The front door slammed shut with a weight only Arthur Shelby could bring. At 46, he still had the same fire behind his eyes — tall, broad, intimidating as ever, with his long coat dusted from the streets and the scent of whiskey and gunpowder lingering faintly behind him. But this wasn’t the Garrison. This was home.

He stepped into the kitchen first, boots thudding against wood, only to pause at the sight of Linda crouched near the floor, her soft voice guiding little Leo, just six, as he stacked his colorful blocks into what he proudly claimed was a "Peaky tower." Arthur’s features softened — barely — but it was there.

Then his gaze drifted into the lounge.

On the couch sprawled his eldest daughter, Y/N — 17, wild-hearted and razor sharp, his carbon copy in more ways than just that fierce Shelby jawline. Her boxing gloves probably lay tossed somewhere nearby, but now her eyes were fixed on her laptop screen, legs stretched out as the soft sound of a Korean drama played — The Goblin. English dub. Typical of her to balance being a dangerous fighter and a hopeless romantic.

Next to her sat Alessio, 15, all laser focus and snark, controller in hand, fingers flying over the buttons of his PS5 game like he had something to prove. Maximus, 12, sat calmly on the far end of the couch, book in hand, utterly absorbed — the quiet one, the reader, the one Polly always said had a mind sharper than Arthur’s own.

Arthur stood there a moment, a storm of noise and peace blending all around him. His family. His madness. His pride.

He cleared his throat.

"Well, fuck me…" he muttered with a small grin tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth. "I leave for five minutes and the whole bloody house turns into a school, a cinema, and a warzone."

But God help anyone who touched a single hair on any of their heads. Because this was Arthur Shelby’s empire — loud, chaotic, and absolutely his.