Chapter 11: Correcting Frank's Behavior
"She's upstairs," William said calmly, glancing toward the doorway.
"She'll be down soon."
From the smell alone, he already knew who the cops had dragged in.
That foul stench could only belong to one man — Frank Gallagher.
William sighed.
His mind started turning, running through a dozen different ways to make Frank's life "respectable."
None of them sounded very respectable.
"Maybe I should just bury him. Six feet under is pretty damn dignified, right?"
Whether the system would count that as "changing Frank's fate" didn't really matter to him.
At this point, William didn't even care if he failed a mission.
The system hadn't said what the long-term reward was anyway —
so where was the motivation supposed to come from?
---
"Hey, Tony— is that Frank?" Fiona's voice came from the stairs.
She had just thrown on a coat, hair still messy, clothes half-buttoned.
When Tony turned to face her, the sight hit him like a punch.
Her hair was tangled. Her sleeves were damp.
There was no mistaking it — she'd been with someone.
His rational side screamed at him to accept the truth.
But his heart — his foolish, loyal heart — scrambled to make excuses.
Maybe she was just cleaning? Maybe she spilled something?
Maybe I knocked too soon and startled her mid-outfit change!
If William had known the delusional optimism running through Tony's head,
he'd probably have muttered one simple word — "Pathetic."
No wonder this man ended up gay later.
It wasn't orientation; it was trauma.
---
"Yep," Tony said briskly, trying to sound professional.
"We found him passed out on the sidewalk. Figured we'd bring him home."
He nodded toward his partner, and the two officers started dragging Frank's unconscious body into the house.
"Careful," the partner added, wrinkling his nose.
"His pants are still wet. Don't put him on the carpet."
William pinched the bridge of his nose.
That explained the smell.
His newly enhanced senses — courtesy of the Regeneration Factor — made the stench even sharper.
Urine, alcohol, cheap cologne, and failure.
The scent of South Side perfume.
For a moment, William genuinely considered walking right back out the door.
---
"Well," he said dryly, turning to Fiona,
"looks like you've got your hands full tonight. I'll get out of your way."
Fiona just stood there in silence, her face unreadable.
She nodded once, curtly.
The truth was, William had no intention of staying.
The mission was complete.
He'd gotten what he came for — and that was all.
He wasn't Steve, obsessed with saving or seducing her.
This had been business, nothing more.
Patting the wall lightly, he said, "Alright. I'm heading out."
Without another word, he walked to the door and left.
---
Fiona watched his back fade into the night before closing the door softly.
Her face was blank — too blank.
Then she turned, leaning against the doorframe.
Her legs gave out.
She slid down to the floor.
For a moment, she just sat there — silent.
Then the tears came.
Hot, unstoppable.
She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from waking her siblings upstairs,
her body trembling as she looked across the room at Frank,
passed out and snoring on the couch like a corpse that refused to stay buried.
In her eyes was a storm of pain — hatred, pity, exhaustion —
and something like love that refused to die, no matter how much she wanted it to.
---
Outside, William exhaled a long breath.
Warm air met the cold Chicago night, turning to mist before fading away.
Upstairs, Ian, Lip, and Carl stood by the window,
watching the blond man standing motionless outside their house.
He looked up, noticed them, and raised a hand.
A simple wave — nothing more.
Then he turned, flagged down a taxi, and disappeared into the South Side darkness.
---
The Next Morning
Life in the Gallagher house went on as if nothing had happened.
No one changed. No one learned.
That was the South Side —
resilience mixed with denial.
William, meanwhile, was in no mood for reflection.
Unlike Steve, he had no obsession with Fiona.
He'd gotten what he needed.
Last night, when he got home,
he'd tested his new Regeneration Factor (Level 3) — and it worked beautifully.
No matter the injury, the wounds sealed instantly.
A slice, a burn, even a stab — all gone in seconds.
"Unless someone chops my head off like in the movies," he mused,
"I'm basically immortal now."
Finally, something worth the trouble.
---
Now that he'd tasted success, William wanted more.
If he could trigger another mission,
maybe he could stack more powers — or at least something useful.
And so, early that morning, he headed back to the South Side.
This time, though, he didn't go straight to the Gallagher house.
That would look suspicious.
Instead, he went to The Alibi Room — the neighborhood bar.
If there was one man who could generate missions just by existing, it was Frank Gallagher.
After all, Frank basically lived there.
If you wanted to find him, you didn't need to look far.
---
"Whoa! If it isn't the guy who took down Cliffton last night," Kev said, eyes wide as William walked in.
"What brings you here so early, man? Beer for breakfast?"
"Well," William said, sliding onto a stool, "might as well. Pour me one."
He knew from experience — the less he explained, the better.
Sometimes talking too much only drew questions.
Kev chuckled, grabbing a clean glass and filling it straight from the tap.
"I'm Kevin Ball, by the way," he said, handing it over.
"Didn't get to introduce myself properly last night."
William shook his hand.
"William. William Blake."
"KEVIN!"
A slurred voice echoed from the doorway.
William turned — and there he was.
Frank Gallagher.
Hair like a bird's nest.
Eyes half-closed.
And a grin that said he hadn't felt shame since the '80s.
"Kevin, did ya miss me!? Beer! Give me something strong! And maybe… something that won't kill me this time!"
William took a slow sip of his beer,
watching the man who was somehow both the heart and the disease of this family.
"Alright, Frank," he thought,
"time to start your rehabilitation."
Frank stumbled in like a man possessed, waving his arms and grinning like he'd just won the lottery.
"Billy!" he shouted, pointing toward a random guy slumped in the corner.
"You're drinking too? Hahaha!"
The entire bar collectively groaned.
Kevin sighed, slamming William's half-finished beer back onto the counter.
"Frank! For the love of God, get the hell outta here!"
William, however, wasn't paying attention to the commotion.
His eyes were on the envelope in Frank's hand.
"What's this lunatic celebrating now?" he wondered.
"Disability benefits? Or maybe Aunt Ginger's pension again?"
Whatever it was, Frank looked way too cheerful for a man who usually treated sobriety like a terminal illness.
---
"Relax, barkeep!" Frank cackled, tapping the counter.
"Paper! Pen! Today's a beautiful day — disability checks just dropped!"
Kevin rolled his eyes but couldn't help grinning.
"Unbelievable. The Social Security idiots still haven't figured out you're faking it?"
He didn't actually care where Frank's money came from.
As long as Frank paid his tab, the rest was none of his business.
And Frank had racked up quite a few unpaid tabs at The Alibi Room.
Kevin slid a pen across the bar.
"I figured they'd have someone filming you 24/7 by now, Frank — reality-show style.
'Life of a Professional Fraud.'"
He started mixing a drink while Frank scribbled his signature like it was a work of art.
Frank looked perfectly at ease.
"Let 'em film," he said, smirking.
"As long as they actually catch me doing something."
He scrawled his name, then slid the signed check toward Kevin in exchange for a cold beer.
---
Taking a long gulp, Frank looked around the bar — filled with half-asleep regulars and weary faces.
"What's wrong with you people?
Why's everyone in here drinking this early?"
Kevin shrugged, cashing Frank's check while answering flatly,
"Chrysler plant shut down."
Frank's eyes lit up like Christmas morning.
"See! That's exactly what I've been saying!
That's the problem!
Working — that's the real disease!
Unstable hours, impossible pressure — and for what? To end up here anyway!"
Kevin didn't even bother replying.
He'd heard Frank's "philosophy" too many times.
He simply exchanged the check for cash, then deducted Frank's tab before dropping the remainder on the counter with a dull slap.
---
Right then, a familiar sound chimed in William's head.
[Ding! Task Detected: Frank Gallagher's fraudulent use of social security funds must be corrected.]
[Reward: Disease Transference.]
---
William froze mid-sip.
"Disease Transference?" he muttered under his breath.
"What the hell am I supposed to do with that?"
The name itself didn't sound promising.
"What is this, medical school now?"
"I'm not a doctor, I'm just trying to survive."
He tapped his chin, thinking.
Maybe the ability let him transfer illnesses from one person to another?
That… actually sounded darkly useful.
Or maybe, he thought grimly, it just dumped diseases onto him —
banking on his Regeneration Factor to heal through it.
That, on the other hand, sounded like something only a complete idiot would try.
He sipped his beer again and sighed.
"Yeah. Definitely not volunteering to be Frank Gallagher's personal immune system."
---