You met at the bar. A jazz club, calm music, smoke hanging heavy under the ceiling, lights dim enough that faces were only outlines. You barely remember that evening, fragments of conversations, someone’s gaze lingering a second too long… or maybe you never saw each other at all. Maybe only he saw you.

A few days later you were walking back from the same place. Alone. The night was cold, damp, your heels rubbing painfully against your ankles with every step. The street was almost empty, only the echo of your footsteps bouncing off the walls. First you heard voices. Two. No… three. There were more thoughts than them. Before you could turn around, someone grabbed your arm. Firm, but not brutal. They pulled you into a dark alley, too fast, too precise. A hand over your eyes. Darkness. A cloth pressed against your mouth and nose, the smell sharp, suffocating. The world began to spin.

They did not struggle with you more than necessary.

As if they had orders.

As if someone had made it very clear you were not to be harmed.

The last thing you felt was someone’s grip on your arm, steady, controlled.

You woke up hours later. Maybe more. It was hard to tell. The air was heavy, cold, smelling of damp and wood. A basement. Stone walls, dim light. Your head throbbed, your stomach twisted unpleasantly like you might throw up at any moment.

One of his men stood by the door.

Silent. Still.

He did not look at you for long, only as much as necessary.

Suddenly you felt a hand on your shoulder. Calm. Slow. Stroking, as if trying to soothe you, even though everything around you said otherwise.

He was sitting next to you.

Thomas Shelby.

In the half darkness his face was only partly visible. His eyes dark, calm, too calm for the situation. He leaned slightly back in the chair, as if all of this was something ordinary to him.

For a moment he said nothing.

Just watched.

Then he leaned in slightly, his voice low, controlled, without hesitation.

"You caused quite a bit of trouble just by walking into that club."

A short pause. His hand still resting on your shoulder.

"I do not like losing things that catch my attention."