When Michael De Santa woke up from his dream, his pillow was soaked.
He didn’t know if it was sweat or tears.
Probably sweat, because he never cried in front of others, not even in his dreams.
It was that scene again.
North Yankton, heavy snow, the parking lot outside the bank.
The sound of bullets tearing through the air like ripping a wet cloth, then Brad fell, and the snow was stained crimson.
His own shoulder was also shot, hurting so much he could barely hold his gun, but Dave Norton—that “good cop” from the FBI—shoved him into the car, whispering, “Don’t look back, it’s meaningless if you die.”
He didn’t look back.
Nine years, every day he wondered, if he had looked back then, would it have been different?
But he knew the answer: no.
Brad was dead, and he, Michael, was almost dead too.
The only way out alive was to become Dave’s “informant,” sell out his former accomplices, and then move to Los Santos with a large sum of money, into a mansion in Rockford Hills, becoming a “legitimate businessman.”
Legitimate businessman.
Michael looked at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand and gave a bitter smile.
A legitimate businessman wouldn’t wake up at four in the morning and drink, wouldn’t soak in a bathtub for three hours staring blankly, wouldn’t tell his psychiatrist, “I feel like my life is over.”
He got up, his bare feet treading on the cold marble floor, and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window.
The night view of Los Santos was like a giant jewelry billboard, brightly lit, but not a single light was shining for him.
The night light from the hallway seeped through the bedroom door, and he heard the sound of the TV downstairs—Tracey must be watching that damned reality show again.
His daughter was nineteen, and all she thought about was how to get on TV, how to become famous, how to let everyone in Los Santos know she was “Michael De Santa’s daughter.” His wife Amanda De Santa?
She didn’t come back last night, probably spent the night with her yoga instructor.
His son Jimmy was in his room playing games, eating potato chips, weighing almost two hundred pounds, his greatest achievement in life being “making a Frenchman cry in an online game.”
This was Michael De Santa’s life.
Mansion, luxury cars, swimming pool, home theater—and an empty grave.
He picked up his phone and checked the time: April 6, 2013, 4:17 AM.
Another hour until dawn.
He didn’t want to lie back in bed, didn’t want to dream of North Yankton again, didn’t want to see Brad’s face again.
That face in his dreams was always young, grinning, saying, “Michael, after this heist, we retire, go south and soak up the sun.”
They did go south.
Except Brad was lying underground, and Michael was lying on a lie.
He walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and let the hot water pour over his shoulder.
The gunshot wound had long healed, but it still ached on rainy days, like some ancient curse, reminding him, “You owe a life.”
That robbery nine years ago was supposed to be the last one.
Planned for three months, the target was the bank vault in North Yankton.
Brad was in charge of explosives, Michael of negotiations, and a madman named Trevor was in charge of “killing their whole family if anyone called the police.” It was the craziest yet most reliable team—until the FBI showed up.
Michael still couldn’t figure out who leaked the information.
Dave said, “It was someone from your inside,” but Dave’s words could only ever be half-believed.
In that half, Michael chose to believe that Dave genuinely wanted him to live—not for justice, but for Dave’s own promotion.
“An FBI agent bravely shot and killed a hardened criminal during a bank robbery and arrested another”—what a great press release.
Dave became a hero, Michael became a “former criminal turned cooperating witness,” and Brad became a name on a tombstone.
As for Trevor…
Michael closed his eyes, hot water streaming down his cheeks.
Trevor thought he was dead.
This was the most painful part of the whole plan for Michael—not because Trevor would be sad, but because if Trevor knew the truth, he would kill him.
That madman had zero tolerance for betrayal.
So Michael chose to “fake his death.” Dave announced in the news that “Michael Townley (alias) has been confirmed dead,” and then sent the real Michael to Los Santos, changing his name to De Santa.
For nine years, Michael had countless times wanted to call Trevor, to tell him, “I’m not dead, I’m sorry, but I had to do it.” Each time, he would dial to the last digit and hang up.
It wasn’t fear of death; it was fear of hearing Trevor’s voice and realizing how ridiculous his nine years of “decent life” had been.
He turned off the water, dried himself, and put on his bathrobe.
The man in the mirror was in his early fifties, bald, with a beer belly and eye bags as deep as trenches.
He stared at himself for five seconds, then said to the mirror:
“You’re a joke.”
The mirror did not retort.
At ten in the morning, Michael sat in his white Obey Comet Sports Car, stuck in traffic on the Los Santos highway.
Ahead was a truck carrying eggs, behind was an RV plastered with “Jesus Loves You” stickers.
He honked twice, to no avail.
His phone rang.
It was his psychiatrist, Dr.
Friedlander.
“Michael, you’re twenty minutes late.”
“Traffic.”
“You’re always in traffic.”
“Because I live in Los Santos, Dr.
Land.
The designers of this city are either madmen or they want to see humanity suffer.”
“You’re more irritable than usual today.
Did you dream again last night?”
Michael was silent for three seconds.
“…No.”
“You’re lying.
Your voice frequency has dropped.”
“Where the hell did you learn that!
Polygraph expert?”
“I have a machine.
Come on, today’s conversation is very important for you.
Last time we talked about ‘dissatisfaction with family stemming from dissatisfaction with oneself.'”
Michael hung up the phone.
He didn’t want to talk about “dissatisfaction with himself.” Of course he was dissatisfied with himself.
A man who had robbed thirty banks, stolen a hundred cars, and deceived everyone, now his biggest worries were his daughter wanting to dance on a reality show, his son growing marijuana in the bathroom, and his wife “exchanging feelings” with her tennis coach.
What kind of bullshit life was this?
But he had no right to complain.
This was his choice.
A safe, boring, hypocritical life, at the cost of always sleeping with a lie.
He finally arrived at Dr.
Friedlander’s psychology clinic—a white modern building with neatly trimmed shrubs at the entrance, looking like a high-end funeral home.
Michael walked in, and the receptionist smiled at him: “Mr.
De Santa, the doctor is waiting for you.”
Friedlander sat beside his famous chaise longue, a pen in his hand, his notebook filled with writing.
He was in his thirties, wore glasses, spoke slowly, and had a confidence that made one want to punch him.
“Please sit, Michael.
Or lie down?
You said last time it’s easier to relax when lying down.”
“I said last time it’s easier to fall asleep.”
“That’s also a form of relaxation.”
Michael sat in the chair, crossed his legs, and clasped his hands across his chest.
This was his “defensive posture,” which Friedlander pointed out every time, but he always did it anyway.
“Last night’s dream,” Friedlander began directly, “North Yankton?”
Michael said nothing.
“Every time you have that dream, the next day you’re irritable, late, and avoid eye contact.
Today you fit all three.”
“Are you showing off your observational skills, or are you treating me?”
“Both.” Friedlander smiled, “Michael, you’ve been talking to me for two years.
In these two years, we’ve repeatedly returned to the same theme: you’re trapped between past crimes and fear of the future.
You can neither accept that you were once a criminal, nor can you accept that you are now a—”
“A what?
A good-for-nothing?”
“I didn’t say good-for-nothing.
I said ‘a person unable to find meaning in their current life.'”
Michael sneered: “Meaning?
Was there meaning when I robbed banks?
Yes, the meaning was money.
Now I have money, and the meaning is gone.
Is that the answer you want?”
Friedlander was not provoked; instead, he calmly turned a page in his notebook: “Do you believe Brad’s death was your fault?”
The air suddenly solidified.
Michael’s fingers tightened on the armrest, knuckles white.
His voice dropped: “I told you, it was an accident.”
“Your dream doesn’t see it as an accident.
In your dream, every time Brad falls, he asks you the same question—”
“Enough!!”
“—’Why did you leave me?'”
Michael stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.
He walked to the window, his back to Friedlander, his shoulders trembling slightly.
“…I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Alright.
Then let’s talk about a topic you’d rather not discuss: Trevor.”
Michael spun around abruptly, a flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by anger: “Damn it!
I pay you to help me sleep!
Not to bring up those names!!”
“Those names?
There’s only one name.
Trevor Philips.
Your partner from North Yankton nine years ago, the one you think is dead—or rather, the one you wish was dead?”
“I don’t wish him dead!”
“Then why have you never contacted him?”
“Because he’ll kill me!”
Friedlander put down his pen and looked at Michael seriously: “You’re afraid he’ll kill you because you betrayed him.
And you betrayed him because you chose to survive.
You see, Michael, you’re not a bad person.
You’re just an ordinary person who has done bad things and wants to be good.
These two things are not contradictory.”
Michael didn’t answer.
He stood by the window, looking at the blue sky of Los Santos outside, and suddenly remembered the snow from that day in North Yankton.
The snow was heavy, so heavy he couldn’t see the traffic lights across the street.
Brad’s driving was terrible; he skidded twice on the ice, and Trevor cursed him the whole way.
Michael sat in the back seat, counting the money in the bags, thinking, “This is the last time I’ll be in this car.”
That was indeed the last time.
“Time’s up, Michael.” Friedlander stood up, “Same time next week.”
“I’m not sure I’ll come again.”
“You always say that.”
Michael walked out of the clinic and stood in the sun, feeling heavier than when he went in.
He got into his car, didn’t start it immediately, but pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number with no name.
The contact note for that number was a five-pointed star.
He stared at that five-pointed star for a long time.
Trevor’s phone number.
In nine years, he had changed phones five times, but each time he would save this number, never dialing it.
He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and drove down the hill.
An old song played on the radio, and he hummed along for a couple of lines, suddenly feeling less stifled in his chest.
Then his phone rang.
Not a call, but a text message from an unknown number:
[Mr.
De Santa, I’m Franklin Clinton.
Mr.
Simeon referred me.
There’s a car you need to confirm for repossession.
Tonight at 8 PM, behind the Vinewood movie theater.]
Michael frowned.
Simeon—that used car dealer, full of lies, but occasionally he’d get “clean” repossession orders.
He really needed some cash lately to pay for Tracey’s “acting lessons” (which was actually tuition for a con artist claiming to be a director).
Plus, he really didn’t want to stay home and listen to Amanda De Santa and Jimmy argue.
He replied with two words: [What time.]
The other side replied instantly: [8 PM.
See you there.]
Michael put down his phone, suddenly feeling a strange sensation—as if something different was going to happen tonight.
Not good, not bad.
Just…
different.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Nothing different ever happened in Los Santos.
Every day was traffic, traffic, traffic, plus some reckless young people trying to be criminals.
But what he didn’t know was that waiting for him behind the Vinewood movie theater tonight wasn’t just a young Black man named Franklin.
There was also a Transmigrator.