Just as Shane felt his brain short-circuiting, Fiona sat down with her plate and started updating him on the shop's progress. "That fatass from the health department finally stamped the papers—cost us two packs of cigarettes. And the fire inspection? Frank actually came through. Knew a guy, greased the right wheels, and we're scheduled now instead of next month."
Fiona rubbed the back of her neck while she talked.
Shane listened, then casually dropped, "You planning to hit Purgatory tomorrow night with Veronica? Go dance a little?"
Fiona froze, eyes widening. "How the hell did you know? I haven't even told her yet. Am I that obvious?"
Shane smirked and took a sip of water. "You didn't tell me. But I know the pattern. Every time you stretch yourself so tight you're about to snap, you head over there, sweat it out on the dance floor, and maybe hook up with someone to blow off steam. I'm not stopping you. You need the release."
Fiona blinked, then laughed. "Yeah. It's been forever. Hope the DJ's decent tomorrow."
Watching her light up, Shane nodded. "Go for it. And if the plot stays on script, you'll probably lose your wallet while you're there. I'll remind you before you leave."
Jimmy was coming. The famous big brother-in-law. Finally. Someone else could take some of the heat Frank kept dumping on the family.
Dinner ended the usual way—Carl trying to swipe one of Debbie's labeled yogurts and starting a full-blown war at the table.
Shane cleared a few plates, then got the hell out of the living room before the chaos pulled him back in. He headed straight for the basement.
He dropped into his chair, opened the laptop, and let out a long breath. "Safe to talk to clients. At least they don't try to kill me."
He logged into the course backend and started replying to emails. The $199 tier inbox was almost empty—only a handful of unread messages. Everything else was already marked handled.
Shane frowned and switched to Sheila's sub-account.
A long list of replies filled the screen.
He clicked through a few.
"Dear client, regarding your carb-cycling question during the cut, please refer to page 12 of the PDF. If you feel dizzy during workouts, try increasing—"
"Hello, thank you so much for your support. That back-activation feeling is super common for beginners. Don't stress—"
Polite. Warm. Professional. Every reply matched the templates he'd given her, with just enough personal tweaks to sound human.
"Damn. Hired the right person. Money well spent."
Shane nodded, satisfied. He was paying Sheila fifteen bucks an hour plus bonuses—damn good money in 2010 South Side. Fiona was killing herself at the diner for minimum wage and barely clearing eight.
Sheila might be a little unhinged when the episodes hit, but when her head was clear, her execution was scary good. Once the business scaled, he could hand her the whole customer-service and backend side. She never left the house, and nobody was steadier than her when she wasn't spiraling.
Of course, that only worked if her condition kept improving—and if Eddie didn't blow everything up first.
He checked the $799 course inbox, fired off a few quick answers, then leaned back and lit a cigarette.
He opened YouTube Creator Studio and refreshed the numbers.
First video: 412,580 views.
In a few days. On a brand-new fitness channel. In 2010. That was a goddamn bomb.
The comments were still a war zone.
"This is what steroid warriors look like?"
"I don't care if it's fake, I wanna lick that body."
"Fucking liar, ruining kids!"
Shane scrolled through the hate with zero reaction. He almost smiled.
Let them scream. Let them argue. The worst thing that could happen to an influencer wasn't getting roasted—it was getting ignored. As long as they kept typing, they were feeding the algorithm and his bank account.
He'd let the juice rumors cook until they peaked, then drop the clean test and ride the second wave straight to the bank. He already had the monetization plan locked.
Still humming, he logged into Facebook and queued up a new post.
He picked a few training shots from yesterday—deliberately chose the ones where his pants sat way too low. Sex sells. Even if half the likes came from guys, money didn't care about orientation. He just pretended he didn't notice.
Caption was simple, pure motivational cheese: "Only the weak hide in excuses. The strong rebuild themselves in sweat. #SouthSideIronGym #NoExcuses"
He hit post.
The second the notification bar started exploding with dings, Shane's eyebrows shot up. That wasn't normal. New posts didn't blow up this fast unless a ton of people were tagging him at once.
He clicked the bell.
Right at the top, one name kept repeating, pushed to the front by the algorithm:
ChicagoMuscleJack had posted and tagged @Shane-G-Fitness.
Shane followed the link.
The post opened on a classic gym mirror selfie—a thick-necked white guy with a buzzcut flexing his biceps hard. The dude had decent size, but his body-fat was high. Pure muscle wrapped in fat.
Profile said 1,800 followers. Local Chicago fitness coach with a little name in the scene.
The post already had over 3,000 likes and the comments were feral.
"Now the internet's just disgusting. Some random Asian steroid monkey pops up with over-Photoshopped pics and juice muscles and thinks he can call himself natural?
Selling fake courses? I watched your video. Your form is garbage. You think hiding in that broke-ass South Side warehouse means nobody can touch you?
I'm in Chicago too. We're not that far. Since you're so confident, how about we meet in person?
Let's see if your strength matches your mouth. Or are you too scared to piss in a cup?
@Shane—be a man and stop hiding!"
The replies underneath were pure chaos:
"Jack's right—expose this fake!"
"Yellow monkey's gonna piss himself when he sees Jack!"
"Jack's a powerlifter. Kid's dead!"
Shane leaned back in his chair, cigarette dangling from his lips.
"Fuck. The clout-chaser showed up."
He knew the play instantly. This MuscleJack clown had seen Shane's traffic and decided to ride it by calling him out. Classic local coach move—Shane's cheap courses were eating into their business, so the jealousy kicked in.
If Shane had actually been a real seventeen-year-old with god-tier genetics, he'd probably be flaming right now.
But Shane wasn't. He was a guy who'd lived through the golden age of short-form drama and livestream beefs. This wasn't an attack.
This was a gift-wrapped traffic package.
"1,800 followers, 3,000 likes… lot of people already hate this dude. Perfect. He wants to step on me to climb? I'll use him as the stepping stone and plant my flag in Chicago."
Shane's mind was already spinning the next chapter.