The pub was loud, but Arthur’s voice cut through, rough and impatient.

He slammed his pint down, foam spilling over, eyes locked on you across the table. His hands shook, not from fear, but from fury bottled too long.

“You know what happens now, eh?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. But when he leaned in, close enough that only you heard, it wasn’t anger, it was desperation.