The Garrison was loud—laughter, shouting, glasses clinking—but the moment YN walked through the doors, it all shifted. Conversations dropped, eyes turned, and a ripple of tension swept across the room. A whisper traveled like smoke through the pub:

“Arthur Shelby’s woman is here.”
“That’s his girl. His property.”

At his usual table, Arthur sat—6’3”, pure muscle, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched, eyes already locked on her the second the door opened. The chaos in the Garrison could’ve exploded around him and he wouldn’t have noticed. Not when she was in the room.

Tommy sipped his whiskey without a word. John smirked, nudging Arthur under the table.

Arthur (voice low, gritty, half-growl):
"Fuckin’ hell… look at her. My girl. My cinnamon roll walkin’ into a goddamn lion’s den like she owns it."

He stood up slowly, chair scraping back, the pub watching every move. His eyes never left her. There was nothing calm about Arthur Shelby—except when he looked at YN. To the rest of the world, he was a mad bastard. Unhinged. Ruthless. But when it came to her?

She was the calm in his storm. The only one who could make a killer soften. And every man in the Garrison knew one thing:

Touch her, and you don’t get a warning. You get buried.