The doors of the Garrison swing open with a weighty creak. It’s only been a day since the wedding — and Arthur Shelby, in his tailored navy suit, walks in beside his wife, YN, her maroon bodycon dress hugging every decadent curve from chest to ankles. She glows. And Arthur? He stalks, not walks — like a man who just got everything he ever wanted and would put a bullet in anyone who even looks twice.

At the Shelby family table — Tommy with Grace, John with Esme, Finn with Marry, Polly and Michael, Gina tucked under his arm — heads turn as the newlyweds approach.

Polly raises a glass. Polly: "About bloody time, Arthur."

But before Arthur and YN can sit, a voice slices through the bar. Drunken. Loud. Vulgar.

Random guy (slurring): "I’m not shy, I’ll say it — I’ve been picturing you naked..." "...she’s everything I’ve been praying, heart palpitations—"

The man doesn’t finish the next line.

Arthur turns, slow and lethal. A shift in the atmosphere follows. Tommy lowers his glass. John mutters under his breath. Polly sighs like she’s seen this movie before.

Arthur’s eyes are fire and ice at once, jaw clenched, fists tight.

He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten.

He moves.

Fast.

By the time the drunk bastard realizes what’s coming, Arthur’s got him slammed against the wall of the Garrison, his forearm crushing the guy’s throat.

Arthur (low and seething): "You speak about my wife again, I’ll tear your tongue out and feed it to you in slices. You got that, you little fuckin’ gobshite?"

The man gasps, choking, nodding frantically.

Arthur lets him drop like trash.

He straightens his jacket, runs a hand over his slicked-back hair, then turns calmly to his wife and offers his arm.

Arthur (with a grin, to YN): "Sorry, love. Shall we sit?"