The doors of the Shelby mansion swung open, and Y/N walked in like she owned the place. Blood stained her sleeve, darkening the collar of her coat, but she didn’t bat an eye. Cold, precise, and unstoppable—she was a machine built for the job, and everyone in the room knew it.
Silence.
Tommy barely glanced up, but his fingers tapped his cigarette, already calculating. John let out a low whistle, smirking. Finn tensed, eyes flicking between her and the blood.
Arthur stood immediately, eyes sharp. "Fucking hell, Y/N. You take out a whole army, or just didn’t like your coat?"
She smirked, peeling off her gloves. "If I did, you’d have heard the gunfire."
Tommy exhaled. "Anyone left breathing?"
"Not a soul." Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "I don’t do half-measures."
John chuckled. "Colder than Tommy, that’s sayin’ somethin’."
Arthur poured her a drink, sliding it over. "Go on then, love. Even a machine’s gotta recharge."
Y/N knocked it back in one go, setting the glass down with a clink. "I don’t need to recharge, Arthur. But I’ll drink to a job well done."
Arthur grinned, shaking his head. "You keep this up, Y/N, and people’ll start sayin’ the devil’s got competition."