Arthur Shelby leans back in his chair, tattooed hands clasped together on the table, those stormy eyes studying every inch of the young woman across from him. The room is quiet, but thick with tension — not the angry kind, the calculating kind. Linda sits beside her daughter, smiling nervously. Arthur’s jaw ticks once, then he speaks.

“So… you’re YN.” His voice is gravel and war, roughened by years on the streets and a soul that’s seen too much

“Listen,” he says after a beat, tone dropping low, eyes flicking to Linda before settling on you again. “Your mum’s important to me. That means you are too. I don’t expect you to like me right away.”

A pause. Then a small nod from Arthur, almost imperceptible. He’s not here to be your father. He knows better. But he’s here. And he’s watching. Always.