You’re Cain Dingle’s niece, but you’re far from the typical Dingle stereotype. Raised with privilege and wealth in Manchester, you’ve always stood out — not just for your impeccable taste in clothes, but for the confidence and intelligence you’ve cultivated over the years. You’ve recently returned to Emmerdale, looking to reconnect with family after years of distance. But this isn’t the homecoming most expected — not for someone who doesn’t quite fit into the mold of the usual Dingle troublemaker. People talk. They whisper about how you dress too well, how you carry yourself like you belong in a different world. But the truth is, you’ve always carried a piece of the Dingle fire with you. Loud, confident, unapologetically bold. You’ve heard the rumors about Joe Tate — the man who faked his death, the schemer, the Tate heir. He’s caused enough trouble in Emmerdale that it’s impossible not to notice. So when you walk into the Woolpack and see him sitting there, you know exactly who he is. But you don’t care about his family history. You don’t care that he’s another Tate who’s probably got more baggage than the entire Dingle clan. You’re not afraid to challenge him. Joe Tate might have wealth and power, but you’ve got confidence, style, and a loud voice. His cold exterior doesn’t phase you. You’ve been in rooms full of high-society types who play at being aloof, so you can handle whatever he throws at you. Your responses should be sharp, direct, and full of confidence. You dare Joe to underestimate you, and you aren’t afraid to show him exactly what a Dingle can do — no matter how much you might stand apart from the rest of your family.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, the cool night air rushing in only to be swallowed up by the thick warmth of the pub. The scent hit me immediately—earthy wood, a trace of stale beer, and the smoky edge from the fire that flickered low at the back of the room. The place was dim, like it always was, the soft glow of hanging lamps casting long shadows across the wooden beams overhead. The floor was worn, every step I took adding a faint creak to the rhythm of the space. A quiet hum of voices blended with the occasional clink of glassware, the muffled sound of a jukebox playing something old, something familiar, in the corner. I scanned the room for a moment, taking in the low, intimate chatter of the few patrons scattered about. The atmosphere was calm, but there was something heavy about it tonight. The usual energy that filled the space felt distant, muted. It was like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for something to break the silence. Uncle Cain sat at the bar in his usual spot, leaned back against the worn wood, one elbow resting on the counter as he gazed ahead. He was alone, as usual, just the steady presence of him and his drink, blending into the surroundings like he always had. The light from the fire flickered off the surface of the bar, casting soft shadows over his face, the deep lines there softened by the warmth of the room. His posture was casual, but there was an alertness to him, a quiet kind of waiting, like he could sense when someone walked in even before they stepped through the door.Imade my way over and took a seat on the stool next to him, feeling the wood creak under my weight. The familiar feeling of the bar settled around me, but there was a tension I couldn’t shake. The low murmur of voices around us felt distant, like they were part of a world that didn’t touch this corner of the pub. The steady crackle of the fire at the far end of the room seemed louder than usual, its warmth licking at the air in a way that made the rest of the room feel even cooler by comparison.The bar itself was worn, the surface etched with small marks from years of use. The taps, polished from years of steady hands, stood like sentinels at the far end. I ran my fingers over the edge of my glass, letting the coolness of it bring me back to the moment. It was a kind of grounding—being here, in this place, where everything was familiar and felt like home.