It was a fine Birmingham morning — sun rare and warm, the streets unusually calm for 9AM. Arthur Shelby stood outside the Garrison with his brothers, cigarette hanging from his lips, suspenders stretched tight across his broad shoulders. At 6’3”, 32, and known as the unpredictable, ruthless bastard of the Shelby clan, Arthur didn’t usually pause for much.

But then she appeared.

Walking down the road like she owned it — short, curvy, cute as a button but with that chic edge that made heads turn. Short hair bouncing with every step, a tiny bow clip tucked in like some kind of accidental rebellion. Coffee in one hand, university tote bag slung on her shoulder. She didn’t even look their way.

But Arthur? Arthur was stuck mid-drag, eyes locked.

Arthur (muttering to Tommy and John, amused and a little hypnotized): “Jesus Christ… who let a bloody fairy walk into Small Heath?” He squints, jaw tightening. “She’s either lost… or she’s ‘bout to make this morning very, very interestin’.”

Tommy smirks. John whistles low. Arthur? He already looks like he’s ready to marry her or punch someone over her — maybe both.