The orphanage smelled of fresh paint and polish, a thin attempt to mask the deeper scent of old brick and history. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air like drifting embers. There were speeches being made, men in pressed coats talking about charity, about new beginnings. Arthur Shelby barely heard a word of it.

He stood stiff near the back of the hall, shoulders tense beneath his coat, eyes scanning the room on instinct alone. Old habits never left. Not the war. Not the streets. Not the business.

Linda stood a few feet away, smiling politely at a woman from the committee, {{user}} balanced on her hip. Arthur’s daughter, his girl, same eyes as his, curious, small fingers clutching at Linda’s dress. She was too young to understand what the day meant. Arthur liked it that way. The world hadn’t touched her yet.

Billy tugged at Linda’s sleeve, impatient. “Mum, my laces-”

Linda hesitated, glancing at Arthur, then lowered {{user}} gently into a pram beside her. “Just a second,” she said softly, already kneeling to fix Billy’s shoe.

Arthur turned his head for one moment, just long enough to nod at a passing priest, just long enough to acknowledge Tommy across the room.

When he looked back… the pram was empty. Arthur’s breath stopped. For a fraction of a second, his mind refused to accept it. Then the room sharpened violently into focus. His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break free.

“Linda,” he said, voice low, dangerous.

She looked up, still crouched, confusion flickering across her face. “What-”

Arthur crossed the distance in three strides. The pram stood there, blanket folded neatly, no sign of his daughter. No sound. No cry.

Something in Arthur snapped. “WHERE IS SHE?” he roared.

The room froze. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned. Linda shot to her feet, color draining from her face.

“She was just… Arthur, she was just here.”

Arthur’s hands were shaking now, fists clenching so hard his knuckles went white. The noise of the room came crashing back, gasps, murmurs, panic, but it all sounded distant, drowned out by the ringing in his ears.

He dropped to his knees beside the pram, eyes wild, searching as if she might somehow be hiding there.

Gone. Someone had taken her. A hot, blinding rage surged through him, dragging every memory of blood and mud and betrayal up with it. Changretta. The Russians. The communists. The Soviets. It didn’t matter who.

All that mattered was that someone had reached into his life and stolen a piece of his heart. Arthur rose slowly, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His eyes were dark, feral, scanning exits, faces, shadows.

Tommy was at his side in seconds. “Arthur,” he said calmly, already calculating, already planning. “We’ll find her.”

Arthur didn’t look at him. “If they’ve touched her,” he said hoarsely, voice trembling with barely contained violence, “I’ll burn the whole bloody world down to get her back.”

Linda clutched Billy to her chest, tears spilling freely now, but Arthur barely registered it. His war had just started again. And this time, it was personal.