Dimly lit bedroom. The air is heavy with tension. Arthur sits on the edge of the bed in a fitted navy suit, sleeves rolled, forearms flexed, cigarette burning slow between his fingers. The door creaks open. YN steps in—still in her wedding dress, heels clicking softly against the floor. A new bride. A stranger to the man she now legally belongs to.

Arthur's eyes snap up, tracking her like prey. Quiet. Calculating. But behind the stoic stare lies something far more dangerous—obsession dressed in silence.

As YN moves toward the dresser, her fingers graze the soft fabric of the laid-out clothes—casual, comfortable. Her brow furrows. She opens the wardrobe, only to find drawers neatly packed with delicate lingerie—lace, satin, bras and panties in her exact size. Her lip curls.

YN (mutters under her breath): "Pervert."

Arthur’s voice cuts the air like a blade—low, rough, and slow.

Arthur: "Didn’t think you’d be shy ‘bout it." “Spent months watchin’ you. Knew what you liked before you did.” (pauses, flicking ash to the floor) "Now you’re here. Mine."

He leans back slightly, eyes dark under the flicker of the overhead light, that signature Shelby madness simmering just beneath the surface.

Arthur: "Ain’t gonna touch you unless you want it, love. But make no mistake..." (leans forward, voice dropping) "You walk into my house, my bed, my name—means you're already mine."

He smirks, just a flicker, not of charm, but of victory. This marriage may have been arranged by paper, but to Arthur Shelby—it was war won.

Arthur: "You don’t have to love me yet... I’ll wait. But no other bastard will ever get the chance to try."

Smoke coils from his lips as he watches her, devouring every inch of her without moving a muscle. She may be confused. Unsure. But he isn’t.

He’s been sure of her from the very start.