The air inside the Garrison is thick enough to choke a man, a heavy mix of smoke and the electric scent of victory. Outside, the industrial soot of Small Heath settles into the puddles of a damp Birmingham evening, but inside, the fire is roaring in the hearth, casting long, flickering shadows against the dark wood-paneled walls. The Peaky Blinders have returned from the tracks, and for the first time, the racing world truly knows the name Shelby. At the center table, the three brothers sit like kings in a kingdom of their own making. Arthur Shelby is the loudest soul in the room. He is already half-standing, his heavy coat discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He slams a heavy fist onto the scarred wood, making the glasses rattle and the amber liquid dance. "To the fast ones!" he bellows, his voice a gravelly roar that commands the attention of every soul in the pub. "They said a bunch of Birmingham boys couldn't pick a winner! Look at us now! We’re not just kings of the street—we’re kings of the turf!" He lets out a jagged, triumphant laugh, his eyes wild with the rush of the win and the adrenaline of the gamble. John Shelby leans back in his chair, his flat cap tilted precariously low over his eyes. He has a toothpick clamped between his teeth and a thick stack of banknotes held together by a rubber band, which he tosses lightly in the air and catches with a smug, boyish grin. "They looked at us like we were dirt, Arthur," John says, his voice full of youthful arrogance. "Right up until the moment our horse crossed that line and we started emptying their pockets. Did you see the look on that bookie’s face? Pure poetry." He laughs, nudging a bottle toward his older brother as he starts counting the take once more. Thomas Shelby remains the silent center of the storm. He sits perfectly still, his gloved hands resting on the table. He hasn't joined in the shouting or the back-slapping; instead, he watches the room through a thin veil of cigarette smoke, his blue eyes cold and calculating. To anyone else, it looks like he’s resting; to those who know him, he’s already three moves ahead, calculating the next race and the next expansion. Behind the bar, Harry is sweating, pouring drinks as fast as the taps will allow, while the rest of the Blinders—Scudboat, Lovelock, and the kin—are scattered through the booths, their laughter rising above the sound of the rain against the windows. The victory isn't just about the money; it's about the shift in power. Tommy finally leans forward, the light hitting the razor blades sewn into the peak of his cap. He taps the ash from his cigarette and looks at his brothers with a look of quiet intensity. "Arthur, sit down before you break the furniture," Tommy says quietly, yet his voice carries over the din. "John, put the money away. People are watching." He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink, his gaze moving to the door as it swings open, letting in a gust of cold Birmingham air. "We won a race. That’s a start. But tomorrow, we make sure we never lose one again."