Chapter 3: Never Piss Off a Man With Nothing to Lose!

"I had a good job... until my boss accused me of theft."

"SHEEEIT! I better call Saul!"

"..."

"I was just driving, minding my business. Got pulled over for DUI."

"Oh Lord! I better call Saul!"

"..."

"Hi, I'm attorney Saul Goodman. Do you know what rights the Constitution gives you? No? That's okay, because I do."

"I believe every American is innocent until proven guilty—and it's my job to make sure you're never proven guilty at all!"

"So don't wait—Better Call Saul!"

The cheesy TV ad blared from the screen of a fried chicken joint, echoing with sleazy confidence.

Outside, Rorschach Butcher sat behind the wheel of an old, beat-up pickup truck, staring blankly at the restaurant's glowing sign. His right hand gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white.

If he could, he'd slam the pedal and crash straight through the window, grinding that bastard Gus into the linoleum.

But fantasy time was over.

Gustavo Fring might be one of the most powerful drug lords in Chicago—and now he was knee-deep in child trafficking—but to Rorschach, he was something far worse: a man who owned his past.

He wasn't a crooked cop. Not exactly.

He was an infiltrator. A mole. A deep-cover agent placed in the CPD by Gus himself.

A walking tragedy.

"Son of a bitch. Maybe I'm the lamest isekai protagonist ever."

Rorschach flicked the cigarette out the window and stepped out of the truck.

Technically, "reincarnated" wasn't quite the right word. He hadn't been thrown into this world as an adult. He'd been born here—with memories of a life before.

A glitch in the matrix. Punishment for drinking the wrong tea before death. Whatever it was, he'd landed in a broken world.

Outside the door, an old white man with a newspaper sat on a bench. Rorschach gave him a quick glance, hesitated for half a second, then pushed the door open.

He didn't head to the counter. Instead, he slid into a booth near the back, eyes locked on the TV looping Saul Goodman's ridiculous ad.

Time ticked by.

Soon, closing time. Customers left. Only a few employees remained.

And then, at last, a man in a pale yellow shirt and gold-rimmed glasses sat down across from Rorschach.

Gustavo Fring.

The face of fast food. The kingpin of Chicago. And the man who once dragged a teenage Rorschach out of the gutter.

"Rorschach, I thought I made it clear. Unless I contact you first, you don't contact me."

His voice was calm, smooth, authoritative.

"So whatever excuse you've got for being here, it better be worth it."

Rorschach met his gaze—hard, cold, unblinking.

The kind of look that came from jumping out of planes into hell.

"Why are you trafficking kids, Gus?"

Fring blinked.

Then smiled.

"Are you... questioning me?"

His smile vanished.

"Let me remind you who you are. Without me, you'd be rotting in a South Side alley. I pulled you out. I paid for your schooling. I paid for your mother's funeral!"

His voice rose with each word.

"You joined the army to run from me. Do you know how much it cost me to get you transferred back here? To get you into the CPD? You owe me, Rorschach. Every mission. Every secret. Every dirty job you did—I have it all on record."

"If even one of those leaks, you're finished. Not just as a cop. As a human being."

"So if you're done playing tough guy, go back to the station and dig up everything you can on the missing kids. Now."

Rorschach was silent.

He remembered the things he'd done. The people he'd killed.

He wasn't a dealer. He hated drugs. But he was a killer. Gus's personal little ghost.

He was young. He looked harmless. And with a Colt in his jacket, he was death incarnate.

Fring had learned two things:

A bullet from a kid's gun is just as deadly.

Rorschach Butcher was dangerous.

That's why he'd groomed him. Planted him inside the CPD. His ultimate inside man.

Rorschach looked up at the ceiling, then toward the dark sky beyond the window.

Finally, he said, "You're right. I do regret something."

Gus leaned in.

Rorschach stood.

"I regret not shooting you in the f*cking head the day I buried my mother."

His voice was flat, cold.

"I'm not giving you intel. I'm not covering for your little child-smuggling operation. If you want war, Gus, I'll bring the fire."

He turned and walked away.

Gus's voice followed, low and venomous:

"You don't know what I'm capable of, Rorschach. You think you're untouchable? You'll die screaming."

Rorschach stopped.

He looked over his shoulder.

And smiled.

"Never piss off a man with nothing to lose."

He vanished into the night.

Gus's fist slammed into the table.

The dog he raised had turned feral.

Outside.

Rorschach lit a smoke. Tossed another to the old man on the bench.

"Thought you'd barge in there, put a gun to my head, make me obey."

The man lowered his paper. A weathered, stone-faced veteran.

He took the cigarette.

"He's my boss. You were my best student. I don't pick sides."

Rorschach chuckled bitterly.

"You will, Mike. Someday. Hope your trigger finger's still steady."

His truck roared to life, belching black smoke as he disappeared into the dark.

Mike stayed seated. Silent. Thinking.

Meanwhile, fire churned in Rorschach's gut.

He needed to let it out.

And he knew just the place.

His place.

A club he built himself.

Fight Club.