Thursday afternoon, South Side Iron Gym.
Danny was gritting his teeth through the last few resistance-band rows while Kevin hovered over him like a drill sergeant. The kid's face was beet-red, but his form had finally cleaned up.
Shane, meanwhile, was kicked back in a folding chair in the corner, straight-up slacking off instead of coaching. Laptop balanced on his thighs, YouTube Creator Studio open on the screen, phone right beside him blowing up with fresh notifications every few seconds.
It had only been about a day since he dropped the video, and it had already rocketed past 100,000 views. The numbers were still climbing—visibly speeding up every time he hit refresh.
The comment section was a full-blown riot, ten times louder than when it was just the before-and-after pics.
Most of the Photoshop-accusation accounts had gone quiet. The lifts looked too real—the muscle contractions, the sweat flying off, none of that was easy to fake in post.
But fresh attacks had already rolled in, meaner than ever:
Natural Bodybuilding Warrior: "Ten-minute deadlift with that weight? Back separation that clean? Where's the water retention, bro? Stop pretending you're natural if you're juicing. You can fool the newbies, not me."
Chemical Truth: "Asian genetics are good, but not this good. Tricep peaks and flared delts like that? I'll eat my damn keyboard if he's not on steroids."
South Side Keyboard Warrior: "Roid monkey! Selling out for clout and misleading everybody!"
The defense was just as loud:
Old-School Lifter: "All you 'he's on gear' clowns look like string beans. Look at the muscle shape and body-fat percentage—that's years of strict diet and real training. Where's the bloated juicer look? You blind?"
Talent Believer: "Is it really that hard to admit the dude's just gifted? That bone structure and tendon length? Pure genetic lottery for an athletic build. Add smart training and it's totally possible."
Vegeta: "This training setup is straight-up hardcore as fuck—respect."
And then there were the thirsty comments, way simpler and way more direct. Most avatars were either heavily filtered selfies or cute cartoon girls:
Sweetheart Chicago: "Daddy, the floor's already wet down here 💦" (big lipstick-kiss photo attached)
Sleepless Nights: "That body, that stare… sis has her credit card ready. Course bought. When can I get private one-on-one coaching? 😳"
Haters, ride-or-dies, and women who wanted to climb him like a jungle gym—all crammed into one comment section, turning it into pure chaos.
Shane scrolled through the mess with a satisfied smirk. The louder the fighting, the better.
He wanted the whole country talking about this "suspected juicer." Then, right when the drama hit its peak, he'd drop a clean drug-test bombshell and ride another massive traffic wave straight to the bank.
He switched tabs to his course sales dashboard. First time he'd checked since the video dropped. Even though he'd braced himself, the numbers still hit him.
Super Ultimate Transformation Plan – $799: 5 sold
Ultimate Personalized Plan – $199: 9 sold
$9.99 Recipe Upgrade Course: 110 sold
$6.99 Beginner Course: 67 sold
Plus a bunch of the smaller random stuff.
After platform fees, he'd cleared over seven grand in pure profit.
In twenty-four hours.
Seven thousand dollars in a single day.
Even the top comedy YouTubers right now would have to grind out multiple viral hits to pull that kind of money—and they'd still have to kiss sponsor ass to get it.
"People really are stupid with their money," Shane thought. "Or more accurately—anxiety is fucking expensive."
Good thing he'd planned ahead. He'd already built a full library of templated auto-replies and FAQs for the cheaper courses. Only the $199 and $799 plans needed his personal touch on the intake questionnaires.
But with new orders and DMs flooding in nonstop, even the templates plus Karen's occasional help weren't going to cut it much longer.
At this growth rate he'd need a full-time customer-service person soon.
He already had the perfect candidate: Sheila—Karen's mom.
Sheila was a little spacey and lived in her own head, but her brain was sharp. She used to do clerical work. More importantly, she had tons of free time and was currently too scared of the outside world and strangers to cause any trouble until her issues got sorted.
"I can build her a massive reply template library," Shane's mind raced. "Pre-written scripts for every course level, every type of question, even different tones for male versus female clients. She just copies, pastes, tweaks the name, and done."
"Give her a cut of the profit or a flat wage. Way cheaper and safer than bringing in some random outsider."
From the looks of it, he could basically sit on his ass and watch the money print itself.
He knocked out quick replies to a couple of the $199 intake emails—professional-sounding but fairly general advice—then scheduled to send their full plans next week.
After that he closed the laptop and pocketed his phone.
Online was officially a gushing oil well now, and the flow was insane.
Which meant it was finally time to settle some offline scores.
Shane wasn't any kind of saint. Those old street vendors had snitched on the breakfast van, nearly triggered a total disaster.
Sure, Fiona and Lip's brain-dead moves had played a part, but they were family. He could chew them out behind closed doors. These old vendors? They could get fucked.
He wasn't Shane Gallagher if he let this slide.
Across the warehouse, Danny finally finished his last set. He collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving, then Kevin made him do a few slow recovery laps around the gym.
Once he caught his breath, Danny walked over. "Coach… I'm done."
Still panting, he grinned. "I feel fucking amazing!"
He tried to laugh but choked on his own breath and started coughing. He snatched his water bottle off the floor and chugged.
Kevin wandered over wiping sweat with a towel and elbowed Shane. "Hey, I snuck a peek at your laptop earlier. That video of yours has a shit-ton of zeros behind it."
"And?" Shane asked, slipping his phone back in his pocket.
"Oh shit!" Kevin rubbed his hands together, excited. "Does this mean once I get jacked you're gonna upload 'The Evolution of Kevin the Great' and make me famous too?"
Kevin suddenly let out a sleazy little giggle, like he'd just pictured something dirty.
"By then there might be tons of bar chicks coming straight for me after watching the video—"
Shane gave him a flat look. "Yeah, I'll make you famous. Cremation famous."
Kevin froze for half a second, then burst out laughing again. He was already daydreaming about groupies and becoming the kind of internet celebrity where people fought to smell his farts.
Meanwhile Danny finally got his breathing under control. He remembered something and told Shane, "Oh yeah, Coach. I gotta take Saturday morning training off."
"What's up? Something happen?"
"Yeah, my mom's dragging me to this community thing at the elementary school right by the subway station you always drop me at. Some book-donation drive, helping sort stuff. She calls it 'giving back to Chicago.'"
Danny sounded completely unenthused.
A book donation drive?
At the community elementary school near the central subway station?
Shane's brain started turning fast.
Eileen was exactly that type of middle-class mom—pockets full of money and even more leftover "charity" to hand out. She loved these feel-good handout events.
And events like this didn't just pull Eileen. All the other idle, "compassionate" middle-class white women would probably show up in full force too.
They needed a safe, respectable place to flex their goodness.
These were the same women who were pros at two things:
One—feeling sorry for you from a nice, safe distance.
Two—writing complaints the second they thought you might "influence the children badly."
And their complaints hit way harder than loudmouths like Big-Mouth Ray. Those old vendors might get some local thugs to mess with you, but these ladies could get letters straight to city officials or community boards.
Shane's eyes narrowed with interest. "Danny."
"What time does your mom usually get off work? When's a good time to call her?"
Danny looked surprised. "Usually around five. She might pick up on her way home. Why, Coach? You need to talk to my mom?"
"Yeah, something about your training progress. I need to discuss it with her."
Shane made up a quick excuse.
"Also, tell your mom I'd like to come to that book-donation thing on Saturday. See if there's anything I can help with."
Danny blinked. "You want to come, Coach? That kind of event is pretty boring."
Shane smiled and waved it off. "Of course. Coach has always had a big heart for giving back to Chicago."