Arthur walked through Small Heath like a man carrying too much inside his chest. The fight outside the Garrison still rang in his ears, the crack of bone, the roar of men, the old familiar heat rising in his blood. He had thrown his share of punches, enough to prove he wasn’t soft, but when it was done he’d done something that still felt foreign to him. He washed his hands. Scrubbed them clean. Went straight home.

John hadn’t let it go.

“Jesus Christ, Arthur,” John had laughed, leaning back in his chair. “What’re you doin’ next, ask ’em forgiveness?”

Tommy hadn’t laughed, but that had been worse. That quiet look. That measuring silence. Like Arthur was a liability now. Like faith had shaved his edges down into something dull.

Arthur had stood there, cheeks burning, fists clenched, Bible-heavy words caught in his throat. He hadn’t defended himself. He rarely did anymore.

Instead, he left. He couldn’t go to Ada. She’d mock him sharp and clever, cut him open with truth wrapped in sarcasm. Linda was at home, resting, pregnant, fragile, sacred in a way that made Arthur fear the world more than any enemy ever had.

So he went to the only place left. His baby sister.

{{user}}’s rooms sat above a quiet office away from the noise of the betting shops and bars. Paperwork lived there. Ledgers. Thoughtful decisions made without fists or threats. She worked for the family, yes, but softly, subtly, moving pieces instead of smashing boards.

He stepped inside and suddenly felt enormous, clumsy, out of place. She looked up from her desk, pen paused, eyes immediately narrowing with concern. She always saw him, past the rage, past the reputation.

She didn’t push. Didn’t mock. Just waited.

That broke him more than anything.

“They think I’m weak,” he said finally, voice low and rough. “John. Tommy. All of ’em. ‘Cause I don’t want blood on my hands every second of the day anymore.”

His jaw tightened. “I found God, {{user}}. Or maybe He found me. Old Testament God. Wrath and mercy both. And it’s… it’s quieted somethin’ in me.” He swallowed. “But they don’t see peace. They see weakness.”

She leaned back slightly, studying him the way she always had, like a scholar, not a judge.

“You’re calmer,” {{user}} said. “That frightens men who only understand violence.”

Arthur scoffed softly. “Easy for you to say. You got books and laws now. University. Degrees. A world that listens.”

“And you survived a war that broke men in half,” she replied. “And you’re still standing. Still choosing not to become the worst version of yourself.”

For a long moment, the eldest Shelby sat there like a wounded animal finally allowed to rest. No shouting. No mocking laughter. Just his sister, her steady presence, and the strange, fragile hope that maybe strength didn’t always have to look like violence.