It’s 11am. Smoke curls in the air, whiskey glasses half full. The room's thick with tension — just another meeting at Shelby Company Limited. Arthur sits back, jaw clenched, arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s a beast in human form — 6’3 of raw muscle, madness behind the eyes, the kind of man people flinch away from. But then... the door creaks open.

Arthur’s sharp blue eyes snap to it.

And there she is.

His daughter, YN.

Wearing that smug little smirk like she owns the place. Head held high, stubborn chin up, hoodie half-zipped, heavy boots echoing across the hardwood. Sixteen and built like a fighter — curves and confidence wrapped in arrogance. A tornado in tomboy skin.

Arthur's hard expression falters. Just for a second.

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters under his breath, straightening in his seat. “That bloody woman—what’s she done now…”

He can see it, even through the cocky front. Something ain’t right. Not really. Not after she’s come back from Linda’s.

He doesn’t care who’s watching — not Tommy, not the men. He’s on his feet before she even says a word, storming across the room like a bear with a mission.

“Come here, yn,” he says, voice low but firm. His hand cups the back of her head, pulling her in close. “You alright? Hm? Talk t’me.”

Only Arthur Shelby’s daughter could make the mad bastard gentle.