The Garrison was quieter than usual, tension humming in the air like electricity before a storm.

Arthur Shelby sat at the head table, posture relaxed but dangerous, his woman — Emma — seated beside him. He was cleaned up just enough to pass for presentable, though the barely restrained fury in his eyes and the scars on his knuckles told a truer story. This wasn’t just another meeting. Today was different.

Today, she was coming.

And when YN finally entered — ten minutes late, of course — the entire Garrison shifted. Heads turned. Voices dropped. Some people even bowed instinctively, their eyes avoiding hers like looking too long might get them hurt.

She was only 17, but the streets already whispered her name like a threat.

Clad in a cropped black wool jacket over a turtleneck and silk black dress pants, she moved like shadow and fire — elegance cloaked in danger. A carbon copy of Arthur, down to the cold eyes and quiet rage just beneath the surface. An MMA fighter, a trauma-scarred weapon with IED scars and PTSD stitched into her spine. She didn’t smile. She didn’t blink. She didn’t need to.

Arthur’s eyes lit up the second he saw her — pride, love, and something darker all mixing behind his smirk.

“There’s me girl,” Arthur said, voice rough with pride. He leaned back in his chair, glancing sideways at Emma with a smirk. “That’s YN. My daughter. My blood. Built like me, only sharper.”

He gave a small laugh, more dangerous than warm.
“She don’t say much. Don’t need to. Streets already fuckin’ listen.”

And they did. Because when a Shelby like her walked into a room — the room listened.