The old Shelby house creaked under the weight of the late hour, the only light spilling from the kitchen where YN stood, barefoot on the cold floor, making eggs at one in the morning. The faint sizzle of the stove and the rhythmic clatter of a fork beating eggs had slowly stirred the rest of the family from their beds.

There she was—Arthur Shelby’s eldest daughter, just 17, already built like a weapon in the making. Heavy curves, sharp tattoos curling along her skin, and a fire behind her eyes that was pure Shelby blood. She wore a black tank top clinging to her frame and denim shorts that stopped mid-thigh, the casualness of her look doing nothing to hide the danger she naturally carried.

One by one, the Shelby family started filtering into the kitchen—first Linda, rubbing sleep from her eyes, then Tommy, John, Finn, Polly, Grace, Esme, and Mary. The family gathered, drawn by the familiar, comforting sounds of home—and the irresistible smell of eggs cooking.

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching his daughter with a proud, rough look on his face, the kind only a man like Arthur Shelby could wear.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Arthur grunted, voice rough with sleep but full of pride, “me girl’s makin’ eggs like she’s runnin' the whole bloody house."

John chuckled lowly, nudging Finn. "Next generation Shelby, right there. Deadly... and knows how to feed an army."

Tommy lit a cigarette, exhaling slow. “Smart too. Economics, was it? Got the brains and the bite.”

Polly smirked, eyes gleaming. "Told you lot. She’s sharper than any of you ever were at seventeen."

The kitchen buzzed quietly, the family settling around, watching YN like they were witnessing the future take form right in front of them. And Arthur? He just stood there, jaw set, proud as a king. His little girl, his eldest, already carrying the Shelby legacy like it was stitched into her bones.