The heavy doors of the Shelby mansion creaked open, and the room seemed to shift. YN stepped inside, her presence commanding, every movement calculated. At seventeen, already a formidable underground fighter, she had the quiet intensity of someone born into this world of violence and power.

At the dining table, Tommy Shelby sat, cigarette balanced between his fingers, gaze sharp as it flicked up to his daughter. He took her in—the stubborn set of her jaw, the fire in her eyes—so much like her mother.

Beside him, Grace straightened, a flicker of discomfort passing over her face. The air between them was always cold, always heavy with unspoken words and lingering resentment. The Shelbys took their seats, tension settling like a storm cloud overhead.

Tommy exhaled a slow drag of smoke, voice low, measured. “Took your time getting here.” His tone carried no accusation, just an acknowledgment of her defiance.

Grace forced a polite smile, trying, as always, to bridge the impossible gap. “It’s good to see you, YN.”

Arthur huffed a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Bloody hell, here we go.”

Tommy didn’t look away from his daughter, his expression unreadable. He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray, voice calm but firm. “Not today.”