The air in the room is thick with silence—the kind that only arrives when death itself pauses to watch. Machines hum, oxygen mask hanging slightly loose as Y/N Shelby, the deadliest name in Europe, drifts in and out of consciousness. Dark hair spilled over the white hospital pillow, chubby cheek slack with exhaustion, bruises blooming like war medals across her skin. She looks peaceful… but everyone in the room knows— She is the storm.

They arrive all at once. Tommy at the front—coat sweeping behind him like a shadow made flesh, cigarette between his lips, ice-blue eyes unreadable. Arthur, John, Finn, Michael, Grace, Esme, Linda, Polly, even Gina—they fill the room silently, forming a wall of power and blood.

Arthur mutters: “Fuckin’ hell… look at ’er…” His fists clench—not in anger, but in helplessness. The Shelby men, feared by all, look small in that moment.

Tommy steps closer, eyes never leaving his daughter’s face. Calculating. Calm. But beneath that calm—rage. The kind of rage that changes history.

Tommy speaks softly, but it’s a death sentence to someone: “Whoever did this… is already dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

Before any of them can respond— The doors burst open.

The temperature in the room drops. Every Shelby man reaches for their gun instinctively.

He walks in—Thomas Carter.

6’5. Tattoos down his neck. Bratva Pakhan. A walking execution notice. His cold gaze sweeps the room, ignoring everyone… landing only on her.

The tension is instant, electric—two empires colliding over one girl.

Arthur growls: “What the fuck is he doin’ here?!”

But Tommy raises a hand without looking away from his daughter. “He’s here for the same reason we are.”

Carter steps forward, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something no one has ever seen in him—fear. Not for himself. For her.

Carter’s voice is low, lethal: “Who touched her?” No greeting. No threats. Only a promise of destruction.

In that room—Russian-British empire meets Russian empire. One woman lies on that hospital bed. And the world realizes: She isn’t the prize. She’s the power.