"Hey, friend, I get it! Just... don't pull the trigger."
The Beejay XL surged back to life, tires chirping as Franklin steered the yellow SUV back toward the dealership. Michael sat in the back, finally taking a second to look Jax over. Once he was satisfied the kid hadn't been cracked open during the bumpy ride, he let out a long, ragged breath.
The two veterans of the city—one retired, one aspiring—began to talk. Franklin didn't take long to fold. He laid out the whole scam: the predatory loans, the "King of Favors" branding, and the way Simeon Yetarian bled the working class of Los Santos dry. By the time he was finished, Michael's eyes were narrowed with a cold, familiar spark.
It was nearly nine in the morning. The sun was burning through the smog, and the rhythmic wail of a distant siren served as a constant reminder of where they were.
"So, Mike," Jax said, leaning forward. "How do we play this?"
"How do you think?" Michael growled, checking the slide on his Glock. "We're going to give that little Armenian shakedown artist a lesson in customer service."
The SUV ate up the miles, eventually pulling into the lot of Premium Deluxe Motorsport. The sprawling glass front of the dealership gleamed under the California sun.
"This is the place, man," Franklin said, pointing a shaking finger at the showroom.
"Stop the car." Michael tapped the muzzle of the pistol against the back of Franklin's head.
The SUV groaned to a halt by the curb. Franklin kept his hands high, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror. In a city where the LAPD was already on edge, being a black man in a car with two armed white men wasn't a gamble he wanted to lose. He wasn't about to test if these two were just angry or if they were the "Grand Wizard" type of angry.
"Should we just drive through the front door?" Jax suggested.
He knew Michael. The man wasn't exactly a fan of subtle entries when his blood was up.
Michael looked at Jax with a grin of genuine appreciation. "Kid, you read my mind. Franklin—hit that glass display. Floor it."
Michael paused, a rare moment of caution crossing his face. "Jax, maybe you should hop out. This is going to get messy."
Jax shook his head without a second thought. This was the ground floor. If he wanted a seat at the table for the big scores, he had to be in the car when the glass broke. "I'm in, Mike. Let's go."
"You guys are joking, right?" Franklin's voice went up an octave.
"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Michael hissed. "Move!"
Franklin cursed his luck, slammed the gear into drive, and buried his foot in the floorboard. The engine roared like a cornered beast. Jax felt the violent shove of acceleration, followed by the deafening, crystalline scream of shattering safety glass. The SUV plowed through the showroom, coming to a halt amidst a wreckage of high-end floor models and sparkling shards.
"Holy shit!" a hoarse, accented voice screamed from the office.
Jax climbed out of the wreck, shaking the glass dust from his pink shirt. He felt remarkably steady, his youth giving him an edge over the others who were still stumbling.
"Franklin! What the hell is this?!"
Simeon stood there, his jaw hanging open, looking at his ruined kingdom.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Simeon," Franklin muttered, leaning against the car for support. "I... I couldn't help it."
"You're done here, kid," Michael interrupted, stepping around the SUV. He pulled a thick roll of bills from his pocket and tossed it at Franklin's chest. "Take the money. Consider it a severance package."
Franklin didn't ask questions. He knew a sinking ship when he saw one. He grabbed the cash and vanished through the broken storefront without looking back.
"Watch closely, Jax," Michael said, rolling up his sleeves. "Time for a little Los Santos justice."
Michael lunged. The first punch caught Simeon square in the jaw with a wet thud that made Jax's own teeth ache. The two men spiraled into a desperate, ugly brawl.
Jax watched, expecting the cinematic dominance Michael was known for. But reality was grittier. Years of Redwood cigarettes, heavy drinking, and a diet of Bleeder Burgers had taken their toll. Within a minute, the struggle flipped. Simeon, fueled by pure, panicked adrenaline, managed to pin Michael to the floor, his hands clawing at the older man's throat.
This isn't how the script goes, Jax thought.
He didn't hesitate. Jax stepped in, his boot connecting with Simeon's ribs in a sharp, calculated strike that sent the dealer tumbling. Before Simeon could recover, Jax was on him, raining down a barrage of disciplined punches.
He found he actually enjoyed it. In his previous life, he'd lost countless hours to the police chases Simeon had inadvertently caused. This was for every failed mission and every "random" repossession.
By the time Jax stood up, Simeon was a heap of snot and tears on the linoleum.
"Damn it!"
Jax spun around. Michael was back on his feet, his face flushed a dangerous shade of purple. He was reaching into his waistband, drawing his pistol with a trembling hand. The look in his eyes was lethal. He wasn't just going to beat Simeon; he was going to end him.
Not here. Not now.
[Super Dynamic Vision: Activated.]
The world slowed. Jax saw Michael's thumb move toward the safety. In a blur of motion that felt like an eternity to him but a second to the onlookers, Jax lunged forward and snatched the Glock from Michael's grip.
"What are you doing?!" Michael barked, his mind slowly clearing from the red haze.
"Taking someone's lunch money is a misdemeanor, Mike," Jax said, his heart hammering as the vision faded and the exhaustion hit. "Blowing their brains out in front of twenty witnesses is a life sentence. Look."
Jax pointed toward the street. A crowd had gathered behind the shattered glass, phones raised. The moment Jax turned, they scattered like pigeons, terrified of being the next target.
Michael took a deep breath, the rage receding into a cold, sharp bitterness. He kicked Simeon one last time for good measure. "You're lucky the kid is here, you piece of shit. We're done."
Michael turned to leave, but Jax caught his arm. His eyes were scanning the showroom, settling on a pristine white pickup truck tucked in the corner.
"Wait, Uncle Mike," Jax said. "This whole mess started because this guy tried to scam your son. It's only fair we take a little 'emotional distress' compensation, right?"
Michael's eyes lit up. A slow, appreciative grin spread across his face. He was starting to really like this kid. "Reasonable. Very reasonable."
Under Simeon's broken, venomous gaze, they hopped into the truck and drove through the ruins of the dealership. Simeon wouldn't call the cops. Half his inventory was "creative" imports and the other half was stolen. He was a ghost in the system, just like them.
Once they were a few miles clear, Jax didn't head for Rockford Hills. He followed the GPS toward the Los Santos Department of Commerce.
"Where we going, Jax?"
"To make it official," Jax said, thinking of the system rewards and Bruce's growing menagerie. "I'm registering the Sterling Pet Clinic. If I'm going to survive this city, I need a legitimate front—and my dog needs more 'subordinates'."