiting until Christmas." He slapped the hood of the truck. "Consider this yours for now. Jimmy's too busy rotting his brain with video games to handle a vehicle like this."
Jax slid into the driver's seat, the leather warm against his skin. "I've been in this city twenty-four hours and you haven't even mentioned the family. What, are you hiding them?"
He took a cigarette from the pack Michael offered and sparked it. Ever since he'd realized his "Uncle Mike" was the legendary Michael De Santa, he'd been dying to see the domestic side of the myth—the dysfunctional, sun-bleached reality of the De Santa household.
"Perfect timing," Michael grunted, checking his watch. "Jimmy's about to get out of class. Let's go see the prince." He handed Jax his phone, the GPS already set. "Bullworth Academy. Ever heard of it?"
Jax's grip tightened on the wheel as he saw the name on the screen. He knew it—not from maps, but from stories of a different kind of chaos. This wasn't just Los Santos; this was a world where the shadows of every Rockstar legend bled into one another.
"I've heard stories," Jax said, his voice low.
He floored the accelerator. The sudden G-force pinned Michael against the seat, nearly sending his half-lit cigarette onto the floorboards.
"Jesus!" Michael barked, grabbing the ceiling handle as Jax swung the truck into a tight turn. "You drive exactly like your old man. Take it down a notch, I'm pushing fifty!"
Jax didn't slow down. He felt a strange, electric hum behind his eyes. As he wove through the midday traffic, the world seemed to sharpen. He wasn't just seeing the cars; he was predicting their vectors, feeling the grip of the tires as if they were his own feet. It was a hybrid of Michael's focus and the lethal precision of a getaway driver. What should have been a twenty-minute crawl through city congestion took exactly ten.
They pulled up to the gates of Bullworth Academy just as the final bell echoed across the courtyard—a sound that felt heavy with a peculiar, nostalgic magic.
Michael climbed out, clutching a bottle of water and rinsing the taste of adrenaline from his mouth. "Remind me to never let you drive if I've just eaten."
The gates opened, and a flood of students poured out. Michael's eyes, honed by years of scanning for threats, locked onto a familiar figure.
"There he is. My boy." Michael pointed toward a soft-looking kid in a blue shirt and black sweats. "Doesn't he look... innocent?"
Jax followed his gaze. Jimmy De Santa looked less like an innocent and more like a target.
The "innocence" of the moment shattered instantly. Two older boys in blue tracksuits—the signature colors of the Bullworth elite—flanked Jimmy, steering him toward a secluded corner of the campus wall.
"Kid, move," Michael growled. He didn't need to see more. He reached into the glove box and retrieved the Glock, tucking it into the small of his back. "They're bullying my son. In broad daylight."
They crossed the street, moving with the practiced silence of hunters. As they rounded the corner, they saw one of the tracksuits pull a square, plastic-wrapped package from his jacket. The smell of low-grade marijuana drifted on the hot air.
"That little idiot," Michael hissed, his jaw tightening. "He's actually dealing?"
Before Michael could step into the light, a sharp, wet crack echoed in the alley. Jimmy stumbled back, his hand flying to his reddening cheek as he hit the pavement.
"You fat pig," the boy with the neck tattoo sneered, standing over him. "Where's the rest of the cash? You haven't even moved half the last batch."
"I-I'm sorry," Jimmy stammered, his eyes welling up with a purely physiological reaction to the pain. "I'll sell it, I promise."
"You've got three days," the Tattooed Man said, kicking Jimmy in the stomach for emphasis. "Otherwise, we're handing you over to the Vagos. They love tender-skinned kids like you."
The bullies laughed and turned to leave, only to find a man in a black suit blocking the exit.
"You think you can just walk away after putting hands on my son?" Michael's voice was a low, dangerous vibration.
"Dad!" Jimmy cried out, but it wasn't the sound of a boy seeing a savior—it was the sound of a boy who knew things were about to get much, much worse.
The Tattooed Man looked Michael up and down, a disdainful smirk curling his lip. "Look at this. The loser's dad is an old-timer loser. This whole family is just—"
THUD.
The sound of a steel pipe meeting a skull cut the sentence short. The Tattooed Man hit the ground like a sack of wet flour.
Jax stood over him, hefting a length of discarded construction pipe he'd snatched from the debris. He looked down at Jimmy, who was staring in wide-eyed horror.
"How old are you, Jimmy?" Jax asked calmly.
"Seventeen," Jimmy whispered.
"And how old is this piece of trash?" Jax nudged the unconscious body with his toe.
"Nineteen, maybe?"
Jax nodded. Without a word, he raised the pipe and brought it down with sickening force across the bully's knee.
CRACK.
The Tattooed Man didn't just wake up; he let out a guttural, soul-shredding howl as his leg twisted into a grotesque, impossible angle.
"Didn't your parents teach you?" Jax said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Respect your elders. Watch out for the young."
Jax turned his gaze toward the second boy. The tracksuit had already backed away, his face pale as he frantically spoke into a cell phone.
"He's calling the house," Michael muttered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the perimeter.
Within minutes, the silence of the alley was replaced by the rhythmic scuff of sneakers on pavement. A swarm of blue tracksuits emerged from around the corners, over a dozen of them, armed with bats, chains, and kitchen knives.
Michael reached for the Glock, his thumb hovering over the safety. He looked at the sea of angry, entitled faces closing in on them.
"Dammit, Jax," Michael muttered, the weight of his years finally showing in the set of his shoulders. "Looks like we stepped in it. Hope you enjoyed the sun today... because I'm not sure we're seeing it tomorrow."