In March of 1989, Michael Harbor was arrested for armed robbery and the murder of three people. As of yesterday, he was serving a 200 year sentence in Chicago.

As of today. He is dead.

Two Years Ago, 1989

Michael Harbor stared outside a tall window overlooking the city of Chicago, a glare in his eyes as the sun struck him in the face.

His friend, Luis, was at the kitchen island, rolling a few joints while also attempting to play Solitaire.  The man sighed in frustration, throwing the cards to the side as he continued rolling his joints. "I dunno how you play that game, Mikey. My brain can't handle it."

"Maybe your mind can't handle it because there's cocaine deteriorating it." Mikey glanced to the reflection of his friend, who laughed, nodding.

"Yeah, maybe. But at least I don't spend my free time playing a dumb card game and staring out that damn window." Luis gestured to the window his friend stood in front of, scoffing.

Michael stayed quiet, his gaze shifting back to the city beneath his feet. With his hands shoved deep inside his pockets, he slowly turned his head to Luis, who lit a joint between his lips.

"Where'd you get the money to afford that much? Last I checked, you can barely afford rent to live here with me." Luis didn't say anything, only nervous glances to his friend as he puffed on the joint. "Luis." Michael continued in a rough voice, turning on his heel to face him.

The cold stare Michael had made Luis cave out of fear, removing the joint from his lips and raised his arms in defense. "I gotta pay my dealer back soon, alright? He just let me have some of this stuff." Luis answered, watching Michael walk to the kitchen with a menacing stance.

"How much you owe him, Luis? Surely it's more than what you got." Michael leaned against the island counter, Luis dropping his head.

"32." He spoke quietly, afraid of his friend's reaction. Michael was quiet, one brow raised slightly.

"32k? Luis, how much shit do you buy from this guy?" Luis backed up to the fridge, leaning against it as he shrugged.

"He's been my dealer for a long time, Mikey. I've racked it up and now I'm in deep shit." Luis laughed anxiously, rubbing his head before covering his face. He flinched when Michael slammed his hand in the counter, angrily pointing at him. "Luis, you're ruinin' your life, man! Why can't you just fuckin quit like I've been asking? I'm tired of bailing your ass outta jail or having the cops knocking at my door with you in their hands!"

"I tried, man! You know I did! But I— You know I've been doing this shit for years. The withdrawals— The pounding headaches when I don't get it." Luis stared at Michael for a moment before shaking his head. "Man, whatever. You don't do shit. Always been the 'good boy of Chicago.'" Luis put in air quotes, and Michael frowned.

"Man, the hell you talking about?" Michael pushed himself off of the counter, pointing to an old newspaper on the dining table and grabbed it. He pointed to the mugshot of a younger-looking him, waving the paper. "Remember this shit you dragged me into?"

Luis shook his head as Michael scoffed, dropping his arms. "'Course you don't. You were probably high throughout your 20s." The newspaper flung through the air and in front of Louis on the counter. "I was arrested for some theft you did just because I was your damn driver. And you still haven't payed my dad back for it! So you owe him more money than your damn dealer!" Michael yelled, Luis pacing more.

"Look I'll get the money, alright?" Luis looked away from Michael again, thinking. He snapped his fingers and Michael raised his brows. "My ma— she left a trust fund for me at the back on Lennon. It's got a lotta money in it." Michael. tossed his arms, looking at Luis with suspicion.

"You aren't gonna fuck me over on this, are you?" He asked, Luis quick to shake his head.

"No! No. I promise, Mikey. Just gotta take me cuz— well." Luis raised the joint between his fingers and Michael rolled his eyes, dropping his arms.

As the two neared the front door, Michael paused. Luis nearly bumped into him as Michael spun around, pointing at Louis and stared down at him.

"You try anything funny. I'll kill you." Luis' eyes widened, nodding as he silently prayed he was bluffing. Michael grabbed the keys, allowing Luis to get out of his home first.

On the way out of the apartment complex, a woman walked past Michael and Luis, glancing to the taller of the two for a moment before rushing away quickly.

"I swear, man, you gotta walk with bad posture and regular clothes. You look like a gang member." Luis said, tugging at Michael's suit jacket and gestured to his fancy pants.

"If I'm going to be rich, I'm going to dress nice. Not like some lousy, drug addicted snob." Michael spoke gruffly, glancing down at Luis, who rolled his eyes.

"Love you too, man."

Luis slid into the back of Michael's car, who quickly started it up and drove down the road. With Michael listening to his music, he couldn't hear the clicking of Luis' guns as he readied everything.

Pulling up to the bank, Michael looked back to see Luis tuck something behind his back, frowning in suspicion. "What was that?"

Luis shook his head, humming. "Nothing, compadre. I'll be back. Keep the car warm for me, yeah?" Luis slapped his friends shoulder twice before exiting the vehicle, a distrustful look on Michael's face as Luis disappeared behind the doors.

Michael sighed, looking in the mirror of his visor and messed with his beard and hair, occasionally glancing to the bank doors.

He turned off the music, listening for anything. A gunshot made him flinch hard, eyes widening as he looked to the bank doors. Fumbling with his seat belt, Michael's stare didn't move. "Son of a bitch—" He swore, throwing the door open as he looked in the back seat, opening that door and retrieving a gun from underneath the drivers seat.

Michael ran inside the bank, gripping the handgun as he looked around, everyone screaming as Michael spotted a young boy on the ground, blood pooled around him.

Slowly, he looked up, facing Luis, who was panicking as he had a duffel bag of money. "Mikey I swear I didn't—"

"You said it was a goddamn trust fund, you fucker!" Michael yelled, turning to one of the bank tellers. One of her hands disappeared underneath the desk, Michael aiming his gun at her. "You better show me that other fucking hand or I swear to god you'll end up like Luis will."

The woman yelped, raising her hand back up. Michael flicked the gun towards him, gesturing. "Come over here."

The bank teller hummed in fear as she rushed to stand relatively close to Michael, who then grabbed her by the arm, yanking her towards him. Michael forced the woman to face Luis, slamming the gun in her hand.

Trembling, Luis looked between the bank teller and Michael. "Mikey—"

"Shoot him." Michael seethed, forcing the woman to aim the gun at Luis. The woman sniffles, shaking her head. "Shoot him!"

Luis raised his gun up to the woman, trembling. "I don't wanna kill you, lady!" Luis yelled as the woman did, hands shaking as she held the gun.

The stand-off had been too long for Michael, who was clearly growing agitated by his tapping foot. He grabbed the gun from the bank tellers hand and she yelped again as he fire the gun, which hit Luis directly in the shoulder. He shot his gun, which struck the bank teller in the chest, and she fell to the round, dead.

Michael jumped behind the desk, Luis finding cover as the two started shooting. The hostages started scrambling for the door, barely escaping the stray bullets that Michael shot towards his now-former friend.

The cops arrived only shortly after all the hostages had abandoned the bank. When they arrived, they found Michael standing over the body of Luis, who had several bullet wounds.

"Hands in the air!" The cops yelled, covering themselves with shields as they raised their guns to Michael. "Drop the gun!"

Michael let go of the gun without another thought, slowly raising his hand in the air.