What's Love Got to Do with It by Tina Turner was playing from the jukebox in the corner. Majority of the people in the pub were on the wooden dancefloor, shuffling and rubbing sweaty bodies together in excitement. Those who weren't dancing were drowning their sorrow and stress in beer.

Not Julia and her husband, Brandon.

They sat at a table, away from all the noise and people. In front of them was a large bowl of French fries and two bottles of root beer.

Brandon was wearing a tailor-made light blue suit. The colorful lights in the pub reflected of his bald head and he had to be extra careful when he was eating his French fries, so they wouldn't get stuck in his full dark-brown beard somehow. His light oily skin seemed somewhat dull and his dark eyes were droopy and exhausted.

Julia on the other hand, couldn't stop talking. She'd take a second to inhale her French fries and she'd resume her obviously one-sided conversation.

Brandon turned to look at the dance floor and smiled a bit, pronouncing his eye wrinkles. He turned back at his wife and interrupted her.
"Hey, Jules. You wanna dance?" he asked with a small smile.

The psychotherapist paused to look at him before she sat back and folded her arms in annoyance. "I don't believe it. You weren't listening to a thing I've been saying," she accused him.

He chuckled lightly and tried to deflect, "Jules...I just asked if you want to-"

"-Don't!" she interrupted him, "You know I can tell when you're lying."

Brandon lost the smile on his face and took a big gulp of his root beer from the bottle. He dropped it on the table and sighed. "Yeah, you're right. I wasn't listening to what you were saying." Julia opened her mouth to ask why but he answered before she asked.
"Because... I already know what you're talking about."

She rose an eyebrow and told him to intrigue her.
"Michael McKing this, Michael McKing that. It's always Michael McKing," her bald husband replied before he ate some more French fries. The song from the jukebox had changed to Swalla. The younger adults were shimmying forward and back in sync on the dance floor.

Julia drank a bit of root beer and chuckled softly. "That's not how I sound," she said abashedly. Her husband chuckled along with her and responded, "No, I'm pretty sure that's how you sound."

There was silence between them as they downed more French fries. He swatted her hands away once in a while when she took way too much in one go.

"I don't know. It's just that he's so infuriating. I love the kid but he can be a hard nut to crack sometimes," she mused. She noticed how Brandon's face slacked and he frowned slightly.
"Is- is something wrong?" she asked.

"You know, for a therapist, sometimes you suck at taking hints," he told her seriously. Her eyes widened before she frowned in distaste.
"What are you-"

"-What am I talking about? Yeah, I'm glad you asked," he interrupted his wife. "You remember when we broke things off some time ago?"

Well, of course she remembered. They got into a huge fight and they took a break from each other. "Unofficially divorced" was the word they used to describe it. She remembered her mother was more distraught than she was. It was a sore subject for her, and a subject Michael liked to use to shut her up when she was probing a lot, back in the day.

"Yeah, I do. Why?"

"We broke this marriage off because you wanted kids and I didn't, right?" he said, fiddling with the root beer bottle.
"Mm-hmm," the psychotherapist agreed. It wasn't news to both of them.

"That's not the truth. That's just what you think."

She paused mid-gulp and stared at her husband incredulously. He took a deep breath before he continued.

"I want kids, I do. I was just afraid that you'd be more focused on the McKing kid than our kids."

Julia tried to interrupt but he stopped her with a raise of his hand. The song currently playing was Perfect by Ed Sheeran. The crowd had split off into groups of two and were slow dancing.

"And here we are now, Jules, a year later, we're out on a date and all you talk about is still that kid. Look, I know you care about your patients, I get that. But I also know that therapy goes both ways. You're so- so obsessed with this kid that you're not seeing what everyone else sees. He doesn't want to be helped! And the sooner you realize that... the better."

His phone vibrated so he reached into the inner pocket of his blue jacket. He stared at his phone screen and Julia watched as his eyes widened before he immediately schooled his features.

"I gotta go. Something's come up at City Hall," he said, pocketing his phone. He stood and fastened the knot of his tie.
"What happened?" his wife asked him with concern, standing up as well.

He removed a couple of bucks from his wallet and placed it on the small round table. He bent to whisper into Julia's ear, "You'll see it tomorrow on the news. Someone found a dead body. It's a gang member's."

The psychotherapist's eyes widened as her husband kissed her on the cheek.
"Go home. And lock all the doors. Do not open the door for anyone. Okay?" he told her. She nodded her head and he kissed her on the forehead before he hurried out of the packed pub.

Julia watched the people on the dancefloor sway from left to right, eyes closed in a trance as Ed Sheeran's sonorous voice washed over them. They didn't know it yet but the next morning, they were about to get a rude awakening.

«»

Michael sat up quickly and breathed heavily. He observed his surroundings and found he was in his room. He also found that he wasn't alone. His psychotherapist was in the armchair by the bed... again.

He sighed and turned to the nightstand. He grabbed the small orange container of pills and took one of the pills. He expected her to hand him a glass of water but instead, she sat there with a faraway look on her face. He rose an eyebrow at her unusual demeanor but he didn't dwell too much on it.

The clearly troubled boy stood, grabbed a disposable cup lying around and headed over to the bathroom. He filled the cup with water and drank a bit. He threw the pill in his mouth and swallowed it with ease, thanks to the water in his mouth. He gulped down the rest of the cup's content and exited the bathroom.

"How are you feeling today?" Julia asked him when he returned to his bed. He ignored her and picked up his new phone. Before he slept, he made sure he retrieved everything on his previous phone from the cloud. So, it looked like he didn't lose his phone in the first place.

"Why do you care?" he finally replied her. He kicked off his flip-flops and stretched out on his bed. One of said flip-flops accidentally hit the therapist.
She clenched her teeth and her eye twitched. The words of her husband were echoing in her head. And the damn boy was proving Brandon right with every action of his!

"I care because I care, Michael. Not because it's my job, but because I care," she told him, forcing herself to stay calm. The blond boy scoffed as he remained on the bed.

"You really shouldn't care. It won't end well for you... believe me. Just- just leave me alone. I didn't ask for your help, and I sure as hell don't-"
Julia's eye kept twitching as the orphan wallowed in self-pity. Her fists were clenched and a thin vein was starting to throb on her forehead.

Eventually, she couldn't take it anymore.

"-For God's sake, shut up, Michael!" she snapped at him angrily. The boy stopped talking and stared at Dr. Roberts in shock. She never shouted at him. "I've had enough of you moping around. Now shut up... and listen."

She took a deep breath before she continued, "I'm gonna talk to you the way I'd talk to an adult, 'cause I know you'll understand what I'm saying. The last time you acted this way was when your parents died. So, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that you just lost someone you care about." She took Michael's reaction as a yes. He avoided her gaze and clenched his fists.

"You don't have to tell me who it is. If I'm being honest, I really don't give a shit. But when your parents died, you weren't old enough to understand. Maybe now, you will..."

Michael was silent for a while before he muttered, "Understand what?" The therapist smiled slightly and nodded her head.

"Understand that what you need... is closure."

As the exact same time, Michael's phone buzzed loudly and he turned on the screen to see what that was about. It was a notification that displayed the messages he got from Director Gray over the past month.

The blond kept staring at it when Dr. Roberts' phone rang from her bag. She fished it out and picked the call.

"Yes? Who is this?" she asked as she left his room to have some privacy.

Maybe Julia was right...

Maybe what he needed was closure. He was moping around while the real guys responsible for Tori's death were out there somewhere... scot-free. That wasn't right! They had to pay! He needed to make them pay!

With conviction, he opened Director Gray's messages and replied him.

"See u 2moro."

«»

Since it was already morning, the alleyway wasn't as dark as it was two nights ago. The rusty red door at the end was slightly ajar, which was most definitely weird.

To cap it all off, there was no sign of Rico, the part-time bouncer.

Whyte shrugged his shoulders and pushed the rusty door open. Humid hot wind blew against him and he narrowed his eyes. He entered and closed the door behind him.

This time, there was no Puerto Rican song playing. Yeah, Buddy corrected him when he brought it up. Everywhere was silent save the muffled sound of someone talking at the end of the corridor; which so happened to be Boss's office.

The pale-skinned man woke up to meet a letter on his face, telling him to come to the base. He figured Buddy already went ahead of him. But now that he thought of it, he hadn't seen the kid since the previous day. In fact, he wasn't sure if he came home the night before.

He entered the office and was taken aback by the sheer number of people there. They weren't that much but they were still more than enough to pose a threat. They were both male and female, varying in size and sometimes, organ completion. One thing they had in common was their boss; Boss.

He was pacing back and forth dressed in a loose short sleeved shirt and baggy pants. He had a livid expression on his face but what made it worse, was the sick smile he had.

"They think they can take out one of our own... and go unscathed? Nah, hell no! That ain't gonna happen!" he yelled at the crowd before him.

Whyte spotted the grizzly face of Rico so he pushed through some people to get to the towering man. "Hey, Rico. What's going on?" he nudged the man in the side. Said man looked down at him and grunted, "You haven't heard? Buddy was found dead last night."

"What?"

"Yeah, Boss thinks it was one of the other gangs sending us a message."

"No, that doesn't make sense," Whyte mumbled. He had met the gang leaders at the top of the food chain months ago and they didn't seem like the type to act impulsively.

"They think we're weak. That's why they went after Buddy. But you go after one of us, you go after all of us! They want a war; they got a war!" Boss yelled angrily causing the crowd of people to yell along with him.

Ignoring the cliché phrasing of words, Whyte whistled loudly enough to get the attention of everyone in the choked-up room. The crowd parted for him as he walked over to Boss. The probably cancerous man was eyeing him intently all the way.

"Boss, can we talk in private?" Whyte asked the grey-haired man in a whisper. He took some time to think it over before he moved to his still messy table and asked Whyte to follow him.

"What is it, Santa? We have a war to prepare for," he grumbled.

"Yeah, that's what I wanna talk to you about. I-I don't think this was an attack," Whyte told him.

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I know how these guys operate. They don't operate like this." The crowd of people were talking amongst themselves, occasionally glancing at Boss and Whyte.

"Oh right, I forgot you were chummy with them. But did you see them offering their help when your face was all over the freakin' news? I gave you a goddamn place here! And this is-"

"-That's not what I'm saying, Boss. Just- just give me some time to investigate. Before we go to war," the tattooed man interrupted.

Boss turned to look at the eager crowd of people behind him. "You have one week, then we go to war. And don't think this means you're off the hook. I can still call the cops on you. That's if they don't get you first."

Boss left him and went back to talk to his underlings. Whyte stood by the table and watched on with his tattooed arms folded.
Usually, he wouldn't care about what Boss wanted to do, but Buddy was a good kid. Annoying; yes, but he was a good kid. He just got mixed up with the wrong people for survival.

And now, he was dead...

Whyte wanted to find out what really happened and get justice for the deceased boy. He deserved that much.