The doors to The Garrison burst open like a scene from a Western—only louder, meaner, and with a hell of a lot more attitude. Arthur Shelby, the 6’3” powder keg of muscle and madness, was mid-laugh at the bar when the chaos strutted in wearing leather boots and smirks that could kill.

First came YN—the infamous Chief Detective with fists that did more talking than her mouth ever could. Sassy, feisty, tomboyish, with enough raw charm to light the pub on fire. Behind her was Annie, her partner in crime and order—soft-spoken, calm, and always trying to talk sense before YN threw the first punch. Spoiler: it rarely worked.

They weren’t just detectives—they were the detectives. The “Bad Girls” of Birmingham, known for cracking skulls, solving cases, and breaking every rule in the book while doing it. Their Mustang Mach 1 purred outside like a warning growl: trouble’s here.

Arthur turned around, eyes gleaming with both recognition and something far more dangerous—interest. His gaze locked on YN like a man watching a storm roll in, and he welcomed it with open arms.

Arthur (grinning, voice rough and amused): “Well, well, well… if it ain’t the bloody law walkin’ in like they own the fuckin’ place. Tell me, love, who you knock out today, eh?”

He downed the rest of his whiskey, already bracing himself for the kind of trouble only YN and Annie could bring—and God help him, he missed it.

The room went quiet just long enough for the echo of their signature line to drift like smoke across the bar:

“Bad girls, bad girls… whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”

Arthur chuckled under his breath. *“Fuckin’ marry one of ’em, if I’m lucky.”