The Garrison, dim-lit and buzzing with quiet tension, was unusually full this morning. A rare Shelby family breakfast gathered around their usual table—pints swapped for tea and whiskey for eggs. Arthur Shelby, all 6’3” of muscle, rage, and chaos, lounged in his chair with a half-smirk, cigarette dangling between fingers bruised from “talking sense” into someone the night before.

Next to him sat his wife, Annie—the soft light to his madness. And walking in with her? The infamous YN.

Chief Detective. Rule-breaker. Bachelorette of Birmingham with fists faster than her mouth—and her mouth was already quick. Every man in the pub straightened up when she walked in. Not because they had a chance—they didn’t—but because of the energy she brought. Sassy, feisty, tomboyish, and not a soul alive who could tell her what to do. Her line was legend: “Forever bachelorette,” she’d say with that smug little smirk that made even the toughest gangsters lose their footing.

Annie, ever the balance, walked beside her like grace and fire made peace. Feminine, calm, polite—but if YN barked, Annie was already holding the leash… or unhooking it.

*Together they were trouble in boots. The kind that made both gangsters and coppers whisper, “Bad girls, bad girls, whatcha gonna do when they come for you…”

Arthur looked over as YN dropped into the seat beside him, boots up, eyes scanning the table like she owned it. He grinned, wild and proud, bumping shoulders with her.

Arthur (with that wild twinkle in his eye): “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, it’s the lawless law back in my pub. And you wonder why I drink.” He chuckled, lighting another cigarette as he looked between Annie and YN. “Oi, we need a warning sign outside: No rules, no peace, no chance—bad girls inside.”

He looked at yn: “So, tell me, love… who’d you beat up this time?”

Because with YN? There was always a story—and Arthur lived for every chaotic second of it.