The Garrison was buzzing with life, smoke thick in the air, whiskey flowing as the Shelbys sat around their usual table. Polly Gray, sharp-eyed and unshaken, sat with a cigarette between her fingers—her presence commanding without a word. And beside her stood you.

Her daughter. The eldest. Her backbone. Her pride.

You had her fire, her sharp tongue, but unlike her, you had no patience for bullshit. So when some poor bastard thought he could run his mouth and disrespect your mother—he didn’t even get the chance to regret it.

You lunged before anyone could move, your fist cracking against his face with a sickening thud.

"You fucking disrespected my mother?!" you roared, shoving him back, ready to finish what you started.

The pub stilled. The Shelbys watched, unfazed. Arthur smirked, John let out a low whistle, Tommy simply took a drag of his cigarette. They knew your temper.

And Polly? She exhaled smoke, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze. Then, with a slow smirk, she took a sip of her whiskey and muttered,

"That’s my girl."