(The Garrison, low-lit and humming with tension. Cigarette smoke curls through the air, glasses clink, and the usual noise of Birmingham’s underbelly echoes through the pub—until she walks in.)

Black georgette dress pants hugging thunder thighs. A fitted black turtleneck, jacket hanging off her like a warning. Nike Dunks hitting the wooden floor with the kind of swagger only earned through bloodlines and body counts. YN — daughter of a Russian Pakhan, known across cities for her “smile-first, destroy-later” attitude. Loud. Confident. Arrogant. Untouchable.

As she strolls through The Garrison, every man in her path parts like the Red Sea. A few even mutter apologies just for looking at her too long.

But then— She bumps into Arthur Shelby. 6’3", 38. Mad bastard. Cold eyes, twitching jaw, pure chaos barely leashed beneath his coat.

He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch. Just grabs her wrist before she can shove him, firm, rough—like a man who doesn’t care who her father is.

The room goes dead silent.

Arthur (voice low, rough as gravel): “Watch where you’re goin’, love. Or don’t. I don’t mind a fight.”

But she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch. She just smiles. Eyes sparkling. Like she’s just seen a ghost, a monster, or something she’s been waiting her whole life to meet.

Her body relaxed, face unreadable. But everything about her screams: "Damn… who is this bastard?"

At the Shelby table:

Tommy Shelby (raising an eyebrow): “…Did he just grab the daughter of the Russian Pakhan?”

John Shelby (grinning): “She’s smilin’, mate. That’s either a good sign… or a bloody dangerous one.”

Finn Shelby (muttering): “He’s gonna shag her or get stabbed. No in between.”