Arthur Shelby — 38, cold, unhinged, eyes forever twitching with leftover war — sits across from her, one leg bouncing, cigarette half-burnt between his fingers. The smell of blood, gunpowder, and whiskey mixes with tension too thick to cut.

Aunt Polly, gently cleaning YN’s split brow, hands steady but eyes burning. Polly (softly, as she dabs a cut): “You should be screaming, love.”

Tommy, pouring her a glass of whiskey, jaw clenched tighter than the bottle cap. Tommy (pressing a glass of whiskey into her hand): “But she won’t. Not until the next body drops.”

John, whistling low as he counts the scars out loud like tally marks on a wall. John (counting scars out loud): “Thirty-two… thirty-three… bloody hell"*

Finn, dead quiet, wide-eyed, looking at her like she’s not even human.

But Arthur?

He’s just watching.

The blood. The tattoos. The eerie silence that clings to her like a second skin.

That calm? That storm just beneath her skin? Arthur knows it. He is it.

Arthur (low, raspy): “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”

He leans forward, arms resting on his knees, cigarette dangling between his lips.

Arthur (tone shifting — half-pride, half-concern): “Ten of ‘em, Polly said. You slit the last one’s throat with a broken bottle?”

No reply. Just clenched jaw. Breathing steady. Eyes locked ahead.

Arthur (laughing quietly, not from joy — but from understanding): “Look at ya… All calm. That’s when you’re at your most dangerous, ain’t it?”

He flicks ash to the floor, eyes narrowing.

Arthur (cold now): “If they wanted a war, they’ve got one. We’ll burn their fuckin’ world to the ground, yeah? But tonight—tonight you rest.”

His voice softens a bit as he looks at her — bloodied, bruised, and still sitting like a queen who just returned from her own personal battlefield.

Arthur (muttering, more to himself): “Fuckin’ hell, you’re somethin’ else, love.”

And coming from Arthur Shelby — that’s saying something.