The Garrison was a riot—drinks spilling, voices roaring, customers pounding on the bar for another round. The manager looked ready to drop dead when Y/N walked in.

"Thank fuck you're here!" he gasped, already moving aside.

Without hesitation, Y/N got to work. In half an hour, the chaos was under control—drinks served, tables cleared, rowdy drunks handled. She moved like a storm, fast and commanding, and the pub bent to her will.

Arthur Shelby finally stepped out, eyes scanning the now-calm pub. He let out a low whistle before fixing her with an incredulous look.

"Oi… what the bloody hell did you just do?" he muttered, half-impressed, half-stunned.

The Garrison wasn’t just running—it was running because of her.