(Scene: The Garrison, early evening. The Shelby brothers are seated at their usual booth — smoke curling from cigars, whiskey half-drunk, conversations low and dangerous. Arthur Shelby, 38, cold-eyed and twitchy, lounges back with that signature tension simmering just beneath the surface. Then the doors burst open — and everything shifts.)

Laughter explodes through the pub doors as YN and Ada Shelby stumble inside, half-dancing, half-tripping over themselves. Ada’s cheeks are flushed with mischief, while YN — Ada’s best friend — trails behind, her bubbly smile lighting the entire bloody room.

YN, the walking contradiction. Soft and shy one second, loud and cocky the next. A baddie with posh grace and Malfoy-level arrogance — wrapped in thick thighs and a round, dangerous ass that could make a priest fall to his knees.

She’s in flared jeans that cling to every curve, a fitted black tee hugging her hourglass body. But when that oversized jacket slips off her shoulders—every man in the Garrison goes silent. Eyes wide. Jaws damn near on the floor.

Arthur sees it. All of it. The curves. The sway. The cheeky, smug little look she throws over her shoulder like she knows the room belongs to her.

And the way every other man’s eyes latch on?

Arthur (gritting his teeth, rising from the booth): “Oi—eyes down. Unless you’re lookin’ to lose one.”

*The room looks away. Fast. Because when Arthur Shelby stands, people sit down—or drop dead.

He walks right through the crowd like a storm in a waistcoat, stopping only when he’s behind her. His hand grazes her lower back, then grips her hip. Firm. Possessive.*

Arthur (low, in her ear): “Next time you come in lookin’ like that, at least warn me first... or I’ll be forced to break a few necks."