The surge of the Mexican gang felt like a physical weight, over a dozen tracksuits closing the distance with the practiced hunger of street predators. Jax didn't wait for the circle to close. He pivoted, his boot catching the lead attacker in the solar plexus with enough force to lift the boy off his feet.
"Move!" Jax roared, hauling Jimmy up by the collar of his sweat-soaked shirt.
They tore deeper into the labyrinth of the Bullworth alleys, Michael's heavy footfalls echoing behind them. They didn't stop until the roar of the crowd faded into the distant hum of campus life. Leaning against a moss-slicked brick wall, Jax fought to pull oxygen into his burning lungs.
"Did... did we lose them?" Jax rasped, his voice cracking under the strain.
Michael stood with his hands on his knees, waving a dismissive hand as he gasped for air. "They stopped. Some unspoken boundary... or maybe they're just lazy. Either way, we're clear."
"Why did you do that?!" Jimmy's voice broke the silence, high-pitched and vibrating with a cocktail of terror and fury. "Those guys are Madrazo's lackeys! I'm dead! I was just supposed to move some grass, and now you've started a war! How am I supposed to go back to class?"
Michael straightened up, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his son. "Class? You're not going back. Not yet. Consider yourself on an extended sabbatical."
Jimmy's sobbing stopped instantly. His tear-streaked face lit up with a pathetic, sudden hope. "Wait—really? I can skip?"
"Until this is settled," Michael said, sounding like he already regretted the decision. "In the meantime, you're going to be useful. You're working for Jax at the clinic. Consider it community service."
Jax's eyebrow twitched. He looked at the soft, trembling kid and then back at Michael. He didn't mind the free labor, but he wasn't sure Jimmy knew which end of a dog was which. "Sure," Jax muttered. "Welcome to the team, Jimbo."
By the time they reached the villa in Rockford Hills, Jimmy had spent the entire drive venting about his sister, Tracey.
"She's an idiot, Jax. Trust me. She's going to see a guy who looks like you and lose whatever's left of her mind," Jimmy warned, throwing a casual arm over Jax's shoulder as they entered the house.
"Jimmy, shut up," Michael muttered, but his heart wasn't in it.
The interior of the villa was exactly as Jax imagined: a monument to expensive, hollow comfort. Tracey was sprawled across the designer sofa, her mini-skirt riding high as she stared vacantly at a reality TV show. Jax's Dynamic Vision—now a constant, subtle hum in the back of his mind—immediately locked onto the pink succubus tattoo peeking from the small of her back.
She looked up, her eyes widening as they swept over Jax. She didn't just look; she appraised.
"Hey, Dad," she purred, swaying her hips with a practiced, predatory grace as she stood up. "Where'd you find the hottie? Hey, handsome... you thirsty? I'm going for drinks tonight, and I bet you'd be real interested in seeing the rest of the house."
Jax took a strategic step back, the sheer intensity of the De Santa brand of "hospitality" making his skin crawl.
"Nice one, Sis," Jimmy cackled. "Keep it classy."
"Both of you, upstairs! Now!" Michael bellowed, his face turning a familiar shade of purple.
While the farce continued in Rockford Hills, the atmosphere in a dilapidated warehouse in South Los Santos was significantly more somber.
The student Jax had crippled lay on a pile of industrial rags, his leg a mangled mess. He stammered through the story, his voice shaking as he looked up at the tattooed giant leading the gang.
"I'm worried... about the product," the student whispered. "If they go to the cops..."
The boss didn't answer. He sat with a cold, unreadable expression while two flamboyant companions draped themselves over his chest, their fingers tracing the ink on his skin. It was the peculiar, unsettling aesthetic of the high-level Mexican cartels—a mix of extreme violence and bizarre personal affectations.
"That is a problem," the boss finally murmured. "An old man and a pup interfering with the trade. But don't worry, sweetie. We'll handle it."
He looked toward a burly man in a suit perched on a gasoline drum. "Fentil. Take care of this. Don't let me down. It's not about the weight of the grass; it's about the insult."
The boss stood up, pushing his companions aside. He looked at the crippled student. "I won't tell Martin Madrazo about the lost shipment... yet. But you know the price of silence."
The next morning, the sun flooded the De Santa garage as Jax triggered the remote. He'd spent the night on the back seat of the SUV, a choice that seemed wiser with every shouting match he heard coming from the main house. Amanda had returned late, and the ensuing "discussion" had been loud enough to wake the dead.
Jax headed to the backyard, finding Michael slumped in a lounge chair, staring at an old photo album.
"I'm moving into the apartment today, Mike," Jax said. "I need to check on Bruce. That dog is probably causing a riot by now."
"Stay as long as you want," Michael sighed, not looking up from the photos. "Sometimes I wish my kids were half as grounded as you."
Jax shrugged. "They're fine, Mike. A bit loud, maybe, but they're family."
Michael just grunted, clearly not buying the optimism. "The house is ready. I had a crew sweep it yesterday. You can move in whenever."
A shadow fell over the patio. Franklin had arrived, looking tentative but determined.
"Last time was an accident, man," Franklin said, referring to the repo job. "I was just doing my work."
"Whatever you say, kid," Michael joked, finally cracking a smile. "I like your spirit. But get out while you can. This life ends in a ditch with your kidneys in a cooler. Come on, let me buy you both a drink—"
The shrill ring of Michael's phone cut him off.
"Hello?"
"Dad!" Jimmy's voice screamed through the receiver, frantic and distorted by wind. "The Mexican gang—they hijacked the yacht! They're taking it! I'm still on board, Dad! Help!"
The line went dead with a sharp click. Michael stood up so fast his chair flipped backward. The veins on his neck throbbed as he looked at Jax and Franklin.
"Change of plans, boys," Michael growled, his hand already reaching for his holster. "My idiot son just found us a different kind of entertainment. Let's go."
Down on the Los Santos Commercial Street, Bruce was trotting along the sidewalk, his tongue lolling out. The Bald Eagle remained perched on his back, its sharp eyes scanning the crowd.
"Look at that, Bruce," the dog muttered to himself, his tail wagging as a woman in a sundress walked past. "What a generous lady. Los Santos really is the promised land."
The eagle let out a sharp, approving chirp.